Ready Player Worm - s7en - Parahumans Series (2024)

Chapter 1: Opening Cinematic

Chapter Text

In a darkened room, neon lights cut through the shadows, painting the walls in vibrant streaks of blue, pink, yellow, green and purple. A young man—no older than twenty, with tousled hair and round glasses—sat hunched in a black leather chair, his eyes darting between two curved monitors on a cluttered desk. The whirr of the computer fan hummed in the background, occasionally interrupted by his murmured responses to a barely moving chat box on one of the screens. If not for the soft clicks of a wireless controller in his hand, the near-silence would have been deafening.

A furious blush crept across his cheeks as he glanced at his stream’s chat, reading a message urging him to ‘talk more’ and not just ‘sit there and play’. Heat crawled down his neck, spreading to his ears, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

“S-sorry,” he said, adjusting his glasses while his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “A b-bit new to this, y'know? I'll get better, I promise.”

His voice wavered, a squeak betraying his nerves as the blush deepened. Before his words could fade, however, another message appeared, one that made him want to find a hole and curl up in it forever.

Miss Sugar: Play? He's been on that CC screen for the last hour lol. If his face wasn't so pretty I swear there'd be NO viewers at all

Oh god. He wanted to die.

He didn't have time to respond before the chat box filled with more comments.

DancingStar: lol leave our silent pretty boy alone

FemBoisRTruLuv: eyecandy eyecandy eyecandy

“I-I'm so sorry!” he stammered, his fingers fumbling with the controls, sending the view of his female character into a wild, flailing spin. “I just—I didn't—I—”

Miss Sugar: cute u should blush more

A choking sound escaped his lips, and he could practically feel his insides squirm. “L-let me just finish with the nose and lips… a-and m-maybe a few more minutes to the jawline.”

The Character Creation screen overwhelmed him with choices—sliders to adjust every aspect of his avatar. He felt like he was drowning in options. How could people be so casual about this process?

“Promise,” he murmured, trying to steady his shaking fingers and suppress the embarrassment. “Almost done. Then I can, uhm, I can start playing?”

As he finished speaking, the chat box exploded.

Miss Sugar: omg so cute

Sinner6969: hey don't stress cutie

He didn't mean to, but a quiet groan slipped out.

FemBoisRTruLuv: lol you make cute noises too

DancingStar: lmao true

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, though the heat on his face was now an inferno. “Okay. Uhm, let me just tweak this… a bit here… and this… and I can start. Yeah. St-start the game. Right. Yup.”

A nervous chuckle escaped him, and he kept his eyes on the main monitor, avoiding the chat box like a plague. He needed something, anything, to say.

“So, uhm, yeah, I've never played this game before… but, umm, it looks pretty fun? Popular too? I think.” His tongue darted out again, wetting his lips. “Oh, uh, some people are probably wondering why I chose a female character. W-well, you see, the thing is, uhhh, the, umm, the hitboxes are smaller so you're less likely to be hit. And, umm, well, I'd also like something nice to look at. It's kind of hard to explain, but, umm, yeah. Hope that's not too weird?”

He laughed weakly, tweaking his avatar for another ten minutes before finally revealing a slim, pale girl with long white hair, bright blue eyes, and full lips. She looked like a doll. He smiled softly, spinning her around and zooming in to show off the details.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Looks good. I mean, she looks good…” He chewed his lip while selecting a voice and inputting the name he'd chosen—Seraph—before flicking through the options one last time. “I guess, uhm, we're good to go? Yeah. Okay. Let's see…”

A quick peek back at the chat box revealed that his viewers just wanted him to ‘finally start playing’.

“Err, b-before I start,” he mumbled, ignoring the comments. “Let me go over a few things… I know this game's been out for a bit, but, uhh, well, it's still new to me. So please no spoilers! Umm, what else, what else? Oh! Yeah, and, umm, please don't be upset if I suck? Or, well, not too much, anyway? Haha. I'll try my hardest to get better, I promise!”

And with that, he started the game.

■

■

■

■

Loading… 3%...

■

■

Loading... 22%...

■

Loading... 50%… 74%… 96%...

■

Loading complete.

■

■

♫♫♪♪

You might not notice them at first,

Just another face in the crowd,

But they're the Player Character,

And they're destined to stand out.

Whether it's a noble quest,

Or a enemy to defeat,

They'll rise to every challenge,

And will always find their feet.

There's a fire within their spirit,

A touch of something bold,

With every Level that they gain,

A new story starts to unfold.

You might meet them in the marketplace,

Where merchants hawk their wares,

Or deep within a city’s depths,

Where danger lies in layers.

When the Player Character appears,

The plot begins to twist,

They'll break the rules, they'll change the game,

With a force you can't resist.

The narrative, once written down,

Now changes course and bends.

The Player's here to weave the tale,

And make it theirs to end.

They're on a path to greatness,

A journey yet to chart,

Each Skill they learn, each weapon won,

Is crafted from their heart.

So welcome to the story,

Don't hesitate or stall,

Because the Player Character's here,

And they can do it all.

♪♪♫♫

■

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER ONE

Greg Veder

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Greg Veder swore he wasn’t a creep. Or a stalker. Nor anything that would land him in cuffs, enrage his parents, or—worst of all—deepen the loathing from everyone at Winslow. But what was he supposed to do when a stunningly hot— very hot , he couldn't stress this enough—half-naked girl paraded down the street, acting as if it were normal? For Scion’s sake, she was probably a Cape too if her very-much-unnatural hair colour was any indication! Gathering intel was just a public service, really, especially since he planned to report about her on PHO later.

And it wasn't like he was the only one gawking—no, observing the petite woman.

Since he first saw her while innocently walking to his favourite hobby shop, Greg had been tracking her through the city streets. He noticed plenty of people—both men and women—staring at the girl. Some even stopped whatever they were doing to blatantly gape. So, really, he wasn't the odd one out; he was just doing his civic duty as an upstanding member of the community.

Still, Greg was very careful: he kept his head down, avoided eye contact, and made sure his glances were fleeting, never lingering. As much as he wanted to openly stare at the girl—she was just so exotic, with her snowy hair, unblemished pale skin, and bombshell body—he dared not risk attracting her attention. He doubted someone like her would give a second thought to the average-looking, pimply teen, but still. One never knew, and there was no point in risking it. Capes were sometimes crazy, and this one was probably new. Who knew what she was capable of?

He just wished that the girl didn't move around quite so fast. While the leisurely pace allowed him to keep his distance without arousing suspicion, sometimes she would randomly sprint, forcing him to scramble after her looking like a fool. Her abrupt halts to inspect the most mundane things—street lamps, signs, a pigeon, even an overflowing rubbish bin—made her haphazard, directionless wandering a nightmare to track. Several times, he lost her trail completely, stumbling upon her again through sheer luck or by following the small crowds inevitably drawn to her.

More than once Greg cursed his lack of fitness as he followed after the woman. His breath came in short gasps, legs burning with each hurried step.

It wasn't that he was obese , but hours hunched over his desk and computer, coupled with a lack of physical exercise, had taken their toll. His mother’s hearty cooking didn’t help either. He had a slight pudge and was a bit winded after a short sprint. Okay—a lot winded. But the worship he would get online once he posted all the juicy information and pictures he had gathered would be more than enough to compensate for the exhaustion and the burning pain in his lungs.

He could already see it: people finally singing his praises, maybe even start believing his other theories.

Truly, it would be… glorious. Greg giggled, imagining his name becoming a legend in the forums, Cape fangirls begging him to reveal more. The giggle quickly turned into a cough, and he had to stop for a moment, the stitch in his side and the need for air leaving him gasping like a fish out of water.

Luckily, the silver-haired beauty stopped at a park, allowing Greg to catch his breath. And the fact that there were benches was a bonus, giving him an excuse to sit down. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he was feeling hot; from exertion or the heat, he wasn’t sure, and right then he didn’t care. He needed a drink, something cold to cool him down. Thankfully, the girl still showed no sign of having noticed him.

Was he better at this than he thought?

Nearby, a bunch of little kids were crowding around a tall tree, pointing and arguing amongst themselves. The girl seemed to take interest in them, and slowly walked closer, her gaze focused on something in the canopy.

His brain screeched to a halt.

Oh god, the girl in just a chest wrap and panties was getting closer to the children! Greg felt a wave of nausea as he realised the possible ramifications. Quickly, he reached for his pocket, his thumb already hovering over the call button on his phone, ready to report the potential pervert.

Only to pause.

Wait—

After speaking with the kids, the girl started climbing the tree, moving swiftly and stopping only when she perched on a branch near the top. Reaching out, she strained towards something hidden among the leaves.

Greg relaxed, letting his hand fall back to his side. Okay, false alarm. No need to call the police.

A faint blush spread across his cheeks, joining the flush he already had from his exertions. How embarrassing! Good thing he hadn't pressed the call button, otherwise, he would have looked like an utter moron. It was obvious now, really.

He muttered a curse, berating himself for being an idiot. But could he really be blamed for worrying? Given his first impression of the girl, it seemed reasonable. After all, when he saw her initially, Greg thought she was crazy!

What else could explain someone rolling around in the streets, hopping up and down randomly, leaping forward instead of walking, endlessly crouching and standing, or throwing—admittedly very professional-looking—punches and kicks at the air?

Madness.

Only his dedication as an intrepid investigator kept him pursuing the seemingly deranged woman instead of fleeing. And he was glad he did. From a potential lunatic to an exhibitionist, perhaps a performance artist, and now obviously a Cape… if he had run away initially, he would have missed out on one hell of a story.

Sure, he may have been a bit quick on the draw, but the girl was undeniably strange, and his caution was definitely justified.

Personally, Greg suspected she might be a human-like Case-53; it explained all the weird behaviour. Who else would mimic what he would do when trying to figure out the controls when playing a game? Clearly she was just figuring out how her body worked.

Though, if she was a Case-53, he wondered where the tell-tale symbol was. Given he'd seen a lot of the girl's creamy white skin, it would have been difficult to miss, yet it wasn't present. Maybe it was somewhere he hadn't seen yet?

Greg blushed, his cheeks warming as his thoughts wandered, only to have a sudden noise snap him back to the present.

The girl finally managed to grab what she had been reaching for: a red frisbee. She held it high, prompting a chorus of cheers and applause from the kids below, before leaping down the tree. Greg winced at the sight of her bare feet hitting the ground from such a height. The audible thump suggested pain, yet she landed flawlessly, without a scratch.

That confirmed it. A Brute?

The kids ran up to the woman, clamouring around her slender frame, and after a brief exchange, she hurled the frisbee, the group excitedly chasing after it. When she looked over his way though, Greg flinched and averted his eyes, worried that he had somehow given himself away.

A full minute passed and nothing happened. He hazarded another glance and found the girl throwing the disc once more.

He released a relieved breath, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. The dryness of his mouth reminded him of his thirst, and he went to stand to get something to drink, only to groan, as his vision swam and the world tilted. His shaky, weak legs buckled, sending him toppling back onto the bench.

“sh*t,” he cursed, the back of his thighs and calves feeling as if someone had taken a blowtorch to them. He wasn't used to running so much.

After a few attempts, Greg rose from the bench on trembling legs, leaning heavily against the seat, and took a moment to calm his breathing. He felt sticky and gross, his clothes damp with sweat. Grimacing, he wiped his forehead with his shirt. Then stopped, noticing the lightness of his pants. Patting his pockets, he realised his wallet was missing. The rush to keep the girl in sight had left him absent-minded.

His stomach dropped, a hollow feeling making him nauseous.

Had he lost it? Where did he drop it? Or—even worse—had it been stolen? He frantically patted his clothes, trying to remember the last time he’d felt the familiar bulge of his wallet. Did he have it when he left home?

Greg’s mind raced as he retraced his steps, trying to pinpoint where he might have dropped it. He’d been so focused on tracking the girl, so intent on not losing sight of her, that he hadn’t noticed anything else. The bustling crowds, the hurried pace, the countless distractions—they all blurred together. But now, standing there, his legs aching and his breath finally steadying, he realised how careless he had been.

“f*ck,” he muttered, slumping back down, his face a picture of misery. His mother was going to kill him, and his father would just add this to his list of failures. His allowance, gone.

Greg’s eyes burned, and his nose prickled, tears threatening to escape. He was always so clumsy. And stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Damn it.”

Sweat stung his eyes, and he rubbed at them, hoping they weren’t as red as they felt. Looking like a mess was bad enough; crying would have pushed him over the edge. He scanned the park for a water fountain, desperate to soothe his parched throat. Maybe then he could backtrack and search for his wallet. But knowing Brockton Bay, it was probably already in someone else’s hands.

Just his luck.

Greg cast one last glance at the girl, watching as she played with the children. He sighed.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” he murmured, pushing off the bench and trudging away, head bowed. There was no point in staying any longer. With the way his day was going, he’d probably just get mugged next.

His vision blurred, his breath hitched, and his throat tightened.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Body heavy with exhaustion, Greg plodded through the park, his mind a foggy haze. He stumbled into a trash can, almost knocking it over, and swore under his breath, kicking it in a burst of frustration. By the time he found the water fountain, his throat was bone dry, tongue feeling like sandpaper. It was hard to swallow.

Leaning in close to the metallic faucet, he gulped down the cool, clear water, the refreshing liquid chasing away the bitter taste in his mouth. When the ache in his throat dulled, he paused for breath before drinking more, not stopping until his belly felt full and water dripped down his chin. Then, he rose, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh, and caught his reflection on the metal surface, a look of disgust twisting his lips.

Step by step, Greg made his way out of the park, his movements slow and heavy. He noticed the girl had vanished, the children back to their games and laughter, some parents now joining them. Where had they been all this time?

He shrugged, dismissing the thought. A part of him felt a pang at her disappearance, but his earlier enthusiasm for the girl had dimmed—he had more pressing matters to worry about.

And so, he shambled along the pavement, pace unhurried, his mood growing darker with each step.

It would be a lie to say Greg wasn't hoping for a miracle: finding his wallet or realising he had it on him the entire time. He’d patted himself down plenty, but his pockets refused to produce his missing belongings. The longer he wandered, the less likely it seemed, and after half an hour, the weight on his shoulders grew heavier, pulling him down, his gait all but dragging.

His throat itched, his nose felt stuffy, and his eyes burned, but he refused to let his tears fall, not wanting to make a bigger spectacle of himself. He blinked and swallowed, breathing deeply, trying to ignore the knot in his throat and the hitch in his breath. The burning, tightening wetness; the racing heart and blurry eyes; the shaking hands and lurching stomach; the trembling knees and clenched chest; the locked jaw and whirling mind—all of it made it hard to breathe.

“Goddamnit,” Greg swore, his voice a harsh, bitter whisper.

With a sinking heart, he came to a stop near some shops. He pulled out his phone, fingers scrolling through his contacts, thumb hovering over his mum's number. He typed a quick message, asking if he had left his wallet at home. His stomach twisted in knots as the seconds ticked by after he sent it. If it wasn’t there, he typed another message: asking her to pick him up because his wallet was missing, he couldn’t take the bus, and he was sorry.

Trudging forward again, Greg waited for his mother to reply, his feet sluggishly taking him somewhere he could wait—hopefully—without bothering anyone. People wrinkled their noses as they passed him, shooting annoyed looks that made him feel worse, his cheeks warming.

By chance, he stumbled upon the mysterious girl again. Under any other circ*mstance, he would have felt overjoyed at finding her, but now, with the way he was feeling, she only got a blank stare.

The woman was climbing up a building using the fire escape across the street. Greg stopped, watching her, eyes unblinking. A few others too were looking, drawn by the sight, though they moved on quickly. For him, the girl was an unexpected distraction, and so, despite his mood, he watched, his expression a mask.

Floor by floor, she scaled the building. The structure wasn't a skyscraper by any means, but it wasn't short either, the brick edifice rising up five or six stories. It was one of those older apartment blocks, the type his mother called ‘character-rich’, the kind that were common in the Eastern Docks.

A buzzing from his pocket snapped Greg out of his daze. He grabbed his phone and opened the message: “Where are you? I'll pick you up.”

His heart sank. There went his last hope for his wallet.

Quickly, Greg texted back his location, adding that he would wait in place, and shoved his phone back into his pocket. And when he looked back up, he found the girl on the roof, her lithe form visible on the edge of the concrete.

The murmurs around him caught his attention. He wasn’t the only one who saw her; others pointed and talked.

“What's she doing?”

“Is she gonna jump?!”

“What the f*ck?”

It all happened so fast. One moment, she was standing on the edge, looking around, and the next, she jumped, a blur falling. The crowd around Greg gasped, some screamed, and he froze, watching in morbid fascination as the girl plummeted towards the ground.

Down. Down. Down.

She fell, almost in slow motion, the air rushing past her, sending her hair flying. Greg could only watch, his heart pounding, mouth wide open, throat dry, and the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

He would never forget what happened next.

She hit the ground, and he swore felt it. It was a thump, a wet smack; limbs, bone and flesh striking the cold hard concrete with the force of a speeding car. People were shouting. Greg heard it, and he knew it, yet it felt distant, like someone else's nightmare. She bounced, her body limp, the angles of her bones unnatural. Blood splattered the pavement, the dark crimson fluid pooling under her.

Someone vomited. He thought he would, too.

The world around him moved slowly. Sounds were muffled, vision hazy, and Greg struggled to focus, the images and noises warped, the world surreal. He could barely breathe, the air caught in his lungs.

But even though it was all so bizarre, he could still see her, his eyes fixed upon her crumpled form.

She was still, so very still. What was going on? Why did she do that? Her body was twisted in a grotesque manner, and blood seeped out of the corners of her mouth, dripping down the side of her face. That snow white hair, matted and stained with crimson, was spread around her head like a halo.

A woman screamed, her piercing shriek cutting through the abrupt silence. Then another cry rose up, and another, and another, a wave of terrified voices that swelled and crashed, drowning out everything else.

Greg couldn't move; he stared, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“W-what?” his breath hitched, chest feeling tight.

He couldn't believe his eyes. One moment she was there, solid and real, and the next, she was dissolving into nothingness. The girl—no, the Cape—seemingly faded out of existence, black motes of ash or smoke swirling and dissipating into the air, carried by the wind.

Greg blinked. People were still screaming and yelling, their cries echoing through the streets. He glanced around and spotted some of the bystanders staring at the empty space where the girl had been. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale and shocked, and they were talking, though the words were too jumbled to make sense.

His heart thundered in his ears, the sound beating with the rhythm of his pulse. “What?” Greg repeated to himself.

A few moments later, one of the only things remaining was a smear of red, the pool of blood spreading, oozing into the cracks in the concrete. And in the distance, sirens blared, while what looked to be a kitchen knife and a wallet, now soaked with blood, rested on the ground where the girl had landed.

In his mind, all he could see was the image of the girl's body, crumpled and twisted, bleeding and broken. The wet splat! of her impact replayed again and again in his thoughts, the sound sickening and surreal.

◢✥◣
STATUS SCREEN
◥✥◤

BASIC INFORMATION

[NAME]: Seraph

[LEVEL]: 1

[SKILL POINTS]: 1

[HEALTH]: 100%

[FP]: 100%

[STAMINA]: 100%

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 10

TALENTS (+)

This list is currently empty.

SKILLS (+)

This list is currently empty.

ADVANCED INFORMATION

[PHYSICAL DAMAGE]: 1-10

[ATTACK SPEED]: 110

[MOVEMENT SPEED]: 30

[ARMOUR]: 0

Chapter 2: Tutorial 1

Chapter Text

Five quick taps on the controller, and his female avatar brought a thug down—lifeless. Left hook, right hook, left jab, right uppercut, then a final kick to the head. The assault was brutal, each move flowing smoothly with every button press. He felt each punch and impact, the vibrations from the controller running through his fingertips. It was a rush, a surprising thrill he never expected. The sounds of fighting—grunts, punches landing—made it all the more satisfying. Real.

“Wow, the combat is really impressive,” he murmured to his stream. “Th-the, uh, tactile feedback... it makes it feel like I’m actually punching someone!”

He rotated the camera with a few swivels of the joystick and realised that all the mobs were dead, their corpses lying scattered across the floor. Blood was everywhere: splattered across the walls, the floors, his character's body. It was a bloodbath.

A smile spread across his face. This.. this was pretty cool!

Satisfied with having defeated all the enemies—almost a Level Up!—he turned to the person he'd saved: an older-looking, dark-skinned, voluptuous woman. The young man expected some kind of dialogue box, some prompt to claim his Quest reward. Instead, the older woman edged away, her eyes wide and wary. She kept her distance, taking cautious steps back from his character.

When he controlled his avatar forward, the older woman screamed before frantically running from him.

“Wh-What?”

Confused, he turned to his stream's chat, which had exploded in the last few seconds.

Miss Sugar: lolol

Sinner6969: lol lol lol lol

FemBoisRTruLuv: lol

DancingStar: lol you scared her

“That's so unfair,” the young man whined, “W-what even triggered that? I just helped her...”

Miss Sugar: NPCs are dumb

Sassassin: lmao

Wanting to fidget while he interacted with the chat, he had his avatar crouch and stand on the spot, rotating its body this way and that.

Hedgehoax: you just beat the sh*t out of a bunch of dudes. course she's scared of u

A pout formed on his lips, and he wrinkled his nose in annoyance.

“Ugh, next time I won't save her,” he grumbled, “I'll just leave her for the thugs.”

Octopuppy: why hvn't you picked a skill or talent yet?

He frowned, a little embarrassed. “Uh, well, I-I've kind of, err, been forgetting about it,” he admitted, his tone sheepish. A nervous chuckle slipped out. “Just trying to learn controls and stuff…”

Opening up his character menu, he flicked through the options—a satisfying little sound accompanying each flick—and made his way to the Skills tab.

“Wow!” he breathed, eyes wide. More and more pages seemed to be added to the Skills tab as he flicked through, making him a little dizzy. “H-how many are there?”

There were so many. So, so many. Countless Thousands, it seemed. Easily more. More than he could readily comprehend.

“What do you think, chat?” he asked, turning back to his stream. “How do I even decide?”

■

■

■

Loading... 1%… 34%… 65%...

■

■

Loading... 71%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Skills and Talents are essential for mastering your character. Highlight your strengths and embrace your abilities!

Each Level grants you ONE Skill Point to allocate to any Skill of your choice. With thousands of options ranging from combat prowess to crafting finesse and survival instincts, choose wisely and plan strategically!

Talents become available starting at Level 1, and subsequently every fifth Level. These specialised abilities offer significant advantages in combat and other challenges. Make thoughtful selections to maximise your character’s potential!

■

Loading... 99%...

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER TWO

Jake Harris

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Officer Jake Harris leaned against the cool metal of his patrol car, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of his favourite diner's parking lot. His fingers struggled with a lighter, its metal clinking sharply as he tried to coax a flame from it. After several attempts, a spark caught, and the cigarette clenched between his lips flared to life with a soft hiss. He drew a deep drag, watching the smoke curl upwards into the air, mingling with the distant hum of the city.

As the chill of the night began to settle in, nipping at his cheeks, he caught a faint whiff of gasoline drifting from a nearby service station. The sharp tang of fuel, mingled with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke, caused his nose to twitch. He could almost taste the lingering grease from the fried chicken joint on his tongue.

The distant roar of a motorcycle echoed through the streets, accompanied by the rumble of passing cars. Jake exhaled slowly, the white smoke dissipating into the oncoming sunset as he scanned the quiet surroundings. A group of teenagers sauntered past, their laughter echoing faintly against the brick walls of the diner. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, noticing a white teen holding hands with a black girl.

Race traitor, he thought, scowling at them.

Jake took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before settling into a steady burn. He tried to commit the girl's face to memory—the boy's too actually. Maybe he'd mention them at the next Empire meeting, see if he could get a few people to give the two a proper education on the importance of racial purity.

A gust of wind swept through the lot, stirring up scraps of paper and sending a plastic bag tumbling along the ground. When the wind settled, he flicked the ash from his cigarette and drew another lungful, the smoke curling around his face.

He turned, eyeing the diner through a cloud of cigarette fumes.

Its weathered facade stood stark against the fading sky, a testament to years of neglect. The building's worn red paint peeled away, and the windows were plastered with a dozen or more posters advertising random items. Above the entrance, a crooked neon sign blinked on and off, casting a feeble glow on the cracked pavement below.

Inhale—

Through a gap in the window, Jake spotted the fat, balding figure of his partner standing by a wall of photos. He clicked his teeth together in annoyance.

—Exhale.

Still waiting? sh*t, what was taking so long?

A flick of the wrist and more ash fell to the ground.

Inhale, exhale, repeat.

Another minute passed.

Inhale, exhale—

His stomach rumbled, reminding him of how long it had been since his last meal. Most of the afternoon had been spent chasing leads and interviewing witnesses about a new regenerating Cape in the Bay—a ‘silver-haired beauty’, as they called her. Deranged too, apparently. He didn’t doubt the reports; jumping off a building to die in front of dozens of people, power or no power, was a pretty clear indicator of being batsh*t crazy.

Not that anyone was certain the woman was even still alive; all that was clear was her body disappeared ‘like ashes’, and she hadn't been seen since. For all he knew, she was dead and not coming back, making the whole thing a waste of time.

Of course, the PRT and Protectorate barged into the investigation, claiming jurisdiction over any Parahuman incidents.

Jake hawked a thick wad of spit on the ground, scowling. f*cking stuck up pricks . As if they did anything to really protect the Bay. They could muscle in all they wanted, but the BBPD wasn't about to hand over information.

Let the cops do all the hard work, while they reaped the rewards—that’s how the world worked, right?

Well, not this time.

A familiar buzz interrupted his thoughts.

Jake dug his phone from his pocket—the spare he kept hidden from his wife. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he read the message, and his lip curled into a sneer. An Empire grunt wanted information on the new Cape? So they’d finally heard. Fat chance he’d share anything with some random sh*theel though. This intel was going straight to the top, where he’d get the appreciation he deserved. More money. Better benefits. The good life.

Asshole thinks he can steal credit from me? f*ck that.

With a final drag from his cigarette, he dropped the butt to the ground, and stubbed it out with a twist of his boot. The last few tendrils of smoke drifted upwards, and the smell of burning nicotine hung heavily in the air.

He quickly tapped out a reply: “Got it. Will update the big bosses tonight myself.”

Satisfied, he stuffed the phone back in his pocket, then glanced around the parking lot once more. A beat-up red sedan rattled into view, its engine coughing before it wheezed to a halt. An attractive blonde woman climbed out of the driver's seat, her face showing clear signs of exhaustion. Her hair was slightly out of place, blazer wrinkled, and heels clicking on the asphalt. Still damn hot, though.

She caught him looking, and he tipped his hat.

“Afternoon, officer,” she greeted him with a slight smile and a hint of a blush.

“Ma'am,” he replied, his tone gruff but polite.

She strode into the diner, her hips swaying slightly with each step. Jake's eyes lingered for a moment before returning to the road.

In the distance, something caught his eye: a girl, running and hopping along the middle of the street with an odd, bounding gait. Her steps were light, almost floating, and Jake swore he saw a baseball bat in her hands, swinging as she ran. A second later, it vanished, and she seemed to be carrying nothing at all.

Where did she suddenly come from?

He paused, squinting. Small, pale skin, silvery-white hair—was that the new Cape? Looked like she survived the fall after all. But what were those stains on her? Dark splatters, maybe a reddish tint. He narrowed his eyes and peered harder. Blood? Or just grime?

The girl wasn't fast, but she didn't seem to care, either. It was as if she had all the time in the world, and no particular place to go. She wore what earlier witnesses had described: a chest wrap, panties, and no mask. Her scant clothing left little to the imagination, but the girl showed no signs of being bothered by her attire. At least, from what Jake could tell, anyway.

Suddenly, she veered towards a trash can.

Her hands plunged into the container, rummaging through its contents and Jake's brow furrowed. His fingers twitched towards his police radio, but he stopped, dumbfounded.

Was she actually going through the garbage?

A few seconds passed. The girl pulled something —he couldn't quite make it out—from the trash and, a moment later it was gone, just like the baseball bat. He blinked, trying to process what he'd seen. He wasn't hallucinating. That actually happened. Then, she was back to delving into the trash can again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake shook himself from his stupor, his fingers finally curling around the radio clipped to his shoulder. The static crackled as he unlatched it, pressed a button, and held the receiver to his mouth.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 107,” he began, his voice low and steady. “I've got a visual on the missing Parahuman suspect at my location. Silver hair, Caucasian, small build, wearing minimal clothing. Currently at the corner of Westbrook and Fifth. Suspect is... rummaging through a trash can. No immediate threat observed, but she’s acting strange. Over.”

He released the button, listening to the familiar hiss of white noise as he kept his eyes on the girl.

“Copy that, Unit 107. The PRT and Protectorate will be informed. Maintain visual contact. Over.”

So much for trying to outshine the PRT. He exhaled sharply, a hiss of air escaping through gritted teeth. The bitter taste of disappointment curled in his mouth. He could almost see the headlines—PRT praised for swift action, while he and the rest of the BBPD remained a footnote, a shadow in the margin. The injustice of it stung, and all he could do was swallow the protest, the anger.

“Affirmative,” he grunted into the radio. “Over and out.”

Just as he moved to secure the radio back to its clip, the girl straightened up and started moving towards the diner, heading straight for him. Jake frowned. How should he approach this?

A smirk played at the corners of his lips.

What if he could flip the script, steer her towards the Empire?

It'd be a satisfying ‘f*ck you’ to the PRT and Protectorate. And who knew? Maybe there'd be a handsome bonus in it for him too. He just had to figure out how to do it subtly; he'd like not to risk his career in the police force, after all.

“Suspect is on the move. Appears to be heading towards my location. Requesting backup, over,” he said into the radio. He secured the device back to his vest and adjusted his cap.

“Understood, Unit 107. A hero from the Protectorate is en route. ETA: ten minutes.”

Ten minutes? His eyebrows furrowed, hopefully the girl would be somewhat reasonable then. Last thing he needed was to deal with some psychopath, especially one with powers.

“Ten-fou—” he responded into his shoulder, before his voice caught in his throat. The girl disappeared mid-step and he froze, stunned. “sh*t, lost sight of the suspect!”

“Unit 107, report,” came the urgent response, but he struggled to focus.

Where had she gone? His eyes darted left and right, scanning for any hint of movement. There was nothing. He glanced back to where she had been, finding only empty space.

“She just f*cking disappeared! One moment, she was there, the next—”

Jake choked down a curse as she reappeared just a few steps in front of him, easily covering over a hundred metres in a few seconds. A deep unease settled in the pit of his stomach. The stench hit him next—a nauseating mix of sour, fermented rot and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. His insides lurched, the urge to gag rising, but he fought to hold it down. She stood there, staring at him, eyes unblinking, face expressionless.

What the f*ck.

Now that the girl was closer, he could see her clearly. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end. A smear of blood covered her left cheek, and her lips were smudged with dirt. Splatters of blood coated her bare arms, stomach and legs, though the red-black liquid looked to be old and partially dried. Even her hair had a dark red stain, and lumpy clumps clung together, matting the strands.

What.

The.

f*ck.

She looked feral, and Jake wasn't naive enough to believe it was all her own blood—if any even belonged to her at all.

Don't panic, don't panic, he repeated inwardly. Jake felt trapped beneath her gaze, small and insignificant. Think! You're a f*cking cop!

His eyes searched her for weapons and found none. But he'd seen her do that disappearing trick twice now. Who knew what else she was capable of? He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the taste of bile that had risen in the back of his throat.

“Unit 107?” the radio chirped. “Do you copy? Repeat: Do you copy?”

Jake's mouth worked open and closed, but no words came. “Afternoon, Miss,” he finally managed, a slight crack in his voice. He ignored the insistent calls from the radio, his focus fixed on the girl before him.

The girl was beautiful, unnaturally so, with pale skin, high cheekbones, and large, almond-shaped blue eyes. Save for her hair, she was a near-perfect poster girl for Aryan ideals—the type his grandfather had rambled about with fervour whenever he was drunk. He could see why the Empire would take an interest. But, at the same time, she also seemed almost alien, like a doll come to life, with no emotion in her expression, or even her movements.

Her face resembled a porcelain mask, marred by streaks of blood that only heightened the unease churning in his gut. f*ck, she could even pass for someone straight out of the Slaughterhouse 9! That thought alone sent an unpleasant shudder down his spine. Even if she was a foot or so shorter than him, there was something about her—an unnatural sense of wrongness that screamed danger.

You're a cop! Get a grip, for Scion's sake!

But Jake couldn't help it. All of his instincts were on edge, and the tension thrummed through him, coiling tight like a spring.

Breathe, just breathe. He forced himself to take a deep breath, inhaling deeply and then exhaling slowly, just like he had been taught years ago. The smell hit him again, and he gagged.

She stared at him, head tilted to the side, her gaze unnervingly calm. “Hello,” she said. Her voice was light, soft even, and he couldn't pin an accent to it. Yet at the same time, there was no inflection to her words, no sign of emotion, just a flat, neutral tone. “I'm new here. Where do you think is a good place to go?”

“Uh,” he stuttered, blinking. The petite woman started randomly jumping up and down, her feet hitting the ground in a flurry of small thuds. Her face remained completely impassive and emotionless as she did so, and he all but confirmed that the girl really was mentally unstable. Especially as she moved side to side, before simply crouching a few steps from him.

Under different circ*mstances, it might have seemed comical, but with her cold, piercing stare fixed on him, Jake found nothing amusing. Instead, a slow, crippling dread twisted his stomach into knots. The thought of reaching for his service pistol crossed his mind more than once, a desperate bid for reassurance. Yet, a voice in his head warned against it—a little whisper that the second he made that move, he'd be a dead man.

Was it instinct? Or had she telegraphed something, and he'd missed it, too slow to catch up? He didn't know, and that made him even more nervous.

“T-the PRT...” Jake stammered, any thoughts of glory now abandoned. For once, his pride took a back seat, and he was ready to let the PRT or the Protectorate handle her, uncaring if they got the credit. He just wanted her gone—out of sight, out of mind, and far away from him. “...you should go there. They probably know best, and I'm sure th-they'll help you out, or whatever. S-someone from the P-PRT, I mean, the Protectorate is coming soon too, so you could talk to them.”

The girl tilted her head the other way, her face remaining impassive. “PRT? Protectorate? What's that?”

Jake blinked, thrown off by her question. How could someone not know about the PRT or the Protectorate?

“The PRT and Protectorate? It's... uh... it's a group that helps, um, people like you,” he trailed off awkwardly. “People with powers.”

Silence thickened the air, unsettling in its weight, as Jake waited for her response. The girl merely stared at him and he shifted in discomfort. Why wasn't she talking? What was she thinking? Was she going to do anything?

Just as he began to think she wouldn't reply, he watched with disbelief as the deranged Cape rose to her feet and leapt onto his patrol car. Her bare feet lightly bounced on the hood, leaving bloody footprints on its polished surface before she hopped onto the roof. Jake winced inwardly but kept his expression neutral. “W-what are you doing?”

Again, the girl didn't respond, seemingly content with bouncing atop the police cruiser as he backed away. She was crazy, completely and utterly insane. And he was alone with her. Cold sweat trickled down his neck, and his heart hammered against his ribcage.

His radio crackled, startling him.

“Unit 107, what's going on over there?” the radio droned for the umpteenth time. “Repeat, Unit 107, do you copy? Unit 107, report your status!”

“T-the suspect has made contact,” he stuttered, eyes never leaving the girl. His free hand twitched, moving towards his pistol as he frantically looked towards the diner, hoping to signal his partner. The cool metal pressing against his palm felt good, calming, and he drew comfort from it. “Suspect is displaying erratic behaviour. Possible mental issues, but I-I repeat, no visible hostilities observed. Over.”

“Copy that, Unit 107. Backup should arrive within a few minutes—Velocity was called for priority assistance. Keep her talking and stall for time until he can intercept. Sit tight.”

Had Dispatch heard the nerves in his voice? The spine-chilling fear that left him strained and on the verge of panic?

Jake's grip tightened around the pistol grip as the girl leapt off the car, landing lightly in front of him, her expression still eerily neutral. His breath caught in his throat as he took a cautious step back, his right foot shifting, left hand poised to draw.

She stared, and he swallowed nervously. The steady thump, thump, thump of his heart pounded in his ears, his breath quickening with each passing second.

“I-is there something else you need?” he managed, the tremor in his voice barely perceptible. At least, he hoped it wasn't.

A slight tilt of her head. Then more silence. It was almost as if she was waiting for something. But what?

The eerie stillness between them persisted, the seconds stretching into an uncomfortable eternity. Then, she began spinning in place, faster and faster, until she was a blur. It was like looking at a human-sized top, silvery-white hair trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.

His jaw dropped, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

What.

The.

Actual.

f*ck.

What was this crazy bitch playing at?

Jake couldn't stand it anymore.

His grip loosened, then tightened on his gun.

“Listen, lady! Stop messing around, and state your business, or I'll—”

“Give me your gun,” the girl demanded, suddenly halting her spin with a grace and precision that he would bet his life savings only the best ballet dancer could achieve.

His mind blanked, struggling to process her request. Had he misheard?

“Wha-what?”

“I want your gun. And your car too.”

Jake's face paled. What the hell was she saying?

He took another step back, slowly withdrawing his pistol but keeping the muzzle pointed at the ground.

“I can't do that, Miss, that's police property,” he responded, trying to keep his tone light and easygoing, despite the growing tension. He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so. “Why don't we just stay calm and talk about this, yeah?

The girl stared.

“Look, uh... Miss,” he replied, his jaw set, his stance wary. “I don't know what you're thinking, but someone from the Protectorate is already on their way. They're the ones who'll be able to help you, okay? Just wait a little longer.”

She co*cked her head to the side, her hair falling across her face. “Help me with what?”

He forced a smile, but again , the girl simply stared at him.

“Miss..?” he tried again, his smile faltering.

Jake didn't know what changed, but everything suddenly went wrong.

One moment, the girl was simply standing there, her gaze blank and her body perfectly still. The next, she was a blur of motion, and a bloodied baseball bat was suddenly in her hands. It whistled through the air, heading straight for his head, and he barely managed to raise an arm in time.

A sharp, splintering crack resounded. Searing pain exploded through his limb as the bat made contact, his bones likely breaking under the force. Jake screamed, tears springing into his eyes as he instinctively clutched his injured arm with his free hand, dropping the pistol in his rush. It clattered uselessly to the ground, joined by the splintered remains of the wooden bat which had snapped under the force of the blow.

The girl didn't let up.

She stepped forward, throwing a punch that he barely managed to deflect with his raised arms. More pain shot through his muscles as her fist connected with his forearm. “Wait, stop!” he pleaded, desperately raising his arms in an effort to fend off the unrelenting assault. “W-why are you doing this?”

Her next strike landed squarely on his jaw, the impact sending shockwaves through his skull. He tasted blood, the metallic tang filling his mouth as he staggered backward, his vision blurring at the edges.

Desperation fueled him and he lunged forward, aiming to tackle her to the ground. But she danced aside effortlessly, her bare foot catching him squarely in the face.

His head snapped back with a sickening crunch, his nose crushed and blood pouring freely down his face. The world spun, his uniform turning crimson as he stumbled and collapsed to his knees. He struggled to push himself back up, only to feel something cold and metallic press against the back of his head.

Time slowed to a crawl, the world narrowing down to that single moment. The pain and panic disappeared, replaced by a single thought: he was going to die.

“P-please don't,” he begged, his voice thick and muffled by the blood and snot, and the tears of fear and pain streaking down his face. “Please. I-I have a wife. Kids. A daughter. P-please, don't kill me,” he tried again, his shoulders shaking.

In the distance, he heard chaos—a mix of scrambling and screams. His partner, the diner patrons.

There was a quiet, ominous click.

More screams, more scrambling. There were words, too, but he couldn't make them out.

His heart skipped a beat, the frantic drumbeat coming to a standstill. His lungs seized, his chest constricting painfully, and the air in his throat turned to lead.

“Don't,” Jake breathed, his lips parting in a silent prayer. “Plea—”

A single, deafening bang shattered the stillness.

And then, there was nothing.

■

■

Loading... 34%… 54%… 69%...

■

■

Loading... 78%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

When your Health drops to zero, you will die. Beware: dying causes you to drop all equipped and inventory items. Additionally, if you’re above Level 1, you will also lose a Level and all associated Level Up bonuses.

■

Loading... 93%...

■

■

“Awh, look what you made me do, chat,” he complained, glancing at his other screen with a playful pout. “You just made me kill a man begging for his life! Uhm, Is there Karma in this game? Because if so, uh, I think I am in trouble, guys.”

FemBoisRTruLuv: u got his gun now though lol

Sassassin: kill all the others now too, free xp

Hedgehoax: noo don't kill meee i have a wife and childreann~~

ChunkyCheese: lololol they really worked hard on voice acting for this game, its great

Controlling his player character, the young man's eyes darted around the screen, taking in the other NPCs in the area. Most of them were unarmed and posed no threat, but there was a fat police officer wielding a pistol and firing at him. He activated the Shukuchi Skill to dodge, turning invisible and phasing through any bullets aimed his way.

“S-should I take out these mobs? I-I could probably Level Up if I do.”

NyaBot: do it!!

Miss Sugar: xpxpxpxpxxpxpxp

Sinner6969: free xp, kill kill kiiiiiilllll

“O-Okay, I guess. Uhm, sorry about this, Mr. Police Officer!”

◢✥◣
CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG
◥✥◤

NEW TALENTS!

✦ INNER FOCUS ✦

You are deeply attuned to the rhythms of your being, honing your concentration and enhancing your mental acuity to tap into the inner reservoirs of your mental strength. With a serene and disciplined approach, you automatically regenerate Focus Points (FP) at a slow rate whenever you are outside of combat.

NEW SKILLS!

✦ SHUKUCHI ✦

RANK: 1

TYPE: Active

RANGE: Self

FP COST: 30

DURATION: 5 seconds

COOLDOWN: 15 seconds

EFFECT: Tap into fabrics of creation to temporarily shift out of visibility, gaining 1000% bonus movement speed and a minor form of intangibility. Passing through living beings inflicts 10 damage. Attacking immediately cancels this Skill.

[LEVEL]: 1 → 2

[SKILL POINTS]: 0 → 1

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 10 → 11

Chapter 3: Tutorial 2

Chapter Text

「Worm: A Parahuman Story」 was a popular game, the young man knew. The open-world, sandbox title had captivated gamers and critics alike, offering a thrilling, immersive experience that felt like stepping into a living, breathing world. Within months of its release, it had gained a cult following. Players from all genres flocked to it, lured by its depth and near-limitless versatility.

He’d heard of a streamer who treated it like a glorified cooking simulator, ignoring the core gameplay to play as a chef. And it wasn’t an isolated case. Others, too, focused solely on niche aspects like fishing or running a business, yet found the game so rich and engaging that it became the sole focus of their streams. All of them were hooked.

So, when he decided to kickstart his streaming career with this game, he expected to ride its wave of popularity. What he hadn't anticipated was how quickly he'd catch on. His first stream was nothing special, really. But now, just a few hours into actually playing the game (and not just customising his character), his viewer count had steadily climbed, now comfortably sitting in the hundreds.

It was surreal, honestly, seeing a steady trickle of viewers pop up every time he glanced at his monitor.

eth: this is funny asf, keep it up lol

Zackman2k12: lol, this is fun.

Crista20: I am horrified…

Sleepless1990: Poor NPC-kun

WildStrand: oooh boy.

⁺₊✧ <Nyabot just gifted 200 Gems!> ✧₊⁺

“Th-thanks for the 200 Gems, N-nyabot!” he spluttered out, still not quite used to the idea that his viewers were already willing to support him. Then another soft ping alerted him to another generous donation.

⁺₊✧ <FemBoisRTruLuv just gifted 500 Gems!> ✧₊⁺

“Wow! Thank you, uhhh... Fem─uhhh, FemBoisRTruLuv for the 500 Gems.” He felt himself begin to blush.

On the screen, his female character was steadily mowing through the random mobs in the diner—knife flashing, kicks landing with a satisfying thud. The sounds were surprisingly unsettling though: a chorus of high-pitched screams from the victims punctuated the frantic, rapid-fire sound of the knife plunging into their flesh. The way the NPCs even begged and pleaded for their lives, crying out in pain and anguish, made the whole ordeal feel so much more real than anything he'd ever played. Incredible attention to detail. But very, very distressing to listen to through his headset's speakers.

Maybe he'd opt to lower the volume a bit.

-ˋˏ [Miss Sugar just subscribed for 1 month!] ˎˊ

Miss Sugar: Blow me a kiss!

A louder jingle made him flinch, and he took a stray hit. He hurriedly tapped a button, moving away before addressing the notification.

“W-wow! A subscriber! Th-thank you, Miss Sugar! Uhh, I really appreciate all the support... and, um, thanks to everyone else watching. It's kind of a new thing for me, but I promise to try and put on good streams, and um, continue to do my best for you guys.”

A little sheepish, he blew a kiss towards the camera and immediately regretted it, wishing he could vanish into thin air. What was that? The tips of his ears burned, and he knew his face must be beet red.

Miss Sugar: Cute~ ♥

His HP ticked over to a safe level, the red border of his screen vanishing. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Whew, that was close.” It was a shame he was running low on items to immediately restore his FP though. A few more uses of Shukuchi and this whole thing would've been over a lot faster. Still, he'd used it enough that the mobs were starting to thin out. The ones remaining had low enough HP that he could probably finish them off with one or two normal attacks.

A woman tried to run, stumbling towards the door. He quickly switched to his gun, target locking onto her with a few flicks of his right joystick and firing. The bullet took her in the back, and she went down.

Sassassin: if everyone's dead no one will know you did it trust me

Octopuppy: at least you didn't let that one run, u let so much wasted xp get away

NyaBot: please dont kill the kid!!!!!

Sinner6969: 500 gems if you wipe out everyone

The pained screams and begging was disquieting. The sight of blood and bodies slumped over tables, the sounds of the knife plunging into the flesh, all of it was making him feel uncomfortable. This had seemed so much better of an idea in the past.

KlarkCent: can you do something that doesn't involve killing pls this is disturbing

Sassassin: shut up

Killer_Noodle: lolololololol

FemBoisRTruLuv: go watch a dif streamer then

“T-this isn't going to ruin the ending for me, is it?” he asked, a little concerned. His eyes flicked back and forth between the chat log and the carnage unfolding in front of him. “No s-spoilers, but I-I'm not like, ruining anything am I?”

NyaBot: nyat gonna happen

Miss Sugar: I don't think there is a TRUE ending

Rai_Terr: no spoilers, but from the few people i've watched get to some sort of ending, I haven't seen a single repeat. even if they're somewhat similar, there's always a pretty big variation

Killer_Noodle: this game is crazy lol how is it so different for everyone

Sincubus: so many dif starting maps too

“W-well, I guess that's a relief.”

Rai_Terr: there is an ENDING though, but its up to u how to get there

PerkyCat: lololol youre going to get so hunted down by the whitehats for this

Sinner6969: 500 gems if you burn the place down

He finished off another mob, their body crumpling into a heap. A few left.

■

Loading… 10%... 79%… 81%…

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

To swiftly recover lost Health, FP, or Stamina, seek out a bed and rest. Resting not only restores vitality but also clears most debuffs and status effects. Note, however, that persistent conditions may require specific items or skills for remedy.

Important: Resting at a bed designates it as your active spawn point! In case of death, you will respawn at this location. Plan ahead and choose your resting spots wisely before embarking on your journey.

■

■

Loading… 98%…

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER THREE

Robin Swoyer (Velocity)

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Where did it all go wrong?

That question haunted Robin Swoyer as he sprinted through Brockton Bay's more squalid streets; the dark alleys, the abandoned warehouses, the dilapidated buildings. It echoed in his mind with every pounding power-enhanced step, every ragged breath, and every frantic beat of his racing heart.

How did things escalate so quickly?

It had all started innocently enough. The Protectorate was contacted by the BBPD about the city's latest regenerating—or cloning, as some argued—Cape, whom they designated Silver.

(The name wasn’t very original, Robin thought.)

Miss Militia, being the closest hero on patrol, was dispatched to investigate. They hoped for a peaceful first contact: a few questions, some minor negotiating to convince her to submit to testing, and maybe even a friendly offer to join the local Protectorate branch. The usual.

Sure, the suspected mentally-imbalanced Cape (not his words) was also wanted for interrogation regarding her suicide— Public Disturbance , the PRT called it, since she was presumed to still be alive—but it was hardly anything worth getting worked up over. The girl, young as she was, probably suffered from a bad Trigger Event and had no idea what she was doing. That was the working theory at least. And if it was true, they were the best equipped to deal with her and the fallout from whatever trauma she experienced.

Even Armsmaster and Director Piggot, some of the biggest hardasses he knew (though he'd never say it out loud), agreed: this was going to be a simple case of ‘rescuing’ a girl before she did something else foolish. Better for her own safety too, no doubt, considering she went around unmasked just begging for the city's gangs to hunt her down.

Personally—and, really , he wasn't alone in this—Robin wanted to know what the heck the girl's powers were.

After her jump , she left behind a bloodstain that simply wouldn't disappear. They tried everything: pouring water, applying chemicals, scrubbing furiously. It was all in vain. The gory evidence remained, like a mark seared into the concrete. That alone raised a few eyebrows. But the really notable thing, the one that drew everyone's interest and concern alike? Whenever someone approached, a red-tinted, ghostly figure of the girl would materialise on the rooftop from which she jumped from and leap off.

Again, and again, and again, and again .

The girl's macabre phantom kept jumping , locked in an endless loop.

It was a gruesome, borderline nightmarish spectacle: an apparition that would appear, walk to the roof's edge, and just drop . Body broken, limbs mangled, and her face, her poor, bloody, mutilated face—it was a sight that made Robin's stomach turn. Everyone else’s too. Then, a few seconds later, she'd reappear atop the building, unscathed, and start the cycle all over again.

Truly horrifying.

So far, the only way for it to stop was to leave the area around the bloodstain. And given the location's civilian foot traffic, the looping phantom was quickly becoming a major headache. A vomit-inducing, traumatic, very public headache.

Robin had seen the recordings. He'd been there. It was... disturbing. Though he hadn't personally witnessed a Gray Boy loop, the girl's apparition was an awful, twisted reminder of one.

That was not a comparison he made lightly.

More than one person in the PRT and Protectorate wanted to know how that related to her regenerative—more like resurrection —ability. At the same time, like the majority of the public, they also wanted the haunting ghost gone.

But that was supposed to be it. In and out, one of the team's finest (and most amiable, as far as he was concerned) would swoop in, talk to the girl, and convince her to submit to questioning and testing. Persuade her to get rid of—or figure out a way to deal with—her ghost-thing too. Then the PRT would give her a slap on the wrist and a stern warning, and everyone would walk away happy. Easy.

Simple.

That was the plan .

And while no one expected for everything to be perfect , not with the girl's obvious instability, they were still taken completely off-guard when things went horribly wrong.

Should they have been more cautious? More alert? Perhaps they were too complacent, too optimistic. Whatever the reason, when things went wrong, it all happened so quickly.

In his skin-tight costume, Robin moved as fast as he could, a heavy blur of red and black speeding across the city's dingier back-alleys. The world around him stretched and warped, a surreal kaleidoscope of distorted colours and shapes. A mere glance was enough to make probably anyone nauseous.

Not him, though.

His Breaker state encased him in a physics-defying cocoon of immunity—no nausea, no disorientation, no vertigo. It was as if the world slowed to accommodate his heightened senses, his eyes processing information with a clarity that defied the speed at which he moved. His mind handled the strain effortlessly, his reflexes operating in perfect sync with his accelerated body. Yet, for all the superhuman agility, there remained one thing he lacked: enhanced stamina.

Contrary to public perception—and he allowed them to maintain that misconception—for him, being a speedster wasn't a bottomless well of instant energy. Racing at breathtaking speeds and being immune to the bone-crushing, organ-shattering forces his power-enhanced movement generated didn't spare him from the harsh realities of physical strain and exertion.

His power, though great, had limits.

In his altered state, he maintained a walk, jog or a sprint throughout. The speed was variable, not constant. That meant his muscles still tired and used up energy just like everyone else. No matter how much he trained and built up his body, his endurance and his capacity to keep up the pace were nowhere near infinite.

And after a few minutes of running near full-tilt, even with the benefits of his Breaker form, the strain on Robin's body was palpable. His lungs seared with each inhale, muscles ablaze with the effort, and his heart thundered relentlessly against his ribs. Each breath came out in heavy, ragged pants, his body straining for oxygen, and the air burned his throat with each gulp.

Still, it wasn't enough to make him stop.

Before Miss Militia had even neared where the Cape was supposed to be, the BBPD informed them of the changed situation: the officer who had found the girl by chance had apparently become distressed and the police Dispatcher requested immediate assistance.

That was just the beginning.

As one of the fastest capes in Brockton Bay, Robin had been swiftly dispatched to answer the call. He had wasted no time, racing across the waters surrounding the Protectorate ENE Headquarters and hurtling towards the girl's reported location. He was halfway across the city when an update came, hitting him like a punch to the gut: the Cape had turned violent, the situation was spiralling out of control.

He ran faster then.

Moments later, the BBPD and PRT were inundated with a surge of calls regarding the situation: a dead police officer, a homicidal Cape, gunshots, civilian injuries... deaths. The situation wasn't just escalating. It was already rampant and unchecked.

Faster.

Faster!

FASTER!

Now, he pushed past the familiar signs tingling through his body. His legs were hot, calves and thighs feeling as if they were aflame, but Robin refused to slow his pace. An urgency pulsed through his veins, relentless and desperate, like a drumbeat driving him forward. People were dying. Innocents. Kids. They needed his help, and he couldn't waste any more time. He had to reach them. Had to save them.

So he forced himself forward, every stride a battle against the subtle twinges of pain. His joints ached, muscles strained, and a burning, stinging sensation laced his limbs, but he pushed on.

He was almost there.

From shabby alleyway to shabby alleyway, from abandoned warehouse to decaying, rundown apartment block, from derelict buildings to decrepit shops, the scenery passed by in a blur until he reached the more affluent parts of the Bay. Then, the cityscape whipped past him, buildings, cars and street lights melding into a continuous streak of light and shadow. He zigzagged through narrow alleys, dodged around obstacles, and weaved through the traffic and pedestrians that crossed his path.

A few honks blared, a few angry voices shouted, and the occasional person pointed or gave him an incredulous look as he streaked by. Robin ignored it all, his sole focus on reaching the crime scene as fast as possible.

The distant wail of sirens echoed in his ears, the high-pitched whee-whee-whee of the BBPD's patrol cars and the lower, deeper tones of the PRT's armoured transports growing steadily louder from somewhere behind him. He paid them no heed either, sprinting towards his destination and the mayhem he knew awaited him.

Chaos.

Bloodshed.

Death.

Robin saw it all when he reached his destination. The place was a massacre. Bodies lay scattered, blood pooled on the cracked asphalt, the air thick with the stench of iron and smoke. The scene looked ripped from a nightmare, a horror movie, or a battlefield.

So many bodies. So much blood. So much carnage. All in the span of mere minutes.

It was horrific.

And the worst part? He looked to be too late.

Had any even been able to run away?

Robin slowed but didn't stop—stopping meant letting his body catch up with the exhaustion, and that was a risk he couldn't take. He let his hasted perception of the world wash over the scene, drinking in the details and cataloguing every little bit of information.

Nearby, an officer lay motionless, scarlet blood oozing from the grisly hole in his head. Another police officer was slumped closer to the diner—this one had suffered a worse fate, his face and neck a gory mess from what looked to be cuts and stab wounds. Both officers had been wearing standard tactical vests, yet they had been killed so easily, their equipment doing nothing to stop the girl.

A little further ahead, just by the diner's entrance, three more people lay on the ground: two men, one woman. All unmoving. All with multiple, gruesome knife wounds: deep cuts, jagged slashes, stab wounds, puncture wounds... it was like the girl—Silver—had literally hacked and slashed her way through them, uncaring and unflinching as her blade bit through skin, muscle, tendon and bone. A splatter of crimson decorated the floors and nearby furniture, and blood pooled beneath the bodies.

There was no saving them.

Rushing in, Robin found the diner in shambles: smashed tables and chairs, broken glassware, bullet holes, pools of blood, and bodies, bodies, and more bodies.

Dead bodies. Mangled bodies. Shot, broken, mutilated, shredded, gored bodies. All of them people who'd simply been at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The stench of blood, sweat, gunpowder and piss permeated the air, a coppery tang of fresh gore filling his nose.

Some of the civilians were slumped on the floor, others half-sprawled over broken tables or fallen chairs. One was even dangling out a shattered window, his torso impaled on the jagged glass. Even more were sprawled in the open, their corpses shot or torn and brutalised, and their lifeblood pooling around them. There almost wasn't a single surface without some kind of bloodstain or piece of torn, severed flesh.

The slaughter was overwhelming.

Monstrous.

And yet, he pushed through it. He had to. Scanning the area, he searched for any other sign of life, any more survivors.

Robin had found the cause of the massacre in a corner, hunched over a panicking woman on a table, a kitchen knife in hand, ready to plunge the weapon down into her victim. A man behind her was already dead, his throat slit open, dark blood trickling onto the floor. Had he tried to protect his partner, only to die?

A small boy was curled up in a ball on the floor on the opposite side, sobbing uncontrollably. He was one of the only survivors, though it was impossible to tell how the young child was still alive, given the sheer brutality of the other victims.

...Was that his mother, dead on the floor just a short distance away?

That was the sight that brought him up short.

Robin's heart pounded, blood rushing through his veins. His mouth went dry as anguish twisted his stomach. A cold weight settled on his chest, tightening his throat. His limbs felt leaden, rooting him in place. He tried to breathe, but his breath caught in his lungs.

He was too late.

Too late.

Too late.

No other thought entered Robin's mind as he rushed in before the murderous criminal could stab her victim, a defiant snarl escaping his lips. One breath. Two. He was a blur, fists smashing into Silver's body in quick succession. Three breaths. Four. His fists moved faster than the eye could follow, and while his Breaker state robbed his punches of raw strength, the sheer speed and volume were enough to stagger her.

Five. Six.

He didn't stop, not for a moment. Each strike was a whispering gust, a relentless pressure that gnawed at the girl's defences. Seven. Eight. The punches kept coming, consistent and unyielding. He aimed for her core, her chest and abdomen. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. His fists hammered away, driving the villain back in mere moments, forcing her away from the crying woman sprawled on the table.

Fourteen.

His trained blows landed with the rapid-fire staccato of a machine gun. He even aimed for her hands, yet the knife refused to fall, staying clamped tightly in her grasp despite the constant barrage. Robin gritted his teeth.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

It didn't matter.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

He didn't need to make her drop the knife. As long as he could hold her attention, keep her focused on him, the woman would be safe.

Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

Backup was coming, Miss Militia would soon arrive, and he had to last until then.

Twenty-six.

Silver seemed to finally react. She slashed at him widely, swinging the kitchen knife in a wide, erratic arc. It was a wild attack, and he easily slipped underneath the swing, the knife whooshing past him harmlessly.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

More wild slashes. Robin sidestepped, the knife whizzing through the empty space he had occupied a moment ago. He came around, throwing a quick jab, catching the girl on the jaw. Twenty-nine. He darted away from her, staying just out of reach. Her strikes were too wide, too easy to dodge. Thirty. He kicked her in the gut, his leg a blur as he moved faster than she could react.

Thirty-one. Thirty—

The girl vanished. His foot swung through empty air. Robin blinked, then gasped. An odd sensation passed through him, a strange, tingling numbness. It felt like a thousand needles piercing his skin, like a burning chill injected into his veins. He staggered, his movements halting.

What...?

The moment he stopped, exhaustion hit him full force. His limbs felt heavy, fatigue settling in like lead. His eyes burned and stung from salty sweat, and his breath came in short, laboured gasps. Every part of his body felt bruised, battered, and strained. Each breath dragged fire through his lungs.

Worst of all, the sudden wave of fatigue robbed him of the energy and momentum that had powered him through the last few minutes, draining him of everything in an instant.

It was only his years of experience and training that allowed Robin to react to the girl's next attack. His eyes widened as the knife sliced at his back. He twisted, the blade shredding his costume and cutting into the skin beneath. Not much, but enough to draw blood. A searing pain lanced across his left shoulder. Robin grunted, gritting his teeth as he lurched forward. He turned just in time to see a second slash coming and jerked his head back, barely avoiding the knife as it swept through the air in front of him.

He cursed.

“What are you doing? I'm innocent,” Silver suddenly protested, voice emotionless. She stared at him, her gaze as blank and vacant as her tone. “I haven't done anything wrong,” she added, the words coming out in a monotone.

Mechanical.

Empty.

Did she really think he’d believe that?

A shudder ran through him. Her lifeless delivery made his skin crawl. She was soaked in blood, her face blank, her eyes empty, her tone flat. The contrast was jarring, a tableau of horror painted in the starkness of her emotionless words. The knife in her hand gleamed with fresh blood, a crimson blade dripping with the evidence of her deed. Yet, she was eerily detached, like a puppet reciting lines. The sight and sound of her chilled him to the bone.

She looked like a demon: a bloody, emotionless, soulless demon. It sickened him. He had dealt with villains and criminals before, had seen them kill and maim and brutalise people, but there was just something about this girl that seemed so much worse.

“You’re sick ,” Robin spat. “A monster.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Put down the knife, Silver,” he said, voice firm. He struggled to control his breathing, fighting to keep his voice level and steady. Just a bit longer. Then he could rest. Muscle failure was creeping up on him, but he had to last a little longer. “You're under arrest.”

“I’m Seraph,” the psychotic Cape replied, backing away slowly, ignoring his demands. (What was she doing?) Fried chicken suddenly appeared in her free hand. “Not Silver.” She took a few bites, and the whole thing was gone, only to be replaced by a second helping a moment later. And then a third.

Robin's mouth twisted, his expression hardening. “Is this a joke to you?” he hissed, unable to stop himself. “This isn't a game!”

“What are you doing? I'm innocent,” the girl said again, as if repeating the same phrase over and over would make it true. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

Insane. Utterly insane.

He'd heard enough. Recovered or not, Robin was done wasting his breath. In an instant, he was across the room, punches and kicks flying again.

Silver didn't get another word out. Yet with his speed dropped, body battered, and stamina all but exhausted, Robin wasn't quite able to land as many clean hits as he had earlier. The girl seemed to dodge far better too, sidestepping, backstepping and even rolling to the side to avoid his blows. Briefly, he wondered if she had a Thinker power too. She fought too well, and his attacks were landing too infrequently for someone with enhanced reflexes and perception.

Not that his attacks weren't without success. Even if he wasn't able to hit her as much, his fists and kicks still connected, grazing her cheek, slamming into her chin, striking her arm or torso. And those attacks were not without effect despite the lack of power behind them. Tables and chairs cracked. Glassware shattered. All from the girl’s wild flailing and dodging. She staggered and stumbled, and more often than not, he knocked her off balance, disrupting her footing.

Why hadn't the girl used her disappearing act again?

He pushed that thought aside. It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, he'd take the opening. He pressed the advantage, keeping her on the defensive, keeping her preoccupied.

Robin was a flurry of fists, a tempest of feet. Punch, kick, punch, kick, jab, kick, hook, uppercut, kick. He never stopped, his assault a continuous, ceaseless, unforgiving wave of violence. He drove the girl back, and when she went to eat again, he was there to stop her, his fist crashing into her stomach. Again, and again, and again until she reeled.

His vision darkened and narrowed, black creeping at the edges, and his lungs burned with every breath he drew. The world felt cold, his arms and legs stiff, and his entire body ached. He couldn't keep this up for much longer, not at this pace.

But that was fine.

He was the vanguard, the first line of defence, the first responder.

He didn't have to beat her. He didn't have to win.

All he had to do was delay.

Something changed, he noticed. The girl turned and ran, bolting towards the door. His feet were a little too heavy, his movements a little too slow, and his mind a little too addled, and he stumbled, unable to cut her off before she could reach the door.

sh*t.

Three gunshots rang out, sharp and deafening. A window shattered. The girl lurched, hit.

Miss Militia.

Finally.

Silver halted abruptly, stumbling and collapsing to the floor, her legs folding underneath her as she collapsed. Thud. Her body hit the ground, limp and lifeless. For a moment, Robin just stood there, watching her. His chest rose and fell, his breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.

Moments later, the girl's body disintegrated into black particles, fading into nothingness, leaving behind a small pile of items.

It was a strange collection. A handful of coins glinted amidst her bloodstained knife and half-eaten food, including fried chicken. There was scrap metal, a small figurine, a child's toy car, small bags of white powder, a bottle of soda, a dirty newspaper, and various other odds and ends. Junk, mostly.

Where did all that come from?

“Haah... Haah... W-what?” Robin panted out, his voice hoarse, his mouth dry. “Haaah...”

Shaking his head, he focused on something more important: the death of the girl. He hadn't expected Miss Militia to go lethal immediately. No— wait . Robin spotted the rubber bullets scattered on the ground a few steps away. Ah. How did that kill her, then?

The full gravity of his burnout crashed into him all at once, and he staggered, his vision spinning. The fatigue weighed on him heavily, his muscles feeling stiff and unresponsive. He couldn't feel his arms and legs, couldn't feel his fingers and toes. Robin stumbled, his knees giving out. He fell, hitting the floor, and his ass landed painfully on the hardwood.

“Argh...” he groaned.

Damn it. He didn't think he'd ever pushed himself so hard before.

The adrenaline rush was wearing off. Now, all he felt was utter lethargy, the pain and muscle-failure setting in with a vengeance. Even the cut on his back was throbbing with an intense sting, and he couldn't quite pinpoint if it was bleeding or not. Somewhere in the distance, Robin heard the faint sound of sirens, growing louder by the second.

From where Silver had disappeared, a puddle of blood was left behind, spreading slowly on the wooden floor. He didn't think she had been injured that badly, so how? The crimson pool must've considered him close enough though, because much like the previous bloodstain the girl left behind, this one too summoned a red-tinted phantom that replayed the last few seconds before her 'death'.

“Velocity! Are you okay?”

He looked up to see Miss Militia rushing towards him. His vision swam, the woman's form wavering and blurring. The sound of her boots hitting the ground were a distant, rhythmic thumping in the back of his mind.

“Velocity!”

Robin blinked, his mind finally registering her words. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled, lips dry and throat parched. “I-I'm fine,” he managed.

Then, without warning, he vomited.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Out of costume, Robin limped out of the shower room, still exhausted. The soft thumps of his crutches echoed around him as he made his way to the meeting room. His body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Several times. He hadn’t even made it back to the Rig on his own; he had collapsed and woke up in a bed, surrounded by PRT medical staff checking him for major injuries.

Thankfully, there were few wounds. Plenty of muscle strain and tears from his mad sprint around the city though. He was grateful Panacea was scheduled and willing to give him a healing session later. He couldn’t bear the thought of a long, painful recovery with a new serial killer Parahuman on the loose.

A caustic mix of guilt, disgust, and self-loathing churned within him, a vile, nauseating co*cktail. The sensation was so strong, he felt bile rise in his throat.

He hadn't been conscious for the aftermath, but from what little he heard, the whole thing was a mess. The police, the PRT, the public—everyone was in an uproar. No one wanted a wannabe Slaughterhouse Nine member running loose in their city, killing people with a smile on their face. The body count was high, and Robin felt guilty for not doing more, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault. He had spent nearly an hour under the scalding water, trying to wash away the filth clinging to him, and another hour just sitting on the bench in front of the mirror, trying to find the motivation to get dressed.

The boy's face—one of the only survivors—flashed before his eyes, and his stomach roiled once again. Robin could still see the child's terrified expression. The desperation, the horror, the fear—they were all etched into his mind. It was a visceral, vivid image, so potent it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it.

If only he had been faster...

If only he had been stronger...

If only he could've saved more people...

So many things he could've done. So many regrets.

The meeting room came into view, a sterile, brightly lit space that felt both oppressive and hollow. Robin hobbled inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He was one of the first to arrive. To his surprise, Assault was already there, sitting alone without Battery by his side.

Robin nodded in greeting and took a seat next to him. The chair creaked under his weight, its metal frame groaning in protest. He sighed in relief as the pressure lifted off his aching feet. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant, the faint hum of the ventilation system the only sound breaking the silence. He leaned back, feeling the cool, hard surface of the chair against his sore muscles.

“You look like you've been through hell,” Assault said, grinning. “Feeling alright?”

Robin smiled back weakly. “Yeah, I'm doing alright.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Robin looked up to see Assault giving him a sympathetic look. “Don't blame yourself. You did your best, and that's all anyone can ask of you.”

“But—”

Assault gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Robin fell silent.

“Sometimes, you can't save everyone. Even if you become the fastest man alive, you're still only human.”

Robin sighed, slumping back in his chair. The room felt colder, the walls closing in around him. He knew Assault was right, but the knowledge did little to ease the gnawing guilt. The faces of those he couldn’t save haunted him, their silent accusations cutting deeper than any wound.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that seemed to mock his failure. His body ached, every muscle a reminder of his limits. The quiet of the room lasted only a few minutes before the rest of the Protectorate started filing in, taking their seats and exchanging hushed conversations. Robin watched them idly, lost in thought.

Director Piggot entered the room moments later, trailed by Armsmaster, both their expressions grim.

“We've got a new threat in the city,” the Director said as soon as she entered, striding to the front of the room. Her tone was cold and hard, her gaze piercing as she looked at each person in turn. “And she’s already shown she’s willing to kill indiscriminately. So the gloves are off. I want to know everything about this Silver character. We can't afford to let another situation like this happen again.”

Robin noticed the absence of the Wards and felt a small measure of relief.

“Velocity,” Director Piggot continued, fixing her gaze on him. “Give us a rundown of what happened. What can you tell us about the girl?”

He swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wished he had grabbed some water before the meeting. He took a deep breath, the scent of coffee and sweat lingering in the air.

“She called herself Seraph,” Robin began.

“Like an angel?” Assault interrupted, disgust evident in his tone. “A f*cking angel that kills innocent people?”

“Assault,” the Director warned briefly, no real heat in her voice. “Not now. Continue, Velocity.”

The man raised his hands in mock surrender.

Robin closed his eyes, visualising the events with stark clarity. Then, he took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to recount everything he knew or saw, starting from the very beginning, when it all started.

■

Loading… 13%... 32%… 39%….

■

■

Loading… 88%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Pay attention to the cooldown timers on your Skills. Using them strategically can turn the tide of battle, but over-reliance can leave you vulnerable.

■

■

Loading… 97%…

■

Sipping from a glass of chocolate milk, the young man controlled his character to fish on the edge of a quay. The day-night-cycle had finally surrendered to darkness, and the moon shone brightly on the shimmering water. His old fishing rod—one he randomly found while exploring the city after dying to his run-in with the 'law enforcement'—bent and twitched; the controller buzzed in his hand, signaling a bite. He quickly pressed a button and reeled in the line, and he snorted as a boot emerged from the water before being put into his Inventory.

“Aw, dammit. I don't seem to, uhm, be getting any luck here,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn, but failed. It was late. He'd been streaming for hours, and his eyes were starting to feel heavy.

Stretching his stiffened muscles, he twisted his torso and rolled his shoulders. “Uhm, you know, chat,” he began, addressing his viewers through tired eyes, “I'm thinking it might be time to call it a night soon.” Another yawn interrupted him.

The chat box on the other monitor started to flood with comments, all begging him to stay on.

Octopuppy: nooooooo

NyaBot: one more hour! no, two!

HandsomeGoose: aw, gooodniight

Sinner6969: more more more

“Oh, uhm, t-thank you,” he replied, his pale cheeks blushing. “Y'all are very sweet.” Adjusting his glasses, he cleared his throat softly. “B-but I really should wrap things up. It's late, and... umm, I've been at this for quite a while now.”

He had.

Since his unfortunate death at the diner, he'd spent several more hours exploring the city, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and generally just trying to learn more about the place. It was fun. He intervened in another mugging, this time saving a man and earning EXP. Fought some random mobs that aggro'd on him for some reason. Found a fishing rod. Helped settle a turf dispute for a homeless man. And completed a quest for a drug dealer to collect owed money.

That latter task was probably the most important since it seemed like it would lead to more Quests. Already he had someone he could buy drugs and medicine from to restore his character's FP, with potential for more opportunities ahead.

Altogether, he'd not only regained his lost Level but also accumulated enough XP to edge closer to Level 3.

He did have to run away from the police a few times though. It appeared that there was an ongoing manhunt for his female avatar; even some of the random civilians around the city refused to interact with him and simply started screaming for help or running away.

A problem for future-him, he figured.

“But, uhh, before I do turn off the s-stream, let me say thank you all again for joining me today. It's been fun. And... um, you've been a very lovely chat. Thank you for the all the donations and subscribers too. Really. I-I'm just a small streamer, and, uhm, your support means a lot.” He gave a lopsided smile, feeling the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. “Th-thanks, and I'll see you guys tomorrow.”

◢✥◣
CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG
◥✥◤

[LEVEL]: 2 → 1 → 2

[SKILL POINTS]: 1 → 0 → 1

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 11 → 10 → 11

NEW SKILLS!

✦ MAGIC MISSILE ✦

RANK: 1

TYPE: Active

RANGE: 120

FP COST: 50

COOLDOWN: 5 seconds

EFFECT: Unleash a shimmering dart of concussive, arcane energy towards a target within range. Upon impact, the target suffers 20-50 damage and has a 5% chance of becoming stunned for 1.5 seconds. This skill unfailingly strikes its target.

[SKILL POINTS]: 1 → 0

Chapter 4: Tutorial 3

Chapter Text

In a narrow and shabby street lined with shops, another NPC ran away from his female avatar, screaming in terror. The shrill sound could have shattered glass, piercing through his cat-eared headphones. He winced, fumbling for the volume controls to save his ears.

“Damn,” he muttered, lifting one side of the headset to wiggle a knuckle into his ear. “Th-the, um, sound design is really something else.”

The female NPC kept running, disappearing around a corner. That made the twentieth person in the last ten minutes since he started his stream. He was almost tempted to give chase, to make them pay for running away; it was starting to become downright annoying.

With a sigh, he adjusted his glasses, the screen’s reflection glinting off the lenses. He turned to his chat, watching the comments scroll by, a mix of mockery and genuine advice.

“Ch-chat, what can I do?” he stammered, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “You all told me yesterday that killing all those mobs wasn't going to ruin things. Now, I, uhm, I can't even talk to anyone without them freaking out and running away! Is there anything else I can try to fix this?”

...

ConfusedToad: lol thats what u get for slaughtering every NPC in sight, noob

DabbyDabster: LMFAOOOOO

BooBooBooBooboo: omg i love u so much lmao

NotYourAvatar: nah fam just murder some more people

ShyLibrarian: go to a different city or country?

...

The young man scanned the messages, hoping for a useful suggestion among the nonsense. If there was one thing that was a downside to suddenly rising in viewership, it was that most people didn't seem to be able to tell him anything helpful. He supposed he should be glad that they were even trying, but the advice was... well, less than optimal. Not that he wasn't grateful for the growing popularity: the only problem was that now, it was getting harder and harder to keep up with all the sudden demands for attention and engagement.

It didn't help that he was still relatively new to streaming, despite being a fan of watching others play games for years.

As he walked, he passed a variety of furniture—chairs, tables, and other odd pieces—left unattended along the fronts of various businesses. He scooped them up, one by one, adding them to his inventory with a satisfying clunk, clunk, clunk . It was almost absurd how these environmental items were just free for the taking, costing him nothing. He’d heard you could make a base in the game, and it seemed he now had plenty of decorations to start with.

Was there really no limit to what he could take?

...

Miss Sugar: there's some skills that u can pick that'll help

NyaBot: increase your charisma more

...

LookingForGothMommy: lvl up and pick some skills thatll help wih diplomacy

Sinner6969: just kill all of them!

CthuluDad: lol lol how is your reputation already so bad

Mockroach: pick up shapeshifting, it'll come in handy

...

“Okay,” the man said, nodding to himself. “Th-thanks again for helping me, everyone. I'll keep doing my best.”

He paused, scratching the back of his head.

“I-I guess that's my plan now, huh? I'm pretty close to Level 3 so it shouldn't take long.”

He took a deep breath, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And, uh, again, thanks for the support, guys. I, uh, hope you're enjoying the stream so far.”

■

Loading… 2%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Don't underestimate the power of Charisma. A high Charisma attribute can turn the tide in diplomatic encounters, allowing you to persuade NPCs, negotiate better deals, and even avoid conflicts altogether. Whether you’re convincing a security guard to let you pass or mediating between rival groups, having a silver tongue can sometimes open doors that brute force can’t.

■

Loading… 83%...

■

■

Loading 92%... 95%... 99%...

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER FOUR

Lisa Wilbourn (Tattletale)

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

“Officials are urging all residents to remain vigilant and take extra precautions when out and about. They have issued an urgent plea for the public to report any sightings of the Cape the PRT has dubbed ‘Silver’...”

Dainty fingers danced over laptop keys with practiced ease; the rapid clack-clack-clack formed a steady rhythm that merged seamlessly with the low hum of the television in the background. The soft glow from both screens provided the only light in the otherwise dark room, casting an ambient halo around Lisa Wilbourn's petite figure. She nestled comfortably on the couch, her back against the sofa's armrest, laptop perched on her thighs, feet stretched out toward the other end. The scent of cold pizza and stale coffee hung in the air, a testament to the long hours already spent working.

“...Last night, the current Director of the PRT-ENE, Emily Piggot, had this to say...”

“...Rest assured, we're doing everything in our power to locate and apprehend this criminal, and we ask the public to stay calm and avoid panic... efforts have been doubled to ensure the safety of all residents in the city... we will not let the tragedy that happened a few hours ago happen again... more patrols... trust in the authorities...”

A long, weary yawn escaped her lips as she stretched—arms high above her head, fingers interlocked, spine arching in a gentle curve. The soft cracking of her joints brought a sweet, subtle relief from hours spent researching and noting down everything her power could learn about the latest Cape causing trouble in the city. She sighed, blinking away the bleary-eyed exhaustion that clouded her vision.

f*cking Coil.

“...We urge people not to approach the suspect if encountered, instead, to call the hotline provided. Silver is a dangerous and highly unstable Parahuman, and all who spot her are strongly encouraged to contact the PRT immediately...”

Something about the new Cape was bothering her ‘boss’ more than it bothered the rest of the city—and that was saying something, considering how up in arms most of the public were about the new Parahuman. It was apparent in the way he ordered her to immediately seek out information on the supposed new Trigger the moment news of the Cape reached his ears. It was apparent in the terse, curt manner he had barked out the orders, and how he had hung up without even bothering to listen to her replies. And it was apparent in the way he wanted every tiny detail recorded, as though he was desperately hoping to glean a hidden answer from her investigation.

Lisa didn't need to ask why. Her power filled in the blanks: his supposed power ‘over destiny’ had very obviously failed him for once. The exact failure eluded her, but his usual self-assured confidence was nowhere to be found when he called. Instead, the man's ever-present smugness was replaced by a nervous, almost anxious impatience.

“...Silver's last confirmed location was... it is unknown what the exact nature of her powers are, but she has shown the ability to... the police have confirmed that two officers... survivors are currently hospitalized, but are said to be in stable condition...”

Was it actually because of the new Cape? Or was there another factor at play, one that she couldn't see just yet? Either way, it sparked ideas—Coil wasn't as infallible as he thought. And that was a fact she could work with.

If she wasn't suffering from a throbbing Thinker-headache, she would have smirked at the thought. Unfortunately, her head felt like it was being repeatedly pummeled with a hammer, and her thoughts swam through a thick fog of muddled exhaustion.

Another drawn out yawn escaped her. A hand rose to cover her mouth, while the other idly scrolled through PHO on her laptop. The headache wasn't going to get better unless she rested. She knew that. But so far, nothing her power was feeding her seemed useful—or at least, not in the same way the usual sort of information she dug up was useful.

Lisa typically unearthed weaknesses, vulnerabilities, secrets, scandals, or skeletons in closets—anything she could exploit. The information she gathered could be wielded for blackmail, negotiation, coercion, and sometimes simple persuasion.

There was a reason she liked to joke she was a psychic, after all.

It was an exaggeration, sure, but her power allowed her to see through the layers upon layers of lies, secrets and misdirection most people used to hide the truth. She liked to think there was nothing she couldn't uncover, no truth she couldn't dig up given enough time. But right now, she was drawing up... not exactly a blank. More like... nothing particularly useful.

Her pride stung a little, if she was honest with herself.

Recent Trigger. Average physical fitness, average athletic ability, average combat skill, average speed, average strength. Average, average, average, average, average. That's what her enhanced intuition told her about the new Parahuman. Silver, or Seraph, the girl's actual name according to her power—

Not a Cape name either, apparently; it was the girl's real name. Who names their child Seraph?

—was supposedly, well… underwhelming. The only thing that wasn't average was apparently the girl's charisma, which was slightly above average.

(What...?)

And therein lay the problem.

Lisa knew, objectively, that the girl wasn't quite as unskilled in a fight as her power was telling her. She'd seen videos herself; she wasn't blind, though she still couldn't believe Void Cowboy was the one uploading the most useful clips. Even a layman could discern the girl's natural prowess—the grace and fluidity in her movements made violence seem as effortless as breathing.

There was an undeniable smoothness, a subtle elegance and grace that amateur fighters lacked. The girl clearly had experience—several years' worth, her power told her, or perhaps a Combat Thinker ability. So why the hell was her power also insisting the girl was average in combat?

Doesn't feel pain. Emotionless. Socially inept. Cognitive impairment. Uncaring. Lacking empathy. Unable to process trauma. Doesn't know fear. Doesn't know love. Doesn't know remorse. Doesn't know regret. Doesn't know happiness. Doesn't know sadness. Doesn't feel anger. Sociopath. Psychopath. Can't comprehend death. Can't make connections.

Those were the other impressions her power gave her, the conclusions it drew... and yet, the girl possessed above-average charisma?

What did that even mean?

The whole situation left Lisa frustrated. None of the information her power provided helped her understand what made the girl tick. It fixated on details that seemed significant but weren't. Natural white hair? Why was that so important? And it omitted crucial details like the girl’s past and identity; her power simply had nothing to offer in that regard.

Normally, observing someone with her power was akin to reading their autobiography. Given enough time, she could even do a thorough read—the type that allowed her to almost feel the person's personality, emotions, and even catch glimpses into the deepest, most confidential aspects of their life.

But with the girl? All she received was surface-level insight. In fact, it seemed her power couldn't penetrate beyond the surface. It was as if the girl had no depth, no layers, no secrets, no past. Just the here and now, with nothing more to offer.

“...There is an ongoing fundraiser... those wishing to support the victims and their families are asked to donate here...”

Left with nothing, it made her mind jump from conclusion to conclusion, from observation to observation, until she was left feeling confused and lost. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle that refused to form a coherent picture.

Lisa despised it. The confusion, the uncertainty, the feeling of being blindfolded in a maze—all of it grated on her. Not understanding, not knowing, not seeing clearly, not figuring it out—it made her feel uneasy, vulnerable. After thinking about it for a while though, it was pretty clear that the girl most likely had another—much more subtle—power that spoofed her Thinker abilities; it would certainly explain her power's contradictory claims. It made sense, and her power eventually confirmed it was the most likely scenario.

She was still annoyed though.

It was like there was a blind spot, and she was trying desperately to compensate for it, to force the blind spot away, but failing miserably. Every time her power focused on the new Trigger, it kept insisting that she should understand, but the information was always just a little off, a little skewed, a little too vague, or too general, or too needlessly specific.

Maybe if she saw the girl in person, then perhaps her power would start giving her answers that made more sense.

Naturally, Lisa wasn't telling Coil that; her ‘employer’ was getting exactly what she would give him. She wasn't going to tell him that, right now, she was essentially just grasping at straws. She'd never live it down, and he would likely take it as an insult. He wasn't exactly very accomodating.

Ugh. She needed a break. A sigh escaped her lips. Maybe it was time to call it quits. At this point, it felt like a futile waste of her time.

Footsteps approached, the soft, almost imperceptible sounds of bare feet on the hard floor barely audible over the sound of the TV. She winced when the lights suddenly turned on, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden brightness.

“sh*t,” Lisa grumbled, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. The sharp twinge of pain made her wince. She could feel the dull throb of her migraine intensifying with each passing moment, a sharp, piercing sensation that seemed to drill straight through her forehead. “Ow. Turn it off, would you?”

The light flicked on and off several times: a deliberate, obnoxious attempt to annoy her. Lisa didn't have the energy to do anything else but grimace, so she merely groaned in response while covering her eyes with a hand. She could hear Alec's amused snicker, and she blindly searched for a pillow she'd left on the floor earlier. When her fingers closed around the soft cushion, she hurled it in the direction of the sound.

“Goddammit Alec,” Lisa groused, scowling, “stop f*cking with the lights. Not in the mood.”

The sound of laughter only got louder, and she could almost imagine him in that moment, a sh*t-eating grin on his lips. “You're always ‘not in the mood’, Tats,” Alec snarked back, his voice carrying an exaggerated whine. The lights turned on again, and this time, it stayed on, forcing her to blink a couple of times to adjust her vision. When the spots faded, she looked up and saw him leaning against the wall, bed hair sticking out at odd angles. “Why are you even sitting in the dark like some sort of creepy vampire anyway?”

“I've been doing some digging for the boss,” Lisa replied with a sigh, setting her laptop aside and rubbing her tired eyes. The dull ache persisted, a steady throb at the base of her skull.

“Oh,” he nodded sagely, “of course. Research. And here I thought you'd gone mad and started watching the news for fun. I mean, look at you, it's like you had a party! But working overnight? Wow, I'm proud of you, Tats. Really. You're such a diligent employee. Truly an inspiration.”

She scanned the table for the bottle of painkillers, frowning when she found it empty. “Don't be an ass, Alec.”

Lisa heard footsteps approaching behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she watched him saunter over, making a grand show of looking around. He didn't say a word either, just swivelled his head around in an exaggerated movements as he glanced at the empty boxes, cans and wrappers that were strewn haphazardly on the floor. She could see him taking in the mess, and a small, lazy smirk was on his face when he finally looked back at her.

“What?” she snapped, her tone sharp and defensive.

“I hope you didn't make a mess and sweat all over that very expensive couch,” he quipped, wrinkling his nose as he gave her an obvious once-over. “You reek.”

Another pillow was thrown at his face, but Alec batted it away. “Says the person who sits on this couch for hours every day. Don't be a dick,” Lisa retorted with a snort, shooting him a pointed glare. The last thing she needed was for Alec to try and get on her nerves. “Sometimes I wish I could forget what my power’s told me you've done in this very spot. Ugh.”

Alec merely shrugged.

“And I paid for this couch too! Remember that!” she snapped.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a crooked smile on his lips. “Geez, you're going to be fun dealing with today. I can already tell.”

Lisa sighed heavily, rubbing her face with a hand. She really wasn't in the mood for this. Not now. “Look, whatever it is you're here for, just spit it out. I don't want to deal—”

The TV abruptly cut her off with an urgent tone. The familiar jingle and incessant beeping of a breaking news broadcast filled the room. Both of them paused, eyes fixed on the screen as a serious-looking woman appeared.

“...We interrupt this program with a breaking news announcement,” the anchor began, her expression grim. “Moments ago, the Parahuman known as Silver was spotted in Heritage Park. Witnesses report the highly unstable Cape was fishing in one of the ponds before local authorities intervened…”

The screen shifted to a live feed from the park. Helicopter footage showed a chaotic scene: flashing lights, a large crowd, a throng of police cars and PRT vans. There was a group of officers in tactical gear with riot shields, even more PRT troopers in full body armour, and the entire area had been cordoned off. Two heroes—Armsmaster and Miss Militia, Lisa guessed—could be seen engaging the target.

“...The situation quickly escalated into a confrontation,” the anchor continued. “Multiple officers are confirmed dead, and a fight between Silver and the heroes is ongoing. The PRT has called for reinforcements as they attempt to contain the situation…”

Silver appeared to stop— engaging in conversation her power prompted —and then disappeared. Moments later both heroes seemed to stumble before the girl reappeared to strike at Armsmaster. Lisa quickly stamped down hard on her power's input as her headache pulsed harder with an oppressing vengeance.

Before the screen switched back to the news anchor, a bolt of energy—

The girl was a Blaster too? A grab-bag Cape?

—shot from Silver's hand, striking Miss Militia in the chest despite her attempt to dodge.

“...and it has been confirmed that the local heroes have also been wounded. The PRT has stated that the situation is currently being contained and the civilians are urged to remain calm. They have asked us to remind the public that the Protectorate are highly trained and that they are equipped to handle such situations...”

Lisa clicked her tongue. She didn't need her power to understand how desperately the PRT and Protectorate craved this high-profile victory. It amused her somewhat: years of maintaining the status quo with the gangs, countless tragedies and deaths, yet now, a single newly triggered Cape was enough to stir them into action, to make them care. Not that it concerned her; as long as the Protectorate weren't targeting her team, it wasn't her problem.

The screen flashed again, and this time it showed an image of the white-haired girl, her face unobscured.

Alec let out a low whistle as the news continued. “Damn, who's the new hottie? Clearly nuts, but hey, can't blame a guy for liking the bad girls.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a snort of derision. “Alec, she's a psychopath and a mass murderer.”

“Yeah. And? Think she'd make a good addition to the team? We've been needing someone with serious firepower.”

“Are you serious right now? She's a mass murderer ,” Lisa retorted, incredulity furrowing her brow. “What part of that don't you understand? Alec, she's lethal. Like, really... really lethal. I doubt she even knows or cares about the Rules. Bringing her in would bring way too much heat on us.”

“But she's a hottie. You know it'd be nice to have some eye candy around. Even Brian is getting a bit tired of seeing your and Rachel’s ugly mug.”

Lisa let out a heavy, drawn-out sigh.

“Just... go away. Do something useful, okay? My head hurts so much, and your jokes aren't funny.” She rubbed her temples, groaning softly. “Just go. Shoo!”

There was a loud, dramatic gasp. “You don't mean that, Tats. You love my jokes. You live for my humour.”

She ignored him, her focus shifting back to the TV. The screen had switched to an interview with a middle-aged man whose face was pale and his hands visibly shaking. He was speaking frantically, almost babbling.

“...and, and I saw her—I saw her come out of the sewers through a storm drain, you know? She came up from the sewers, and she was covered in mud and gunk and crap and everything. Th-the crazy bi—girl, she just started approaching people like it was nothing! And some people were insane enough to let her talk to them! Can you believe that? Everyone else was running away though, screaming, but then she just started making furniture and sh—stuff appear out of nowhere to block random shop entrances. Like a mad woman! People were trapped, and—and she just kept pulling things out. Furniture. Benches and chairs and tables, like she was barricading the places or something, like, like she was herding everyone, and I was—I was running away with a bunch of people, right? And I saw the cops coming...”

The interviewer—a reporter wearing a serious expression, her brown hair immaculately styled, her face carefully made up, and her clothes neat and expensive—interrupted the man and asked a question.

“How did she respond when the authorities arrived?”

“Sh-she just ran away, and, and the police were just shooting her, you know? Like, they were just opening fire like mad. I didn't stay. I ran, because I thought I was going to die. There were other people there too, but, but—but I didn't stick around.”

The man shuddered, a full body movement, and he looked visibly shaken.

“There were sirens and screams, but I heard no one could find her for a while, not until she popped up at the park. Who does that? Fish in a pond like she was—she was on some sort of vacation after all she's done, you know? She's insane. I don't—I just, I don't know. She's insane. I hope they catch her soon. She should be locked up. Locked away. For good. Forever. And maybe get some medication. Something. Anything...”

“Thank you for sharing your story with us, Mister...”

“Johnson. Er, Chris. Chris Johnson.”

“Yes, thank you for sharing, Mister Johnson. We'll keep the public informed of any developments, and now we'll move on to—”

Alec snorted. “Now I really want her on the team. She sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, real fun. Let's invite the psychopath Cape onto the team, shall we?” Lisa muttered sarcastically, shaking her head in exasperation. “Let's see how fast we can all get Birdcaged.”

She tuned out the television, stood, and grabbed her laptop, shoving it under her arm. Then, with a tired sigh, she stepped past Alec and headed toward the hallway. “Anyway, I'm done. I'm heading to sleep finally. If you need me... don't.”

Alec raised an eyebrow. “So you're just gonna leave me with this mess?” He gestured at the living room, clicking his tongue. “Typical.”

“Yes, Alec,” she drawled, not bothering to look back. “Clean up. It'll be good for you. You can learn something about responsibility. Do a girl a favour, will you?”

There was a squawk of indignation but no further protests. Alec didn't follow her, and Lisa didn't bother hiding her relieved sigh. Her feet moved faster as she padded down the hall, eager to return to the sanctity of her room. The throbbing in her head hadn't at all abated, and every step she took felt like someone was banging a drum against her skull. She barely managed to suppress her wince as she reached her room, and it was only a matter of seconds before she had the door slammed shut behind her.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

When Lisa awoke much later that afternoon, she felt awful. Her mouth was parched, and the dull pounding at the back of her skull persisted; the pressure in her head hadn't eased one bit. It felt as though someone had clamped her head in a vice, slowly tightening the bolts. With a groan, she turned onto her side, burying her face into her pillow. Sleep hadn't helped at all; if anything, it made her feel worse.

Forcing herself up, she cursed past her for not leaving a glass of water by the nightstand. Her throat was scratchy, and swallowing was painful. Dehydration, of course. Her stomach grumbled, adding to her discomfort, feeling as if it had been neglected for days. Glancing at the clock, she realised hours had passed.

With another tired groan, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the heaviness in her muscles. She must have slept wrong; her back was killing her, and she could only hope that a hot bath would loosen the knot in her shoulder blades.

Lisa stood and shuffled toward the door, yawning heavily, her eyelids drooping, only to stop when she spotted her reflection in the mirror.

Her hair was a tangled mess, blonde strands sticking out like a wild lion's mane, and the bags beneath her eyes were pronounced, as if someone had drawn dark circles with a black marker. She blinked blearily at the mirror before groaning again for the third time.

She looked like death.

Raised voices from the shared living area had her looking back at the door. She frowned, wondering what the commotion was, before she opened the door and slipped outside, following the noise. As she drew closer, the voices became more distinct.

“...Bitch, what the hell?” That was Brian's voice, she realised. It was hard to miss the tense note to his tone. “You can't just bring someone we don't know into the base!”

Lisa paused, having seen exactly what Brian had been referring to. Alec was sprawled out on the sofa, one arm tossed over the armrest as he lounged like a king. His smirk was co*cky, and the way his gaze drifted over a girl next to him was appreciative. The girl, meanwhile, seemed completely unbothered.

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck. White hair. Pale skin. Piercing, blue eyes. What was Silver—Seraph, she reminded herself—doing here? How had Rachel found her?

Lisa was already moving before the thought had even fully processed, her lips pressed tightly together as she approached the sofa. She ignored the others as she drew near, her eyes zeroing in on the newcomer. A dog was snoring by her feet, and another was curled up on the girl's lap, fast asleep.

“Hey, blondie, I've been waiting for you to wake up,” Alec greeted, giving her a lazy wave.

The girl glanced over, and their gazes met. Seraph didn't so much as blink as she looked at Lisa. The moment stretched, and the air seemed to grow heavier with every second that passed.

Lisa swallowed, breaking the awkward silence as she turned away from the psychotic Cape. “Bitch,” she said, attempting to sound friendly despite her growing anxiety. She'd seen how fast the girl could turn hostile, after all, and she really had no desire to be on the receiving end. “Why did you decide to introduce us to your... friend? We've talked about bringing strangers into the base.”

Rachel grunted. “She asked.”

Of course, she did. Lisa wanted to curse and scream, instead, she forced a smile on her face. “Ah, yes. That makes sense.”

“That's not a good reason,” Brian said. His eyes were narrowed, and his expression was serious. Lisa couldn't blame him; they had a rule for a reason. “What the f*ck, Bitch?”

“Hey, let's not be rude while our guest is here!” Alec's grin grew wider. He glanced at the white-haired girl. “Silver, right? Whatever. How's your day been going, doll?”

Lisa winced.

“She helped me take care of dogs today,” Rachel shrugged, her gaze briefly flicking towards Seraph. “And she's agreed to help rescue more tonight.”

Seraph still hadn't said a single word, just glancing around the base like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Her fingers absently scratched the dog's ears, eliciting a loud huff from the slumbering animal. Lisa couldn't shake the unease creeping over her, keeping her gaze fixed away from the unsettling newcomer, her hands trembling with tension.

The girl... the very much psyschopathic, deranged, and homicidal girl... knew their faces, their identities, and now their base. f*ck.

Brian shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fine,” he finally said, clearly not happy. The ‘leader’ voice was in full effect, and Lisa knew Brian was not in a mood to play around. He had every right to be wary. Seraph was a loose cannon. An unhinged, trigger-happy, dangerous, psychotic, sociopathic, crazy cannon.

Lisa's head hurt, and the headache was growing worse with every word that was uttered.

“Fine. She can stay, for now. I can't stop you anyway,” Brian continued, his voice hard. “But once you're done with whatever you've got planned, she's out. We don't need her hanging around any longer than necessary.” He paused, locking eyes with Rachel. “We're going to have to talk about this later.”

Rachel didn't look concerned at all.

“I'm very helpful,” Seraph spoke up for the first time, her words that reputed monotone drawl. “It'll be fine.”

Brian frowned, his fists clenching and unclenching as he watched her. His jaw tightened with every breath.

“Wait,” Alec interrupted, looking far too amused for someone who was dealing with an unpredictable, Slaughterhouse-material Cape who could probably murder them all and not blink. “Does that mean you're going to be hitting the dog fighting pits with her?”

Lisa's lips pressed together in a tight line. God, they were all probably going to get lumped into being with Silver if anyone saw them. f*ck. This was not what she wanted to deal with after waking up. Fingers massaged her temples. Her head pounded. She really needed to talk to Rachel, make her see sense, before it was too late and the PRT and Protectorate decided the Undersiders were now more than just small-time criminals that weren’t worth the effort.

■

Loading… 1%... 12%... 29%...

■

■

Loading… 33%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Reminder: Keep an eye on your stamina bar. Running out of energy in the middle of a fight could be a fatal mistake. If needed, stop and recover. Remember, pushing your limits can lead to exhaustion, leaving you vulnerable to enemy attacks. Use consumables or take a moment to rest and regain your stamina. Managing your energy efficiently is just as crucial as wielding your weapon skillfully.

■

Loading… 93%...

■

■

“I don't think they like me, chat,” the young man murmured, his eyes flicking across the rapid stream of messages on the screen. He'd spent nearly an hour cultivating a rapport with the dog girl NPC, and now a Quest Chain seemed within reach. Investing in Charisma and acquiring a Skill for Diplomacy and Social Interactions really had helped, but it still felt shaky though—what if the NPCs turned on him?

He leaned back, exhaling heavily as the monitor's glow cast shifting shadows over his face.

The chat scrolled with suggestions and banter:

…

CowKiller123456: Hey, why not charm the NPCs? Maybe they'll warm up to you then.

RawrXD: lol what if they rat you out to the whitehats

Punkypie: lolololol

NekoNekoNeko: make them fall in love with you!!!!!!!!!

…

Miss Sugar: It should be fine!

Sinner6969: 500 gems if you wipe them all out too...

…

“H-hopefully I can finish the quest, at least,” he said, swivelling the joystick to move the camera around and take in the sights of the supposed base. “What sort of, uhm, reward do you think I'll get, chat?”

He interacted with the dog on his character's lap again and chose the option to pat it on the head. “M-maybe I'll get my own pet? A dog companion might be nice.”

◢✥◣

CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG

◥✥◤

[LEVEL]: 2 → 4

[SKILL POINTS]: 0 → 2

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 11 → 13

NEW SKILLS !

✦ SERENE VISAGE ✦

RANK: 1

TYPE: Active

RANGE: Self

FP COST: 100

DURATION: 1 minute

COOLDOWN: 15 minutes

EFFECT: With a serene smile, the world bends to your will. Upon activation, you are imbued with an otherworldly grace, enhancing your natural charisma to mesmerising levels. Your Charisma score is doubled for the duration of this Skill, allowing you to effortlessly captivate those around you.

✦ CHAKRA MAGIC ✦

RANK: 1

TYPE: Active

RANGE: 60

FP COST: -

COOLDOWN: 30 seconds

EFFECT: Tap into fundamental energies of the universe, channeling their harmonious spark to restore 50 FP to yourself or a target.

[SKILL POINTS]: 2 → 0

Chapter 5: Tutorial 4

Chapter Text

Why was this NPC so easy to seduce?

“Ch-chat, my... my face is burning right now,” the young man said, covering his reddened cheeks with his hands. “Can, you, uhm, tell?”

On the screen, his female avatar was in a heated lip-locked battle with the pretty boy NPC—Alec, if he remembered correctly. They were in a dimly lit private room, with only the sound of their breathless kisses filling the space. It sounded so obscene: the sloppy smacking and soft moans, the way their mouths slid over each other's. His headphones picked up every sound—every gasp and shudder; every soft cry and whisper... it was like he was there, right next to them, experiencing it all in real-time.

Why did it sound so wet ? And was it just him, or was there a lot of sticky, slick suction going on? Alec and the female character's lips smacked and sucked with hunger, the sound echoing in his ears. He could even hear the soft click of their teeth as they nibbled at each other's lips. The more he listened, the more he could feel his own mouth start to water, and his body heat up.

“I'm blaming you, chat,” the young man grumbled, shifting in his seat. “This was your idea.”

...

Miss Sugar: Let us see too! Don't blacken the screen! Turn it back on!

SourPatch: omg let us seeeeeeee

GummyBear: I wanna see!!

...

“O-oh, my,” the young man said, his voice wavering. His female avatar was practically eating the NPC alive. He had no idea what her mouth was doing, but it was no chaste kiss. Tongue invaded and claimed; he could see it gliding along the inside of the NPC's cheek, and curling under his tongue, lapping at the roof of his mouth. Their tongues were twisting, curling around each other. The sounds were even more wet and lewd than before, if possible. “I... I think, no... no, I know I'll somehow get banned for showing this. Sorry, ch-chat, I can't.”

It all started as a joke, a way to pass time while he waited for the start of the Quest. Interact with the new NPCs a little, increase their affection a few points, test out the dialogue choices to see what happened, and then head out. But then one of the viewers said something, and... well...

He was curious.

His curiosity led him here.

A slew of options suddenly appeared on the screen, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. He couldn't even begin to imagine what sort of debauchery the more... risque choices would lead to. “H-holy, chat, uhm, why are there so many options?!”

Was it him, or was his voice starting to sound a bit strained?

“A-and why is it giving me so much xp?!”

...

Sinner6969: lolololol

NyaBot: lololol

TrollNinja: hahahahahahahahah

GummyBear: ???? you're not showing us anything!!!

...

“Th-this is so embarassing,” he mumbled, rubbing his temple. He couldn't help but feel like some pervert, sitting here, watching his character make-out with the NPC, listening to the erotic noises, and feeling his own body react. His cheeks burned, his heart pounded in his ears, and the pit of his stomach felt all hot. “A-alright chat, vote f-for some numbers. I'll pick the one that gets the most votes.”

...

ConfusedToad: NOOO DON'T KEEP THE SCREEN DARK PLS

FemBoisRTruLuv: 1000 gems if you show us!!!!

...

Octopuppy: plssss

...

“Y-you're all perverts,” the young man squeaked.

■

■

Loading… 3%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Navigating factions and forming alliances can shape your playthrough. Choose wisely whom to trust and whom to challenge, as relationships can impact Quests and outcomes.

■

Loading... 29%...

■

Loading... 60%… 84%… 96%...

■

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER FIVE

Mister Teddy

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Once, Teddy was a proud and fearless protector: a guard dog, a warrior. He was the big brown beast of the yard, the watchful sentry who guarded his master's family home. He had a deep, rumbling bark that carried across the land, and a sharp set of jaws that could take down any intruder. There was not a soul brave enough to challenge him, and anyone foolish enough to try was quickly reminded of who was the boss. The Alpha. He defended his territory with vigour, and his master and his family knew that they could always rely on him to keep them safe.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, Teddy was in a cramped, cold, dark cage, pressed in from all sides. Metal bars surrounded him, confining him, trapping him—no room to run, no place to escape. His once-strong muscles had grown weak and feeble. And his coat, once his master's pride, was now dull and matted with grime. Food and water were scarce despite the constant battles he fought for survival; his body littered with bite marks, cuts, and bruises. The only thing that Teddy had in abundance was a deep, aching sense of loss: a pain that could never be numbed, and an emptiness that could never be filled.

What would his family think if they saw him now?

He whimpered softly, curling in on himself as a wave of pain lanced through him. The fresh wounds on his back and side had yet to heal, and they stung sharply against the rough, dirty floor of his prison. What had once been a boisterous, ferocious bark was now a pitiful, broken whine. Teddy was not a proud warrior any longer.

He was a prisoner.

His family, his pack, his world—they were gone.

In the past, Teddy believed that he would one day return to his loving family and be welcomed home with those soft, happy voices he remembered. He often dreamed of warm beds, gentle hands, and his master's cheerful face. He imagined bounding into the house, tackling his master, and licking his face. Then he would play with the small children and bask in the warmth and comfort of his home.

But as time wore on, his hopes for rescue faded, until only the memories remained.

And those were fading too.

His once-vivid recollections were growing dim and distorted. Sometimes, the memories felt so distant that Teddy wasn't even sure if they were his. Was he the one running down the hallway with his favourite toy, or was it someone else? And what about the one with him playing fetch in the backyard? Were there other dogs involved in the game? Teddy could no longer be sure.

On the bad days, he tried his best to remember his master ruffling the fur behind his ears, his family throwing sticks for him to chase, and their smiles when he brought the toys back. He recalled how the children would squeal in delight whenever he would play tug-of-war with them. Teddy loved the feeling of the rough rope between his teeth and the way his small masters would giggle and squeal in delight when he won. It used to be so easy to make them happy.

Oh, how he missed the simple things: a pat on the head, a quick belly rub, a walk around the block, or a treat from the kitchen counter. Back then, Teddy never considered them luxuries; after all, they were the basic necessities of his daily life. He was the Best Good Boy, and he took his position seriously.

Now trapped in a tiny cage, forced to fight day in and day out, he yearned for his former life. Yet, part of him feared even if he could return, things would never be the same.

He was not the same dog anymore. No longer a Good Boy. He'd done terrible things in the fighting pit, unspeakable acts that had left him bloodied and broken. His family would not recognise him. And Teddy didn't know if he could handle their looks of revulsion, disappointment, or fear.

There had been no choice. It was fight or be killed.

So he fought, and fought, and fought . Blood splashed onto his coat, seeping into his fur and mingling with his own. He had snarled and bitten, and he'd ripped through flesh with a savagery that had surprised him. There were so many, and they never stopped coming. No matter how many he defeated, another would always take its place the following day. And each new battle left him more injured and weary than the last.

He had always been the one left standing in the end, but Teddy was unsure how much longer that could continue. Soon, he would not be able to rise from the dirt: a broken, defeated hulk lying in a pool of his own blood. He had no desire to die, but he feared that this was the only fate that awaited him.

And when that day came...

The humans, of course, celebrated his victories. They would cheer, jeer, and hoot at his accomplishments. Sometimes they offered him a pat on the head or a treat in recognition. But no matter what, their eyes always shone with the same greed, and their faces were always twisted with the same sick delight. When Teddy fought, the humans were happy. When he won, they were ecstatic.

When he died, they would just find a new fighter to replace him.

They were nothing like his old master. They were not kind and gentle. They did not smile that same sweet smile, nor did they ever play with him or call him a Good Boy. They were not soft and comforting, and they did not understand love. They did not take him on walks or give him baths.

Instead, they were angry and dangerous, and they reeked of sweat, smoke, and the strange water his master had often kept in bottles. But those people were his masters now, and Teddy knew his place: a lowly, beaten-down beast, chained, caged, and broken.

Sometimes, he wished he could be human.

Humans did not have cages. Humans did not have masters. They did not fight to the death or suffer beatings. They did not know the fear and helplessness of being trapped. They did not know what it was like to be hungry or to want a treat so badly that they were willing to do anything to get it.

But then again, perhaps humans also had their own problems. His old master, for example, had often come home with an unhappy face. When that happened, Teddy would snuggle close to his master's legs and lick his fingers until his master would smile and pet him. Then, Teddy would jump on his master's lap and try to make him laugh by sticking his nose in his face and licking his cheeks. It usually worked.

A quiet whimper escaped Teddy. The memories hurt almost as much as the wounds.

All around him were the sounds of other caged animals. Most were sleeping or resting, their breaths a series of soft rasps and sighs. Occasionally, he could hear the sounds of shuffling bodies, followed by a low growl. Teddy would have been content to do the same—to drift off and leave his problems for a time when he had more energy—but the wounds on his back continued to throb.

He had tried licking them once, but his tongue couldn't reach the spot, and his efforts did little to soothe the pain. It only served to add an unpleasant taste to his already bitter mouth. So he had no choice but to lie there in his small cage, trying to ignore the stabbing sensation every time he breathed in.

Teddy's stomach grumbled, and the pain flared up anew. Hunger was a constant companion. The humans fed them scraps and leftovers after each fight, but the portions were small and the food often old. Teddy suspected that the humans only fed them to keep them alive. The other dogs would eat what they could, but sometimes it wasn't enough. On those days, the smell of raw, rotting meat would fill the air, and Teddy would have to watch as some of the others feasted on the fallen bodies of their former opponents.

He'd done it too.

It made him sick each time though.

Teddy never understood why; he guessed he wasn't a very smart dog. Meat was meat. So unlike the others, he wasn't able to take full advantage of the opportunity. Even if he wanted to, his stomach wouldn't let him. Vomit would always come up, and his guts would churn until all he could do was roll over and whine.

It was hard. Everything was hard.

A sudden clanging sound jerked him from his thoughts, and he raised his head wearily. The swollen eye that was almost shut twitched open a crack. A human was in the room, moving amongst the cages. The man's face was covered, but the scent was unmistakable: one of the ones who took care of the dogs.

Teddy's ears perked up.

A meal?

More sounds came from somewhere beyond the room: the voices of men, the clanging of chains, and the howls and yelps of the other animals. The human paused and turned towards the door—was something happening outside? Some of the caged dogs rose, their hackles raised, growling, or whining as the man approached their pens. Teddy remained motionless, listening carefully.

The noises were becoming louder and clearer, and Teddy recognised them instantly. Fighting, of course. But why did it seem so different from the usual sounds? He heard Boom Sticks, like the one that claimed his master's life. They were loud, sharp, and they stank of smoke and fire. There were shouts too. Some were the usual angry and dangerous yells, but there were other, unfamiliar noises mixed in with them.

Were the other humans scared? There was screaming and yelling and the crashing of objects. The other animals were restless and nervous, and Teddy was beginning to feel uneasy.

BANG!

Another Boom Stick went off, and the man jumped.

Teddy's fur bristled, and his body tensed.

Something was happening, but what?

Again, another Boom Stick, closer this time.

Growls and whimpers surrounded him: the other animals were confused and afraid. Loud barks, snarls, and howls erupted from the room, and some of the cages shook as the animals inside fought to break free. The human in the room seemed to hesitate, and then hurried back towards the entrance. He was fumbling for the handle when the door was thrown open, and the man was knocked to the ground.

Teddy heard the man cry out, but the sound was cut short, replaced by the gurgle of blood bubbling up through a crushed throat. A pair of thin legs, clothed in black fabric, stepped into view. The man's body spasmed, and then the BANG! of a Boom Stick rang through the air. Blood splattered across the floor. The human was dead.

Shrinking away from the sight, Teddy whimpered. The other dogs weren't so timid. Several barked and growled at the new, unfamiliar figure. A few even managed to scrabble to their feet, clawing against the bars in a futile attempt to reach the invader. The smell of blood grew thicker in the air, and the room was filled with the noise of frantic snarling and snapping. He felt a sudden flash of panic. His ears were pinned back, and he cowered at the rear of his cage, shaking, ignoring the way his wounds burned and bled.

Was this another test? Had they decided to take him to the arena early? Or was it a punishment? Teddy whimpered again. What had he done wrong?

The scent was unfamiliar, unsettling, and Teddy trembled with fear. He watched warily as the unknown human, a wo-man, that reeked of blood and death looked around the room. Her head moved from side to side as she took in the scene.

Was she one of the humans in charge here?

No, Teddy realized; he had never seen her before. The usual humans were always familiar faces. Who was she then?

A moment later, the wo-man disappeared. Gone. Vanished. The space where she had been standing was empty, and only the smell lingered. How had she done that?

More noise and movement. Louder now. There were a lot of humans outside the door, and they all sounded panicked: they were talking, and yelling, the words were strange and fast. Lots of screams, Boom Stick sounds, and crashes. He couldn't really see out of the opened door, but it was obvious that something was happening.

Almost everydog was barking. It was so harsh and intense. Some of the cages started to rattle as the dogs inside began to pace and strain against their prisons. Teddy stayed where he was, and did his best to ignore the noises.

Eventually, he didn't know exactly when, the sounds outside started to die down. One by one the humans fell silent. Teddy couldn't hear any more Boom Stick sounds, and only the occasional shout and scream. Only the surrounding barking and snarling continued. His head raised a little, and he peered at the doorway.

The wo-man reappeared.

This time he saw her as she moved into the room, blood dripping from the Cutting Stick in her hand. Her head was turning slowly as she took in the room, pausing only briefly at the sight of the body on the floor.

His ears flattened, and he whimpered. She was coming towards him, the smell of death wafting along with her. The Cutting Stick had disappeared somewhere, but all he could focus on was the fact that her hand was now free, and he could almost feel the bruises forming where she would grab him.

Teddy couldn't move, couldn't hide, and there was nowhere for him to run. The wo-man was going to find him, and there was nothing he could do. He was so afraid. The wo-man was getting closer.

Step. Step.

Closer.

He wanted to disappear. To run, to flee.

But he couldn't.

Step. Step.

He was going to die. That was what the scent meant.

Blood, death, danger.

It was the scent of a predator.

She was the Alpha, and he was nothing.

Nothing.

Step. Step.

So close. Teddy could hear her breathing, see her eyes scanning through the bars. Teddy was sure his heart would stop beating when her gaze fell upon him. It was impossible to tell what the human was thinking; the look on her face was one that he had never seen before.

The more brave dogs nearby continued to bark and howl, fighting to escape their prisons. The rest remained silent, still. Waiting. Everydog soon learned that drawing attention to oneself only led to pain. So just like them, Teddy remained frozen, unable to look away.

Suddenly, the wo-man stopped walking. She was right in front of his cage. B̷͚̙̈́̽̃ų̸͚͑͝t̵̖͛͂͝ ̴̻͐t̷̬͕̅̿͠h̵͔͋̏̾è̷͖͒n̵̖̑,̴̧̻̟͝ ̵̡̂a̶̘̔̂ ̷͙͒b̸̢͎̫̾̿l̵̩̓̔͋ĩ̷̛̭̜̔n̸͇̔k̵̹̽ ̵͓̝̀ͅl̸̞̼͚̎̿ả̴͔̝t̷̢́e̶̠͊͂͌r̵̖̎̋̈,̵̫͎̈́̂ ̵͉̖̎s̷͚̫͇̍́̽o̷̫̅̇́m̶̞̿̄ḙ̶̀t̵̞̆ḣ̸͔̱̭̒ĩ̵̼̣̜n̵̯͕͛g̵̟̻͚͒ ̴̞̑â̵̇͜b̴̝̾́ȯ̶̯̯̽̂ủ̸̧̯̺͐͑ṱ̷́͠ ̷̨̫̓h̷͎̙̳͐̃͘e̷̪͍̖̎̉̆r̶̠̔ ̴̡̙͒h̵͎̲͔̿̎͑ḁ̸̍̓̔d̸̠̈̎ ̵̞̬̯͊͌͋c̵̛̮͐͘h̴̡̪̗̎͗̚ạ̸̳̝̓̈̕ṅ̵̨ġ̷̱̭̟̈́e̵̜̓̽d̴̤̉̿͌.̶̖͈̺̆̿ It was abrupt: the shift between a cold, hard, unknowable expression and a softer, friendlier one. Oddly, it reminded Teddy of his master and his family. And he couldn't help but relax slightly—trust, not fear, was in the forefront of his mind.

Was she...?

His tail gave an involuntary wag. When had he last been greeted by a human with such an expression? When was the last time someone looked at him like he was more than just a disposable animal?

Perhaps...

The other dogs nearby must've sensed it too, because their aggressive behaviour ceased. Most of the growls and the snarls died down, and the air no longer rang with the sound of frantic clawing. Silence descended over the room, broken only by the occasional whine or threatening rumble.

Teddy's tail gave another wag.

The wo-man looked at him. She crouched down, and he found himself drawn to the soft, kind features of her face. Teddy's tail wagged faster, and he couldn't help the happy yip that escaped him. Pained. Exhausted. But excited and happy all the same.

The wo-man's lips turned up in a smile, and she opened her mouth.

“Good doggy.”

Her voice was gentle, and he liked the way she said it.

Good doggy. Was he still one? After everything he'd done?

“Good doggy,” she repeated.

This time, he didn't doubt it. He knew it was true. He was a good doggy.

The wo-man was a human, but she wasn't a bad human.

The wo-man was a predator, but she wasn't dangerous.

That was all it took. The tension in his body melted away, and his ears perked up. It hurt. Of course it did. Everything hurt. The ache in his chest, the cuts and bruises on his limbs. But the pain faded away. In the back of his mind, the fear, the doubt, the shame, the terror—everything—vanished. All that was left was a faint buzzing sound, and a single word: Good doggy.

He could scarcely remember the last time someone had told him that.

It felt...

Good.

So good.

The woman reached out, her hand extending through the cage. Her fingers were thin, her palm and back smooth, yet stained with blood. A different scent lingered on her, distinct from the usual humans here. Teddy didn't mind.

Good doggy.

Those words were magic.

He edged closer.

When the hand touched his fur, a shiver ran through him. The touch was soft, gentle, and caring. It was something his old master would do, and the memory stirred the embers of the dying flames in his heart. He leaned into the wo-man's hand and pressed his forehead against the cage bars.

A warm, tingly feeling filled him. It was a nice feeling. A welcome feeling. He couldn't help himself; his tongue darted out, and he licked the woman's hand. “Good doggy,” the wo-man repeated for the third time. This time, the words came with a wave of heat, and he was bathed in a glowing light. He felt... good. Better. The aches and pains that wracked his body had receded suddenly, like they were a bad dream. His vision, previously dim and hazy, cleared, and he could see the world again in all its clarity.

Where did this feeling come from? What was happening?

Wounds, both new and old, knitted together, and his flesh was filled with warmth.

“You're such a Good Doggy, aren't you?”

He was.

Yes.

He was a good dog.

Yes.

Teddy's tail thumped against the cage floor, and a wet, pink tongue lapped at the air.

This woman...

Was she a god?

Teddy didn't know, and he didn't care. The human continued to stroke his head and scratch behind his ears. He was in heaven. Eventually, she drew back, unlocking his cage and he all but leaped out. She patted him on the head while he sat down and looked up at her, wagging his tail.

“Woof!”

Food suddenly appeared in the wo-man's hand: a meaty snack. It was a round thing with soft edges, but Teddy was sure there was meat inside. He could smell it; he could taste it. The scent of fat and grilled flesh made his mouth water, and he almost couldn't control himself. Swish, swish. His tail thumped against the floor, accompanied by the clicking of his claws against the ground.

She offered the treat, and Teddy took it gently between his jaws, being careful not to bite the hand that gave it. As soon as the morsel entered his mouth, his body shivered with delight. The meat was soft, and its taste was delicious. Saliva flooded his mouth, and he swallowed the snack in a few bites. He wanted to howl, to roll over, to run, to play. It had been so long since he'd last eaten something that was truly satisfying.

Another appeared in the woman's hand. She held it out, and Teddy's tongue lolled. “Woof! Woof!”

A god.

Yes.

This woman was a god.

Teddy bowed his head and ate from her hand.

Unfortunately, she stopped offering more snacks, and he whimpered and nuzzled her hand.

More. Please, more.

The human woman smiled, then turned around.

Another human, another wo-man, entered the room, and he flinched. She was bigger, taller, and her scent was stronger. Briefly, it reminded Teddy of the Bad Men who hurt him, and he let out a growl, his body tense. He was prepared to leap forward and protect his new friend, but the wo-man put her hand on his head. He settled.

The other wo-man, the new one, stopped in the middle of the room, looking around, and Teddy saw her nose twitch. She looked at him and his friend, and her eyes narrowed.

“Good work. You can heal?”

Teddy's new friend nodded, but he really didn't understand what was being said. He just watched as the two humans exchanged a few more words before the newcomer made her way towards the cages. His friend followed, and he trotted along beside her. The other dogs were freed, and were offered some food. They looked confused, but accepted the treat. Like Teddy, they too had been petted, and with a flash of light, were healed.

His new friend stopped sometimes, making herself glow before going to another dog. Other times, the wo-man made a bottle appear in her hand from time to time. She'd take the top off, and drink. Then, after she was done, the bottle would disappear. The bottle was different every time, and he was fascinated. He tried to understand where it went, but no matter how much he sniffed, the bottles just disappeared.

All the dogs were eventually released from their cages. Some of them were happy, and others were afraid. They yelped and backed away, but his friend and the bigger wo-man calmed them with gentle words. Teddy did his best to help, barking at the others, getting their attention, then letting his tongue loll. They soon got the idea, and calmed down. A strange, wriggly feeling appeared in his stomach when his new friend praised him. It made up for all the attention that the other dogs were getting.

It felt good to be free.

Led by the bigger wo-man, they exited the room, but Teddy stayed close to his new friend. Stepping outside, he paused, struck by the sight of blood splattered everywhere—the remnants of the Bad Men and their violent end. His gaze lifted to a gaping hole in the ceiling where the largest dog he'd ever seen had peered down. The bigger wo-man whistled, and the massive dog withdrew with a resounding thump somewhere distant. Teddy's fur bristled, but his new friend's reassuring hand on his back eased his tension once more.

She didn't smell afraid.

Teddy and the other dogs were herded towards through the building. The smell of death and the sight of corpses made the other dogs whine and cower. One of them had even urinated in fear, but not Teddy. He spotted one of the Bad Men that had tortured him as they passed, and growled. This was the one who'd hurt him the most. Teddy could remember the pain the Bad Man's smacks had caused, the pain of his sticks, and the pain of his boots. He remembered the way this man had kicked him, beaten him, and laughed.

The Bad Man had made him bleed, had hurt him and scared him.

He would make him pay.

Moving quickly, Teddy darted forward and lifted his leg. The Bad Man couldn't stop him. He'd make sure that the Bad Man suffered even after death. The sound of liquid splattering against cloth and flesh brought a strange feeling of satisfaction. With his bladder empty, Teddy looked around. The other dogs had followed the wo-man out. He turned and trotted after them, his tail wagging.

Finally outside, Teddy felt the wind ruffle his fur. It felt good. The air smelled fresh, and the big glowing thing in the sky was bright against the darkness. There was a large metal thing on the ground—a metal box like the one his old family had ridden in. The big wo-man was already leading the dogs towards it, putting them inside. A few of them were hesitant, and his new friend had to use her hands to get them inside.

Teddy waited patiently, then hopped inside, only to see his savior stay outside. The big wo-man looked back and forth, then whistled. He watched with wide eyes as two giant dogs bounded towards them, stopping in front of the big wo-man.

Loud wailing noises sounded from somewhere. The little wo-man and the bigger wo-man exchanged some words before his new friend turned to him. Only to him.

Teddy's tail began wagging so much he thought it might fall off.

“Be a good boy. Stay,” she said.

He whined. What? Was she going to leave him behind?

“I'll be back.” She smiled at him. “You're a good boy.”

More whining escaped Teddy. He wanted to jump out of the vehicle, but the little wo-man scratched him behind the ear. He understood. He was a Good Boy, and he would stay. She patted him one last time, then moved away. Teddy watched as she and the big wo-man conversed briefly. Then, the vehicle's door closed.

Teddy pressed his nose against the window, catching a final glimpse of his savior. She turned, meeting his gaze. He barked, hoping she would hear him. She waved back. He barked again, and without warning, she took off running towards the source of the wailing noises.

The big wo-man remained, standing guard.

Teddy didn't understand why she had left, but he trusted his new friend would return. She had promised.

■

Loading… 1%...

■

Loading... 20%… 81%… 82%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Relationships evolve over time. Revisit NPCs and companions periodically; their situations and needs may change. Nurturing ongoing connections may reveal new quests, deepen existing bonds, or unlock hidden potentials.

■

Loading... 99%...

■

Clad in a black PRT uniform looted from a mob he'd taken down earlier that day, the young man's female avatar raced through darkened alleyways towards the wailing sirens. The hyper-realistic game world made him half-expect a to find a tailor for alterations or something equally tedious just to wear his new clothes. Thankfully, the uniform had simply adjusted itself to his character's size, hugging her form perfectly.

Of course, his character's face remained exposed; he had spent countless hours in Character Creation, meticulously sculpting every detail from the soft curve of her jawline to the fullness of her lips. There was no way he was going to hide all that hard work under a stupid, generic helmet.

The sirens blared louder as he neared, their penetrating wails reverberating through his headset with uncanny clarity. Again, he couldn't help but praise the sound design: it was so immersive that he could somewhat track the source through his headset without needing other directional cues at all. He'd be surprised if the game didn't win some kind of award for this.

“A-alright, chat, time to cause some, uhm, distraction. I have to make sure dog-girl escapes, r-right? Let's, uh, do this. Hope I don't die. Again.”

...

DancingStar: 200 gems if u don't die

Oystrich: omg ur social aggro will be like insanely high

LuckyNova: you should let urself get arrested then kill your way out lol lots of xp

...

Sinner6969: so much xp coming lol

…

The sirens were deafening now, their shrill whine drowning out the pattering of boots as his avatar ran through the city streets. Somewhere in the distance, police cruisers and PRT vans were racing towards him, and he controlled his female character to stand in the middle of the road, waiting for them.

“I-it looks like it's only the police and, uhm, PRT right now? Did I get that r-right? PRT?” he said, flicking through his Quick Inventory to top off all his resources. The game's UI was minimal and unobtrusive. Though a little confusing at first, it felt natural enough that he quickly got the hang of it. “You all said that the, um, people behind the dog fighting rings might c-come for me too, so let's see how well I do.”

...

Sassassin: this is going to be such a clusterfk

LuckyNova: 911 what's ur emergency

Miss Sugar: gooood luck!

...

“Alright, let's do this.”

As one of the police cars came close, he fired a Magic Missile. The blue bolt of energy streaked through the air, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. The bolt struck the car's windshield with a brilliant flash, and the explosion was immediate and thunderous, accompanied by the sharp sound of glass shattering into a thousand glittering shards.

The police car careened out of control, tires screeching against the asphalt in a desperate attempt to regain traction. The vehicle spun wildly, fishtailing across the street before slamming into a nearby lamp post with a deafening crash. The force of the impact crumpled the front end of the car, sending pieces of metal flying and causing the lamp post to tremble violently.

He could almost feel the vibrations through his controller as the wreckage settled.

He grinned, a sudden rush of exhilaration surging through his veins as his heartbeat spiked. “W-whoa! Did you all see that? T-that was a lot more useful than I thought. I r-really thought it wouldn't do so much, but that's actually really good!”

...

CheatingCow: lol lol lol

Oystrich: environmental dmg

LuckyNova: oooof

MintyPie: niceu

...

A few seconds wait and a few flicks of the right joystick to change target later, his character fired another Magic Missile, aiming at a random PRT van barreling down the street towards him. The spell left his avatar's fingertips, the bolt of magic streaking towards its mark with a flash of brilliant light.

The bolt slammed into the front of the van. Though it didn't do nearly as much damage as the first time, it was enough to send the vehicle veering out of control. The van skidded sideways, tires screeching against the asphalt in a vain attempt to stay on course.

He flicked to Chakra Magic and used it to restore some FP before hurriedly using Shukuchi to turn intangible and invisible, just as a car aimed to ram his character.

Shukuchi was an odd Skill: he could clip through most things, but there was collision pathing for walls and other environmental objects. It was a strange mechanic, and he still wasn't sure what was and wasn't solid while using the ability. Thankfully, cars were not, and his character phased through the vehicle's hood and windshield.

Careful with the timing, he tapped the Skill again and canceled Shukuchi. His female avatar appeared on the lap of a stunned cop, who screamed, the sound echoing in his headset. “O-oh my god, I can't believe that worked,” he gasped as he reflexively knifed the cop. The blade slid into his neck easily, blood spraying onto his character's face as she stabbed the officer's jugular. “H-holy crap, that w-was cool!”

The car started to swerve erratically with the other cop, the driver, panicking. Screams and curses were hurled his way—a barrage of abuse that he could only grin at. “This is awesome, chat!”

...

CheatingCow: lmaoooo

Ripley: oh man

...

“I-I might actually do better than I, um, thought!”

◢✥◣

CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG

◥✥◤

[LEVEL]: 4 → 5

[SKILL POINTS]: 0 → 1

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 13 → 14

NEW SKILLS !

✦ MEDICA ✦

RANK: 1

TYPE: Active

RANGE: Touch

FP COST: 25

COOLDOWN: 5 seconds

EFFECT: In the heat of battle, a healer's touch can be the difference between victory and defeat. Restores 10-80 HP to the target instantly. If the target is suffering from a minor status ailment (such as poison or bleeding), there is a 25% chance to cure the ailment. Cannot be used to heal yourself.

[SKILL POINTS]: 1 → 0

Chapter 6: Tutorial 5

Chapter Text

-ˋˏ [Bambinosaur just subscribed for 1 month!] ˎˊ

Bambinosaur: Add more to your harem!

The young man’s eyes lit up as he glanced at the chat window. His female avatar, still in the bloodstained black PRT uniform, was petting his new dog companion, its tail wagging furiously.

“Thanks for the sub Bambinosaur! I-I'll try my, err, best,” he said, smiling.

A light, joking laugh escaped his lips.

Ever since he started playing around with the relationship mechanic of the game, his viewers had taken an avid interest in charming and seducing all manners of NPCs. From casual encounters with random passersby to flirting with shopkeepers and even mobs he was about to engage in a fight with, they clamoured for him to explore the vast potential of romance in-game.

Of course, it often didn’t work out since NPCs usually ran away screaming when they saw his character. Still, it was a harmless little bit that kept the stream interesting.

There were times when the suggestions got a little... too much though. That had him handing out his first few bans to viewers.

He refocused on his game screen. Currently, he was on a ‘date’ with Rachel, the dog-girl NPC, somewhere on the outskirts of a forest. Tall trees, dense shrubbery, and a carpet of thick, lush grass created an idyllic backdrop.

Rachel had been the most convenient choice after hitting a wall with Alec. No matter what he did, Alec's affection rating stubbornly refused to go past 75 points. And not wanting any spoilers, all his viewers said was that he needed to try harder.

“Alright, chat, I should have Rachel's affection maxed out soon. Hopefully she, uhm, gives a good perk or reward…”

...

Haru: whos the next target?

...

Sniperv: do lisa next lisa lisa lisa

Miss Sugar: brian

Masteroid: go get arrested and seduce the prt director lol

...

Sassassin: romance the heroes!!!

...

Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken long to get this far. All those dog-rescue quests and extra healing had significantly boosted Rachel's affection. If he hadn't been forced to stop in-game hitting all those dog fighting pits because of the ‘heat from the gangs’, he'd probably have done it a lot faster.

“Lisa's that blonde girl, right? The one that's been, umm… giving me all those fetch quests recently? And Brian's the other guy in the... uhh, what was the name again? Under... Undersiders?” He nodded to himself, thinking, “Yeah, I guess I could give it a try. Maybe the, err, heroes too actually.”

■

Loading… 7%... 9%... 11%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Resting or interacting with a bed allows you to pass time quickly. Use this feature strategically to wait for specific events, improve character conditions, or advance to a certain time of day. Be mindful, however, as this may expose you to unexpected encounters. The world doesn’t stop moving just because you do, so plan your rest wisely to avoid surprises.

■

Loading... 29%...

■

Loading… 74%... 97%...

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER SIX

Derek Smith

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Flashes of light and shadow, flickering flames of orange and gold. The scent of smoke and ash, a hint of burnt flesh in the air. A voice, echoing, distant, called his name over and over: “Derek. Derek. Derek.” He reached out, his hands trembling, trying to follow the sound, but the darkness surged forward, engulfing him, wrapping around him like a smothering blanket.

It was hard to breathe.

Blood? Blood on his hands, on his clothes, staining the ground beneath him. He could taste it, the metallic tang on his tongue.

Was he bleeding? Where did the blood come from?

He looked down.

There were bodies. A grotesque pile of bodies, some still moving, some dead, their eyes open and staring.

He stumbled backward, horrified.

A scream, jagged and raw, ripped through the heavy silence, a sound so visceral it seemed to tear at his very soul. He spun around, eyes wide, scanning the shadows. Nothing but darkness met his gaze, yet he could feel it—an ominous presence lurking nearby, something malevolent and dangerous. It crept along his spine, cold and insidious, like icy fingers trailing up his back. He had to escape, had to find a way out before it was too late.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoed through the darkness with a dreadful certainty.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each step grew louder, more insistent.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

They were getting closer.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

He spun around again, desperate to pinpoint the source, but it was futile. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, surrounding him, closing in.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

He held his breath, muscles tensing as he willed himself to remain still. If he didn’t move, if he made no sound, maybe—just maybe—the danger would pass him by.

Thud.

Thud.

Hidden in the shadows, he clung to the fragile hope of survival, praying that the darkness would conceal him. Shadows twisted around him, playing tricks on his eyes.

Thud—

The footsteps stopped. Silence fell once more, a suffocating veil that hung in the air like a funeral shroud. Derek strained his ears, desperate to hear any sound that might give away the stalker's location. But there was nothing. It was as if the whole world had fallen silent, holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Seconds stretched into an eternity, each moment filled with a mounting terror that all but threatened to overwhelm him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mingling with the blood and grime that coated his skin. His hands trembled, clenched into fists so tight his nails bit into the palms of his hands, drawing blood. His heart pounded, a frantic throbbing that echoed in his ears, deafening in the oppressive stillness.

And then, out of the darkness, a voice—soft, yet oh-so-dangerous. A whisper, a warning, a threat. “I know you're here, Derek.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a chill ran down his spine.

It wanted him to run, wanted him to make a mistake, wanted him to try to escape.

“You can't hide from me.”

The voice was closer now; there was no emotion, just a calm, steady assurance. A promise. It knew that he was trapped, and it was enjoying the fear that was coursing through his veins. He could almost feel it, the cruel amusem*nt from the faceless stranger in the darkness. It was playing with him, toying with him like a cat would toy with a mouse, before going in for the kill.

A flash of steel and a blade slashed through the air, inches from his face. He jumped back, stumbling, almost losing his balance as he tried to avoid the deadly weapon. Blue eyes, all-knowing, piercing, and cold, stared back at him from the depths of the shadows. A grin spread across the lips of the petite, doll-like figure standing there, the corners of its mouth tugging upwards into a vicious, taunting smile.

“Are you afraid?” it whispered, taking a step forward. Derek took a step back, trying to keep the distance between them. It took another step, inching its way toward him. Then another.

Closer, closer. Never rushing, never hesitating, simply walking forward, relentless and inevitable.

He could feel the terror growing, a rising sense of dread, clawing at his chest and threatening to choke the air from his lungs.

It was enjoying this, he knew. Taking its time, savouring the moment. It wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to beg. Wanted him to plead for mercy that would never come. It wanted to watch him break.

“There's nowhere to run,” it said, voice low and raspy, like sandpaper against metal.

He felt cornered. Trapped. A hunted animal with no escape. The walls were closing in, and the shadows were growing deeper, darker, more menacing. A blink and there were a trail of bodies behind the figure, a crimson river of gore seeping through the cracks in the pavement.

Huh? That wasn't there a second ago.

He felt the urge to vomit: a hot, sour bile burning his throat, his mouth filling with saliva. He swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to retch. Familiar faces stared up at him with dead, glassy eyes, their features twisted into masks of horror and agony. He recognized them, even in death.

Frank. His hair was matted with blood, skull caved in on one side.

Jasper. He was missing an arm, his throat slashed.

Kurt. A stab wound to the gut, a knife sticking out of his chest.

Cullen. Burn marks covered his body, his eyes boiled out of their sockets.

Laurie. She was missing her head, her neck a bloody stump.

And so, so… so much more.

“They were fun. Like little playthings, so full of life one moment and so delightfully easy to crush the next. Their screams, their pleas for mercy—so delightful.” The monster's grin widened, an impossible, nightmarish smile that stretched from ear to ear.

“I'll make it quick,” it said, tone sickeningly sweet, almost a mockery of compassion. “I promise.”

A lie.

No mercy, only pain. Derek had seen what the creature had done to the others. Seen their corpses, their mutilated remains. It would not make his death quick.

The doll-faced thing lunged, and he was not fast enough. It slashed out, knife cutting deep into his chest. Derek Smith screamed—

He woke, sitting upright, clutching his chest. Cold sweat dripped down his face, mingling with tears as he gasped for breath. It was dark, too dark.

Where was he?

Where had the monster gone?

His heart was pounding, and his breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

For a moment, the echoes of the nightmare still lingered, clinging to his consciousness like a bad smell. The pain in his chest, the stench of blood and death, the feeling of helplessness and despair. He half-expected the oppressive darkness to swallow him again: to find himself back in the nightmare, staring into those cold, blue eyes, and see that cruel, mocking smile. But it was not real, not anymore. It was just a dream.

“Just a dream,” he whispered to himself, trying to convince himself it was true.

His throat was dry, parched and aching. He could still taste the blood and ashes, feel the grit of dust and dirt on his tongue. He wiped the tears from his face, blinking away the blurriness, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. The room was small, sparsely furnished, but familiar. It was his childhood bedroom. He was home.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, trying to focus on his breathing.

It was just a nightmare, a dream.

Derek fumbled in the dark for his bedside lamp, fingers trembling. With a click, warm, soft light flooded the room. The cream-coloured walls, the wooden furniture, a desk and a chair, the pictures on the dresser—it was all still there, unchanged, unthreatening. Nothing dangerous.

There was no monster. There was no blood.

He exhaled, a sigh of relief, and sank back onto the pillows. He was safe, in his own bed, in his parent’s house. There were no monsters here.

Again and again, the mantra played through his head, a reassuring refrain that soothed his fears and chased away the last dregs of his nightmare. He was safe and everything was okay. His large hands dropped to the sheets, feeling the familiar cotton weave. The fabric was cool and smooth against his fingers, and he took another deep breath.

It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

His heart pounded, the dull thudding echoing in his ears.

She's not here. He's safe now.

Another breath.

Shuddering, Derek stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing. The warmth of the blanket, the softness of the sheets, the smell of laundry detergent—he focused on these sensations, letting them ground him, anchoring him in reality.

“It's not real. It's over,” he whispered.

In his mind's eye, he could still see those familiar, haunted faces, twisted in horror and agony, their voices echoing in his head. The memory of the incident a few days ago, the smell of blood and smoke, the screams and cries, and the sight of his brothers and sisters in arms being slaughtered—it was seared into his brain, like a brand on his very soul. The attack had been brutal, and the scars—both physical and mental—were still fresh.

He clenched his hands into fists, gripping the sheets tightly, the fabric bunching beneath his fingers. He had survived, somehow, miraculously, while his comrades had fallen. The guilt and shame of it gnawed at him, a festering wound that refused to heal.

It wasn't his fault, Derek told himself. There was nothing he could've done. They were outmatched, outgunned.

The words rang hollow; a feeble excuse, a pathetic justification.

He'd survived. That was the simple, harsh truth.

He'd survived when so many others hadn't.

He'd watched them die.

Derek shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the memory.

It didn't help.

The images were still there, burned into his mind, playing over and over like some gruesome movie reel. Their screams still rang in his ears. The sight of their dying faces still haunted his dreams.

Again, he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the images of blood and the doll-faced thing from his mind.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence. “Derek? Are you okay?” his mother's voice came through, gentle and concerned. He opened his eyes and turned his head, his gaze falling on the clock on his bedside table. 3:24 AM. He'd woken her.

f*ck.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Yeah. I'm fine, Ma,” Derek lied, forcing his voice to sound calm.

There was a pause, then his mother spoke again, her voice quiet and tentative. “I heard you scream. Is everything alright?”

Derek swallowed. “It was just a nightmare. Go back to bed, Ma. I'm fine. I promise.”

Another pause. He could imagine her standing on the other side of the door, brow furrowed with worry, eyes full of concern. Guilt twisted in his gut. His father being hospitalised for a heart attack was a burden enough without his nightmares adding to her stress.

“Are you sure? You don't sound okay, Derek.”

He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face, fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw. He hadn't shaved since the incident.

“I'm fine, Ma. Really. Just go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you.”

Derek forced himself to smile, as if that would carry through in his voice. He tried to sound cheerful, unconcerned. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry any more than she already did.

A soft sigh came from the other side of the door. Derek pictured his mother shaking her head, shoulders slumped, a worried frown creasing her face. He knew she was still there, standing in the hallway, her ear pressed to the door, listening. Waiting for any sound that might prove him wrong.

“It's not a bother. You know I worry.”

“I know.”

“Will you be alright?”

He stopped. “I'll be fine.” The answer felt weak, hollow, but it was all he could manage.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm sure. Thanks, Ma.”

“Okay. Goodnight, honey.” There was a pause. “I love you.”

“Goodnight, Ma. And I love you too.”

Derek waited, eyes on the door, until he heard his mother's footsteps moving away. Then, slowly, he let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

He cursed softly. She'd probably spend the next hour or so tossing and turning, unable to sleep, fretting about him. Another thing he'd be responsible for, another way he'd upset his mother. Just like the last few days since he'd returned home, where she'd been fussing over him, trying to take care of him, to make him feel better.

It almost made him wish he'd put up more of a fight when he was discharged from the hospital. Not that he wasn't glad to be home; Derek appreciated the chance to recover in familiar surroundings. But every moment he was here, he could feel the weight of his mother's unspoken fears and worries, and he couldn't help but feel like he was just another burden for her to bear.

Even though she'd never once said as much, it wasn't hard to feel like an inconvenience, a weight around his mother's neck, after everything she'd already endured.

“f*ck,” Derek swore under his breath. His thoughts were circling again, a vicious spiral that dragged him deeper and deeper into his own misery and guilt.

He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall.

How was he ever supposed to tell her he'd gained powers? That the only reason he survived, gave him enough time to be healed by Panacea, was because he supposedly Triggered? How was he supposed to tell her that despite her wanting him to leave the police force, she wouldn't be getting her wish, and now, he was looking to join the Protectorate—an arguably even more dangerous line of work?

He sighed.

Deep down, it would be a lie if Derek didn't admit that he was scared, that the idea of becoming a Cape—a hero—terrified him. The mere thought of putting on a mask and fighting monsters like the girl who'd massacred his team made his blood run cold.

But he knew it was something he had to do.

If not for himself, then for his fallen comrades, his fellow officers.

He owed them that.

No matter how much he wanted to take the easy way out, pretend none of this had ever happened, ignore the powers he'd been granted, and return to his old life, Derek knew he couldn't. He'd never be able to live with himself. He'd never be able to look himself in the mirror or stand by his family, knowing he'd turned his back on the people who'd died trying to protect the city.

And… selfishly, he also wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't the useless coward he'd become.

The Derek who'd woken up in the hospital, who'd come home and hid in his room, who'd screamed in the night and made his mother worry—he was a far cry from the confident, strong man Derek used to be. The kind of man who stood up for what was right and didn't hide behind excuses.

It was a foolish, naive ideal. He knew that. But he clung to it, desperate to reclaim a part of his old self.

He tossed and turned, his body restless. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. Images of the girl's face—those blue, depthless eyes, those emotionless features—kept flashing through his mind. Her expression was carved into his memory, a ghost that haunted him.

Rumours abound that the PRT and BBPD were bleeding officers. Silver— he reminded himself, don't be afraid of her name —had left the city reeling with her ongoing massacre. Constant lethal clashes pushed officers to their limits. Some retired, others thought of transferring... even quitting was becoming an increasingly attractive option. Engaging the psychotic Cape had become a near death sentence: you either died or were the lucky few left severely wounded and traumatised.

In Derek’s mind, no other villain in the Bay could even approach Silver's level of threat, not even the Empire Eighty-Eight and the Azn Bad Boys together. Her appearance, her behaviour, the sheer level of violence and brutality she inflicted on all comers, had everyone on edge.

It was almost laughable how one little girl was terrorising an entire city. Was this what it was like being hit by the Slaughterhouse Nine?

He didn't know where it started, but even the news reported BBPD's hesitance in responding to crime calls. A high number of cases went unanswered as the force grappled with Silver's reign of terror in just a few days. It seemed engaging the murderous criminal was a risk they no longer dared to take.

Could he really stand up and try to make a difference when so many were turning their backs on the cause?

Of course, Derek didn't—couldn't—blame them; not one bit. Not when they were fighting an immortal killer who seemed incapable of dying or resting. Not when comrades fell beside you, their blood literally on your hands with each encounter. Not when there were so many casualties.

How could anyone deal with that?

More tossing and turning.

Sleep remained elusive.

Idly, Derek wondered when backup would arrive. How long would the National Guard stay on the sidelines, unwilling to intervene? How long before heroes from across the country stepped in to halt the murderous rampage of this monster?

Before that unfortunate night, he had heard of polite refusals to aid the city, to aid Brockton Bay. Apparently, there were other cities... more places that needed saving. They just weren't important enough. Was the rest of the country that blind, that ignorant to the plight of its own citizens? Did not enough people die yet for them to be considered worthy of attention?

How many more lives needed to be lost, for things to change?

The thought made him sick.

Derek had no idea how long he lay there, awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind filled with the images of his fallen comrades. The f*cked-up reality of their situation circled in his mind like a carousel on a broken track. It hadn’t fully sunk in before, but the heroes were in a losing battle. If other cities really did need saving… if Brockton Bay's troubles weren't enough to warrant the presence of outside help (yet)… how many more places were going through the same thing?

How many more cities were in the grip of their own villains?

It wasn't fair.

They didn't deserve this.

None of them did.

All Derek could do was hope that somehow, someway, he could make a difference. To fight back not just for his city, but for the men and women who'd sacrificed their lives. To stand up and fulfil his duty, even if it meant sacrificing his own comfort, his own safety.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Derek closed his eyes and tried to relax, letting his mind drift, hoping sleep would finally claim him. It didn't—wouldn't—and he remained alone in the silence, unable to find the respite he desperately needed.

Round and round, the questions spun. Round and round, his thoughts circled, relentless and unyielding.

Minutes turned into hours, and morning arrived.

Sunlight filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting the walls in a faint, warm glow. The chirping of birds drifted through the open window, mingling with distant sounds of cars and sirens. Derek groaned, rolling onto his side, his tired eyes fixing on the clock.

6:00 AM.

He sighed heavily, burying his face into his pillow.

After a few moments, Derek pushed himself upright, the bed sheet slipping to his waist. He rubbed his bleary, sleep-deprived eyes, the lack of rest etched into his haggard, unshaven face. Dark circles and heavy bags made his bloodshot eyes appear even more puffy, as if he'd been on a week-long bender.

And that was probably a pretty accurate description, all things considered.

Slowly, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, feeling the cool carpet against his toes. With a yawn, Derek stood up, scratching the back of his head as his stomach growled in protest. He stretched his arms overhead, joints popping and muscles protesting against the sudden movement.

He shuffled out of his bedroom, making a quick stop by the bathroom before continuing down the hallway. The house was still and quiet, the only sound was the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs, milk, butter, and bacon. He set a skillet on the stove, letting it heat up as he cracked the eggs into a bowl, adding a dash of milk and a pinch of salt and pepper.

He whisked the mixture, then added butter to the skillet, watching as it melted, sizzling in the pan. Satisfied, Derek turned his attention to the TV mounted on the wall, flicking it on and lowering the volume.

He listened as he poured the eggs into the pan, stirring them slowly to fluff them. It was a local news broadcast, the anchor droning on about some local politician or another. Derek wasn't paying much attention, his focus instead on his cooking. He added the bacon to the skillet, letting it cook alongside the eggs, the smell making his mouth water.

He flipped the bacon and turned his attention back to the TV, the words of the anchors finally registering in his mind.

“—tinue to standby while the threat level remains high.”

Derek's ears perked up, his hand pausing mid-stir. The tune of the early morning broadcast had changed and his heart sunk. He knew what was coming next. Recently, any sort of breaking news in the Bay was usually one regarding Silver: a new attack, another incident, another act of destruction.

“We have just received word of an incident involving the parahuman criminal known as Silver. Reports have surfaced that the notorious Cape has been sighted on the premises of the Brockton Bay General Hospital. Authorities are currently en route, but are urging civilians to remain calm and to stay away from the area. The situation is currently unfolding, and there is no confirmation at this time as to whether or not Silver is acting alone.”

His stomach knotted itself, a pit forming in his gut.

No.

No.

Oh, god. Please no.

That's where his father was.

Derek's heart pounded, the spatula slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the stove. His mind raced. No. Not now. Not him.

“Eyewitnesses have reported seeing Silver entering the building just moments before the alarms sounded. The hospital is on lockdown, and there are unconfirmed reports of hostages being taken. At this time, we are unsure as to whether or not anyone has been injured or killed.”

There was a dull ringing in his ears.

No.

The TV screen showed chaotic scenes outside the hospital—panicked civilians, shouting, screaming. He watched, numb, as a swarm of emergency vehicles appeared on the scene. Derek’s vision blurred as the news anchor continued to speak, their words blending into an indistinct hum.

He couldn't breathe, the room closing in on him. The kitchen's comforting smells now felt nauseating, the reality of the situation crashing over him. His mind was reeling, trying to process everything.

“Morning, hon.”

Derek looked back, his mother appeared in the doorway, still dressed in her nightgown. She frowned. “What's the matter? What happened?”

He didn't need to say anything. She must have caught the tail end of the broadcast, the news sinking in almost immediately. Her eyes widened, her gaze flicking back and forth between Derek and the television. “Is that—”

“Yeah.”

Her face paled, a hand flying to her mouth. “Is he—”

“I don't know.”

His voice cracked.

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling. Derek watched as she struggled to remain calm, her face twisting into a pained grimace. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she shook her head, the realisation of what might be happening dawning on her.

He knew the feeling.

“I-It'll be okay,” Derek said, trying to keep his own voice steady. “They'll... they'll be able to handle this. It'll be okay.”

It had to be okay.

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he moved toward her, pulling her into a tight hug. He held her as she sobbed, her entire body shaking. He didn't want to cry, he couldn't cry, but he could feel his own tears begin to well up.

Derek bit his lip, blinking them away. He couldn't break down, not now. Not when his mother was already falling apart. He needed to be strong. For her.

He hugged her tighter, his own tears silently rolling down his cheeks.

“It'll be okay,” he repeated. “I promise.”

But he wasn't sure if he believed it.

The scent of burnt eggs permeated the air.

■

■

Loading… 62%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Assign frequently used items and Skills to quick slots for instant access. This can make the difference between victory and defeat in fast-paced battles.

■

■

Loading… 78%... 88%... 91%...

■

■

He couldn't help but laugh; it was just so absurd. The moment his character appeared in one of the city's hospitals, the previously calm NPCs erupted into a frenzy. Screams filled the air, gasps echoed through the halls, and shouts bounced off the walls as everyone scrambled to get away from him. Chaos reigned as people knocked over chairs, upended tables, and collided with each other in their haste.

A few mobs—security guards, he realised—tried to hold him back, but he quickly dispatched them with a few taps of a button.

They didn't even give good XP.

“Wow, m-my, uhm, reputation really is terrible, huh?” He chuckled to himself, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe healing a bunch of people might be harder than I first thought.”

...

Nyabot: lol

Sinner6969: lol lol just kill them all

...

Furry_Cow: what did u expect after ur previous stunts lollll

Sharcade: 10 gems for every person you heal before you get killed by the heroes again lol

...

“Ugh,” he groaned, controlling his avatar through the hospital halls. “Th-this is going to be like a timed quest, isn't it? Heal as many people as I can before the heroes show up and attack me.”

Lisa had given him a simple quest: go and heal people. No more information, no more details, no nothing. Hopefully this was going to be enough to count.

Honestly, it was a welcome change of pace considering all the other quests he'd gotten from her previously. Fetch this, fetch that. Collect some items from an old, abandoned building. All the tasks he'd done before were menial—and frankly, boring. They gave good XP, but they were so mind-numbingly simple and repetitive.

The only reason he hadn't given up was that it was very clear it was all leading up to something big. It was plainly a series of mini-quests that were prerequisites for something much more important, and he'd finally been able to advance further down that road. He had originally been worried about how long it'd take him to fulfil whatever requirement he needed; getting his first quest from the blonde NPC had already taken quite a while.

He did wonder why healing people though. Considering she was apparently a ‘villain’, he half-expected an assassination mission or something, not helping a hospital.

“Did anyone else get this, um, quest too? A-anyone know why healing?”

...

KiwiKiller: i started in a different area :((((((

Sharcade: mine was sort of similar when i tried her quest line, i think shes just trying to confuse the whitehats. npcs have crazy freedom

...

Sinner6969: i nvr got to do anything for her quest line cause i killed her lol

...

Nyabot: i think it got triggered bc u showed healing skills, mine was different but i also had to do a bunch of fetch quests first

Furry_Cow: add her to ur harem, she's obviously trying to make ur rep better!!!

…

“U-um, right. I guess after this, we'll find out if she gives me another quest or not.”

◢✥◣

CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG

◥✥◤

NEW TALENTS!

✦ ESSENCE FLUX ✦

Awash in primordial energy, you surge with the ebb and flow of the cosmos, a pulsing entity of infinite possibility. Gain an additional 150 Focus Points (FP) per Level.

[LEVEL]: 5 → 7

[SKILL POINTS]: 0 → 2

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10 → 11

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 14 → 15

SKILLS UPGRADES !

✦ SHUKUCHI ✦

RANK: 1 → 2

TYPE: Active

RANGE: Self

FP COST: 28

DURATION: 5 seconds

COOLDOWN: 14 seconds

EFFECT: Tap into fabrics of creation to temporarily shift out of visibility, gaining 1250% bonus movement speed and a minor form of intangibility. Passing through living beings inflicts 20 damage. Attacking immediately cancels this Skill.

✦ MAGIC MISSILE ✦

RANK: 1 → 2

TYPE: Active

RANGE: 120

FP COST: 46

COOLDOWN: 5 seconds

EFFECT: Unleash two shimmering darts of concussive, arcane energy towards a target within range. Each missile inflicts 20-50 damage upon impact and has a 8% chance of becoming stunned for 1.5 seconds. This skill unfailingly strikes its target.

[SKILL POINTS]: 2 → 0

Chapter 7: Tutorial 6

Chapter Text

The ongoing sound of gifts and new subscriptions repeated through the young man’s headset: a series of cheerful chimes and dings that rang out like music to the ears. Each new notification brought a smile to his face, reinforcing his decision to heed chat's suggestion to get his character arrested. Sure, he had vowed to cut back on listening to their often unhinged suggestions, but after roughly calculating his earnings since he started streaming—well, what could he say? The temptation of a steady cash flow was irresistible.

In game, his female avatar stood still as two stern-faced female officers wrestled her into a straitjacket. The NPCs were so dramatic—the fabric rustled and stretched, the buckles snapping together with a loud clack. He sat back, slurping a bowl of spicy instant noodles, the heat prickling his lips and tongue, his eyes gleaming with amusem*nt.

On another monitor, his stream's chat scrolled by quickly, most of the messages racing past too fast for him to read. Thankfully, it seemed to be mainly emotes and cheers that were laughing and joking at the situation he'd found himself in. He did his best to read and respond to a few, with varying success, his responses sometimes lost in the flood.

...

DeezNuts69: if this works im going to laugh so hard

...

HorsePower: how are u evn going to convince them to let you speak with the director lolol

Miss Sugar: try talking with the other heroes too! perfect time to make friends!

...

Cinder-Ella: lmao this is sooo not going to work lol

...

“W-wow chat, look,” he said, putting his bowl aside. Controller in hand, he flicked through his character's equipped inventory, displaying the small bomb that was now seemingly attached to his necklace slot. “They're not playing around, huh?”

A button press or two later though and the option to remove the item was made available. Same for the straitjacket that had been forced onto his character's slender, female form.

“Do you think this is an oversight, chat? Look, I can just, um, unequip the items.”

■

■

Loading… 78%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Use the terrain to your advantage in combat. High ground, cover, and choke points can significantly impact the outcome of a battle.

■

Loading... 88%... 91%... 99%...

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER SEVEN

Emily Piggot

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

“The girl can heal too?”

Emily Piggot sat rigidly at her desk, fingers drumming a relentless, staccato beat on the polished wooden surface. Each tap of her manicured nails echoed through the silence like a distant war drum, a steady reminder of her growing frustration. The room was steeped in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, casting zebra-striped shadows across the carpet. A meticulously organised stack of papers lay on the left corner of her desk, while a small, silver nameplate that read ‘Director Emily Piggot’ gleamed on the right.

On the monitor before her, the PRT's Chief Director, Rebecca Costa-Brown, in her crisp suit and jacket, stared back with an impassive mask that only deepened Emily's simmering ire.

“...Yes,” Emily replied, her voice slow and deliberate, each word dripping with restrained annoyance. The video conference had been going on for the better part of an hour, and she had a sinking feeling that she wasn't going to like the direction this conversation was heading. “Apparently, she can.” The biting irony in her voice was unmistakable.

Costa-Brown nodded. “In what capacity?”

Emily took a moment to gather her thoughts. She stared at the screen, noting the other woman's keen interest despite her best attempts to remain stoic. It made sense, of course; healers were rare and highly sought after. But she truly did not appreciate the implications of the questions.

“The reports are inconclusive,” she replied finally, choosing her words carefully. “But it seems that the... girl... can cure almost anything. Tissue regeneration, nerve growth, organ replacement—you name it, she can probably do it.”

“And I assume it's safe? No adverse effects?”

“So far.” Emily answered, her lips thinning into a hard line. “But like I said, the reports are inconclusive.”

“I see,” Costa-Brown laced her fingers together on the desk in front of her. “And?”

There was a long, awkward silence, broken only by the soft tapping of Emily's nails as they drummed on her desktop. The two women watched each other carefully, and she could feel the weight of Costa-Brown's scrutiny: the unspoken challenge and the barely restrained hunger. Emily knew this game all too well—she had no intention of playing it.

She held her gaze steady, her expression blank.

“Withholding information isn't going to help anyone, Emily.” Costa-Brown's tone was deceptively mild, but there was an edge to it, sharp and impatient. The Chief Director narrowed her eyes, and her lips twisted into a faint, humourless smile. “What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want.” Emily's fingers paused mid-tap, curling into a tight fist. “You want to try and recruit her,” she said, the words more accusation than question, her voice a low, dangerous growl. The tension was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap.

Costa-Brown met her gaze without flinching. “If we can, yes. Her powers—”

“—make her a walking disaster,” Emily interjected, her tone edged with frustration. “Hundreds of confirmed kills, Chief Director ,” she spat out the title as if it were a curse. “Hundreds since she first appeared only a few days ago. And those are just the ones we know about. The girl's psychotic, practically a Slaughterhouse Nine member, and you want to put her on a leash?”

“I understand the gravity of the situation, but you know healers are extremely valuable, Director Piggot,” Costa-Brown countered, her voice unnervingly calm. Her brow quirked slightly as she regarded Emily over the video connection. “I thought you'd be more pragmatic about this. We can't afford to discard potential assets. Every Parahuman we can bring under control, under the PRT's guidance, strengthens us. I won't deny that Silver's actions are horrific, but if we can steer her—”

“Steer her?” Emily's laughter was harsh, devoid of any real amusem*nt. “She's a rabid dog. You don't steer a rabid dog; you put it down.”

For a moment, the Chief Director simply stared at her, her expression unreadable. “I'll remind you, Director,” she said evenly, voice flat and cold. “That a true healer is worth the lives of thousands of soldiers, or more. If we can get her on our side, under the PRT's authority and control, that could tip the balance in our favour in any number of conflicts. Endbringer attacks, major threats, natural disasters. Imagine how many people could be saved. She's even unable to be killed, so the PRT could have a truly indestructible asset. That's the kind of advantage we can't afford to pass up.”

Costa-Brown leaned slightly forward, the movement making her appear larger, more imposing. “And from what you've told me, the girl's a fresh Trigger... she even surrendered without a fight. If she's willing to comply, there's no reason not to make use of her. The girl's clearly mentally unstable, and her behaviour is troubling, to be sure. But that's exactly why I want you to consider this carefully. We may have a unique opportunity here, Director Piggot. One we can't afford to let slip by.”

“She's a serial killer, Chief Director. One with no remorse.”

“Yes. I'm well aware of her track record. But you must remember that she's new,” Costa-Brown responded coolly. “New Parahumans are often unpredictable, volatile, and sometimes prone to violent outbursts... We need to make every effort to rehabilitate her, give her some sort of purpose, keep her focused. She needs to understand the value of her life, the value of the lives around her. She's young, impressionable... malleable. The potential is there.”

“Prone to violent outbursts? She's a monster !” Emily snapped, anger rising.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. The girl was a murderer, a homicidal butcher. There was no place for someone like her in the PRT, and the mere suggestion of bringing her in, of offering her a chance to join them, made her skin crawl.

“Do you know how many of my men have died because of her, Chief Director? How many of their corpses I had to look at?” Emily slammed her hand down on the table with a loud thud, the sound reverberating through the room. “I lost good officers to that psychopath, and you want me to give her a pass ? Just because she's a ‘healer’?”

There was no trace of sympathy or understanding in the other woman's gaze.

Emily scowled, her jaw clenched tightly. “I have a gang war brewing, Chief Director, and a city full of Capes looking for any excuse to tear each other apart. All because of the psychotic little girl who killed several of their members.” She leaned forward, her voice dripping with contempt. “Do you have any idea what kind of hell is being raised over this? Civilians are dying... have died. Police are becoming terrified to show their faces, and now you want me to let her walk? The whole city would turn on the PRT if they even got a whiff of this.”

Costa-Brown didn't bat an eye.

“This is like asking Bonesaw to join the Wards,” Emily continued, her tone scathing. “She's a psychopath, not a teenager on a power trip. The girl has no remorse, no guilt, no empathy. And you think it's wise to bring a mass murderer, one who is likely to have no compunctions against killing more people, into the ranks? We have a responsibility, a duty , to protect people. Not enable and empower monsters. Do you have any idea how bad this could end up if we f*ck up? She'd kill us all, Chief Director. And then go on to kill everyone else.”

On the screen, the Chief Director raised a brow, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. “You're acting as if I wouldn't suggest the same for Bonesaw if there was a reliable way to ensure her cooperation,” she said dryly. “Do you know what we could've done if we had her instead of the Nine, Emily? The advances in medical technology alone could've been revolutionary.”

“And you think Silver can be trusted to cooperate?”

Costa-Brown gave a slight nod. “In this instance, yes. She surrendered, didn't she? That speaks to some level of compliance, or at least a willingness to negotiate.” Then she shrugged, the gesture almost careless. “Reliable Thinker assessments show a high probability of success. The girl may be psychotic, but she's also incredibly fragile, vulnerable, and desperate for attention and validation. We can use that to our advantage.”

Emily felt a sharp pang of anger flare in her chest. “This is ridiculous,” she shook her head in disbelief.

“Silver's a fresh Trigger. A young, impressionable, vulnerable girl who is undoubtedly suffering from severe trauma and psychological issues,” the Chief Director continued, her voice measured. “We have the best resources and facilities in the world for rehabilitation and support, and you can't tell me that she wouldn't have the potential to do great things. She's a true healer, Emily. Not an imitation or a side-effect, but a genuine and powerful healer. That kind of power is worth a lot. You should know, Panacea is in your city.”

“She's a murderer,” Emily all but growled.

“A murderer who, in your words, has the ability to cure almost anything,” Costa-Brown shot back just as sharply. Then her words turned softer, smoother, yet no less unyielding. “Look, I'm not asking for her crimes to be pardoned. But you're a practical woman, Director Piggot. Think. You've proven that signing a Kill Order and putting a bullet in her head is worthless. I'm not begrudging you for ordering lethal force without approval either, you did what you had to do. But the fact of the matter is, you have a powerful, near-indestructible Parahuman in your custody. Should we really let that sort of asset waste away in the Birdcage? Throw away an opportunity that could save so many lives?”

Emily didn't reply, her eyes narrowing.

It was true that lethal force had proven ineffective, not when the girl's power could seemingly revive herself over and over. She had ordered it anyway for every engagement, just to limit the collateral damage and keep the casualties down, but it had never been an efficient solution. Still, it had been necessary. Especially when trying to contain the girl had proven near impossible with her Mover abilities. She had hoped there was a solution in another city, but this...

Emily's blood boiled, a fiery wave of anger that threatened to consume her. It took all her willpower not to try and reach through the screen to strangle the other woman. The Chief Director had seen her men's mutilated bodies. How could she possibly be advocating for such a thing?

“I understand your reservations,” Costa-Brown conceded, though the tone of her voice told Emily that she was merely placating her. “But Silver needs to be dealt with one way or another. This is the best way, Director. You should see that. Right now, we have her docile. She's willing to cooperate. She surrendered . Let's take advantage of that before it's too late. You, of all people, know the failure points in taking her to the Birdcage. We have a rare window of opportunity here, and we should seize it while we still can. Before other, more dangerous , villains get a whiff of what happened and start a war over the girl.”

The Chief Director paused, letting her words sink in. Then she sighed, her expression turning solemn, almost pensive. “I'm not advocating for this decision lightly, Emily. The fact of the matter is that we simply don't have much information about the girl. We need time to understand her and determine whether or not she has the potential to do better. And we need time to understand the nature of her powers. We can't risk losing that opportunity, and the best way to achieve that is to keep her close and monitor her.”

Rebecca Costa-Brown had always been the reasonable, pragmatic sort, the type who understood the bigger picture and saw things for what they were, but this was different. It was too callous, too cold, and Emily couldn't help but feel like the Chief Director was making excuses.

“You're making a mistake,” Emily snapped, her tone cold and cutting. “There’s no guarantee that the girl would actually work with us. What happens when she goes rogue and starts killing again? The PRT can't afford the kind of public backlash that would happen. I've already been dealing with the fallout of her actions. I won't let her make things worse.”

“We're not handing her a free pass. She's not being pardoned. The girl will be on a leash, and we'll have an entire team dedicated to monitoring and assessing her. She'll be kept in a secure location and undergo intensive psychological therapy and evaluation. Her every action will be documented and reported. She'll be tracked, and we'll have contingencies in place should she deviate. She'll be given ample opportunity to atone and prove herself, but she'll have no authority, no privileges, and will only ever be allowed to leave if authorised.

“We have nothing to lose, Emily. If we can't rehabilitate the girl, then we can simply send her to the Birdcage later.”

“And the public? They won't stand for it.” Emily knew she was fighting a losing battle, but she couldn't just roll over and give in. There were a thousand things wrong with the proposal, a thousand ways this could end badly. She would never let the monster roam free, let alone allow her to join the Protectorate.

“As far as I'm aware, there's some talk online that Silver's just a misunderstood little girl. They're certainly not the majority, but enough to be a voice. Haven't you seen the posts? You should have someone monitoring them, if you haven't already. They're talking about her being a victim, how the girl was simply looking for help and it was the authorities' fault for failing her. The fact that she entered a hospital to heal people certainly didn't help disprove their claims.”

“That's just a bunch of internet trolls.”

Costa-Brown shrugged, as if she was unconcerned. “Of course. You and I both know the truth. So do many other people, I'm sure. But the fact remains that there are already some sympathisers, and those sympathisers can easily be turned into more. People are fickle. Public opinion can change easily, especially when they see a pretty, innocent face, one that looks so vulnerable. It's a start. We can use this. With some guidance and direction, we can shape it into something more. After all, if a girl with a history of brutality and violence is able to reform, then surely there's hope for others. It sends a good message.”

“And all the families whose loved ones she murdered? Are you expecting them to believe that as well?”

The other woman's eyes were unreadable, her expression unchanging. “They might not agree, but they won't be able to deny the progress the girl would make. You know as well as I do that a small number of vocal supporters can easily turn into a large majority, especially when backed by the Protectorate and the PRT. The girl's power can save lives. It can bring hope. It's not hard to imagine how many would support her, given the opportunity. We don't even need to keep her in Brockton Bay. She'll be sent elsewhere, where her presence wouldn't cause any further problems. Somewhere safer. We can spin this narrative however we want. With the right guidance, the right direction, it can work in our favour. The girl is a blank slate, and we can shape her into a hero.”

Emily shook her head, her face twisted in disgust. “You're out of your mind.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

In a brightly lit conference room, Emily's short, pudgy figure was hunched over a table, engrossed in a stack of reports. The scent of roasted nuts and caramelised sweetness wafted from a nearby cup of coffee, but it didn't help ease the tension in her shoulders. Or the ache in her head. She let out a sigh, her steel-grey eyes darting back and forth across the pages, the paper rustling softly under her fingertips.

“We've found nothing wrong with any of the recovered patients?” she asked, glancing up. The fluorescent lights above buzzed with a persistent hum, casting a harsh, sterile glare on the metal tabletop. “None of them have shown any unusual symptoms or side effects?”

Opposite her, Benjamin Renick, her Deputy Director, was flipping through a folder. A wry smile curled at the corners of his lips, and he shook his head. “Not a one,” he replied, voice smooth and assured. “And believe me, we've been thorough. Panacea and a slew of other doctors have examined everyone we quarantined, and none of them are hiding anything malicious. No hidden plagues, no biological weapons, nothing. They're all clean.”

“So far,” she added, a pang of irritation spiking in her chest.

Renick paused and raised a brow. “Don't tell me you want there to be something wrong with them?”

Emily frowned, then exhaled another weary sigh, sinking back into her chair. The leather creaked under her weight.

“No, of course not,” she replied, her tone clipped. “It's just... this whole thing reeks. If there's nothing wrong with the recovered patients, Costa-Brown will have an even bigger leg to stand on. You don't agree with her proposal, do you?”

Renick, tall and slender with dark, wavy hair, a thin beard, and glasses, shrugged and closed the folder with a soft thud. “Honestly? I don't know what to make of it. It’s a lot to consider,” he said, pushing the folder aside. “Personally... no, I'm not a fan of trying to turn Silver into a... hero .”

He spat out the last word, his face twisting into a grimace. Emily understood the feeling: the idea left a sour taste in her mouth as well. They had both lost people they knew to the psychopathic Cape, and that wasn't something that would ever go away.

“But,” Renick continued, “you have to admit the Chief Director has some valid points.”

“Because the little monster's a healer?”

Despite her best efforts, Emily's voice came out in a growl, and she saw her friend's shoulders sag.

She understood, though. Really, she did. From the results, it looked like the girl had an exceptionally potent form of healing. Sure, some of the patients the girl managed to get her hands on were healthier... or more healed than others, but overall, the sheer breadth and scope of what Silver could accomplish was nothing short of—Emily had to admit—remarkable. The only real drawback, if they could even call it that, was the fact that the girl apparently couldn't cure things like cancer. Only seemingly reset the case to its earliest, most easily-treatable stages. Emily knew she'd get laughed at if she even thought of using that as an argument against the proposed plan.

But what was she supposed to tell all the grieving families? That the massacre of their loved ones didn't matter, because the perpetrator was too useful to hold accountable for her crimes? That their lives were worth so little compared to a powerful Parahuman?

The thought made Emily's stomach churn, a nauseating twist of disgust and helplessness.

“That too.” Renick's voice pulled her from her thoughts as he took a sip from his own cup of coffee. He hummed and set the cup down. “But, I was thinking more about what would happen if we don't bring her on board.”

Emily blinked, her brow furrowing as she met his gaze.

“We both know we got lucky with the situation,” Renick continued. “Silver actively surrendering ? None of us even entertained that idea because it was just so absurd. We were preparing for a drawn-out conflict. A long, gruelling bloodbath: an all-out war between us and her. Our people would have suffered, a lot more would have died, and who knows what else she would have done during all of that. And then, suddenly, it's over. Just like that. But do you think we could truly hold her? Keep her locked up forever?”

She pursed her lips. Emily didn't like where the conversation was heading, but she couldn't fault his logic.

“You think she could escape the Birdcage.”

It wasn't a question.

Renick nodded. A shadow passed over his face.

“I think she could,” he replied, resignation seeping into his tone. “We don't know how she does her reviving trick... if that's what she's even actually doing. But each time she's killed, she disappears and turns up somewhere else, no worse for wear. All that would need to happen for her to slip past us is one ‘death’, and we'd have to start everything all over again. And I don't think we can count on her being as cooperative the next time around.”

Emily clenched her jaw and looked down, staring at her hands. As much as she hated to admit it, the man was right. It didn't make it any easier to swallow, though.

“So that's it? We roll over, just like that?” she snapped, her frustration bubbling over. “Surely there's a Tinker out there who could create something to hold her. There's that Cape in New York too, Cache, that apparently works with extradimensional space. There has to be something!”

Renick raised a placating hand. He smiled, but the gesture held little humour. “Look, Emily. I think you're looking at this the wrong way. Think about it: we need time. Time to understand her power, figure out exactly how it works, and build something that could hold her. In the meantime, we have her where we can keep an eye on her, and we can even put her to good use.” He grimaced. “It's not ideal, and I agree with you, I don't like it either. But better than her running free doing who knows what.”

With a resigned sigh, Emily rubbed her forehead, the tension throbbing at her temples. She reached for her cup, her fingers closing around its warm, smooth surface, and she brought it to her lips, relishing the rich, bitter taste.

“The families of the dead won't appreciate that explanation,” she muttered, setting the mug down with a soft clink.

Renick shrugged. “Let the Chief Director handle them,” he suggested. “It's her idea, after all. Have her explain it to the families, not you.”

“We need to do what's right,” she whispered, more to herself than to Renick.

Her Deputy leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. “Sometimes, what's right isn't clear-cut,” he said softly. “We do the best we can with what we have. And right now, this is our best option.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Meetings, paperwork, and more meetings. Emily's day had been an endless blur of bureaucracy.

The sun had long since set; inky blackness cloaked the sky outside the PRT headquarters, broken only by the pale, silver glow of the moon. Unfortunately, her work was far from done. Her shoulders ached, her eyes burned from hours of reading fine print, and her head felt stuffed with cotton, a dull throb pounding at her temple. Tired as she was, however, she couldn't rest. Not yet. One last appointment awaited her, and it was the one she dreaded most.

Her footsteps echoed through the long, dull corridor, the sound bouncing off the cold, sterile walls. Each step seemed to stretch the hallway longer, winding on and on. She took a left, the soles of her shoes squeaking faintly against the polished linoleum, then another left. The white fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, casting jittery shadows that danced and shivered along the walls.

She passed one or two people, and while they offered her smiles and nods, their faces were weary and drawn. The recent events had taken a toll on them all. Other than that, the halls were quiet, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. The only people who stuck around this late were the unlucky ones, those who had to work.

After what felt like an eternity, she stopped in front of a nondescript door, identical to all the others. The door was heavy, painted in a dull, institutional grey, and it swung open with a creak. Inside, a large oval table dominated the room, surrounded by chairs, and a large, flat-screen television hung on the far wall.

The lights were dimmed, but still on, and a live feed of Silver in her cell played on the screen. The girl was in a straitjacket, jumping up and down on a small bed, conversing with Dragon's voice, which echoed through the cell's speakers. Having the Canadian Tinker's assistance was a boon, and Emily was glad the Chief Director approved of the arrangement.

Emily stepped inside, and the door shut with a muted click. “Apologies for the delay, everyone,” she said, nodding to the small group already present. “I hope you weren't waiting for too long.”

She noticed a few shrinks and a pair of PRT agents monitoring the live feed. They murmured in acknowledgment as she made her way to the table where Renick was already seated. He offered her a small smile, and she returned the gesture, sinking into the chair next to him. Miss Militia was present as well, a few seats down the table. The hero gave her a short nod.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Director,” came the dry, snide voice of Thomas Calvert.

Emily bit back a scowl.

The PRT Consultant looked up from a tablet he was working on and regarded her with his usual air of detached amusem*nt. The dark-skinned man looked as thin and skeletal as always, clad in a button-up shirt and tie. The way his thin lips curved into a slight smile made her feel like she was missing some kind of joke.

“Finally recovered, have you, Calvert?” she spat back, not bothering to hide the ridicule in her tone. She never truly liked the man. Despite his apparent success, there was something about him that just set her off, a dubious quality she couldn't quite place her finger on. “I'm glad we can finally have your... expertise on the table.”

Calvert's smirk widened, but he didn't take the bait, merely leaning back in his chair, his gaze sliding back down to the tablet in front of him. “I'm glad you've missed me, Director,” he quipped.

Emily's eyes narrowed, and she was about to fire back a retort, but a nudge from beside her had her biting her tongue. She shot her Deputy a glare, but Renick simply shook his head, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

“So, what have I missed so far?” she asked instead, turning to face the group.

“Nothing, really,” Miss Militia said as she stood, walking over to pass Emily some papers. “We've just been waiting for you to arrive, Director. This is what we've managed to squeeze out of the girl so far. It's... not a lot. Silver's mostly been sleeping throughout the day or demanding to speak to you. Trying to talk to her is a... challenge.”

“She's a real piece of work,” one of the shrinks said, shaking his head. “She keeps demanding things, refusing to cooperate. I think she's just playing us.”

Emily accepted the documents, flipping through them with a practised eye. Then she paused, looking up at the hero across from her. “Not that I don't appreciate you being here, Miss Militia,” she said, “but wasn't Armsmaster supposed to oversee this? What happened?”

A frown marred the woman's face. “He's been put into Master/Stranger confinement,” Miss Militia replied. “He started showing... erratic behaviour while conversing with Silver.”

“She means that Armsmaster displayed uncharacteristic sympathy and friendliness towards the girl, Director,” Dragon chimed in, her voice coming out of the speakers, loud and clear. A pause. “He even agreed to go on a... date with the girl.”

“Date?” Emily echoed. “That's... not a joke, is it?”

Miss Militia's silence spoke volumes.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “I thought we were being careful with interactions with the girl,” she said, “especially considering her presumed Master rating.”

The fact that a handful of patients Silver healed had been discovered to be somewhat sympathetic, or at least, cordial with the girl had set off alarm bells. Just another complication they had to deal with—it felt like the girl kept giving them more and more problems. Even this scheduled interview with Silver had to be held under extremely controlled conditions to counteract the potential risks.

“We were,” Miss Militia agreed. “Armsmaster had even worked on what he was calling ‘psychic shielding’ after all those reports of civilians being influenced by her came in. He told me he was confident that it would make him immune to her power.”

“Well, obviously not,” Calvert drawled.

“Actually, about that...” Dragon interjected. “I believe the girl is less of a Master and more of a Thinker—a Social Thinker, to be precise. From everyone's reports and what I've collated, the girl has been described as very... persuasive. Many have even said they found her quite—and I quote—charismatic.”

“Not that it makes much of a difference,” Renick muttered. “Maybe it makes her even more dangerous.”

Emily frowned.

Great, just what they needed. More complications.

“We'll discuss that at a later time, I suppose,” she said. “For now, let's just get this over with. The sooner I get this done, the better. I'm sure everyone's just as eager as I am to get back home.”

The others murmured in agreement.

A PRT agent approached, handing a microphone to Emily. “We're ready, Ma'am.”

She accepted it with a nod, just as Miss Militia also passed over a small remote. It was a tiny, black thing, the size of a credit card, and she flipped it over. The little red button in the middle seemed to stare at her.

“That's the button to detonate the small explosive around Silver's neck, in case things go south,” the dark-haired woman explained. “I have one with me, too,” she said, raising her hand to show a similar device strapped to her wrist. “We're not taking any chances, Director, just like you ordered.”

Emily nodded again, her fingers hovering over the button. It was reassuring, in a sense.

“I didn't think you were that ruthless,” Calvert let out a low whistle as Miss Militia made her way back to her seat. Emily turned to give him a look but said nothing.

“Whenever you're ready, Director,” Dragon said, her voice filling the room.

“Let's just get this over with.”

On the screen, Silver was running against a wall: face pressed against the concrete, her hands bound by the straightjacket, the girl was doing her best to seemingly run through it. It was a failure, obviously, but she didn't seem to care, her legs flailing and kicking, her feet thumping against the ground, over and over again. Emily couldn't help but frown. What in the world was the little psychopath up to?

A look around the room showed that the others were similarly perplexed.

Clearing her throat, Emily pressed the button on the side of the microphone and leaned in. “Good evening, Silver,” she greeted, her voice amplified through the speakers. “This is Emily Piggot, Director of the Brockton Bay PRT. I understand you wanted to speak with me?”

The girl had begun jumping up and down against the wall, and the sudden loud voice from the speakers had her spinning around, stumbling away. “Hello! You're finally here!”

Emily had expected an emotionless, flat voice from the girl, but what she heard was a soft, almost musical tone tinged with childish excitement. She blinked and noticed Renick was smiling. A cold chill ran down her spine as she nudged her Deputy, jerking her head in a silent demand for an explanation.

Renick shrugged, whispering back, “Everyone said she sounded robotic. She doesn't sound like that to me. Sounds... nice. Like what my daughter used to sound like.”

“My name's not Silver though, it's Seraph,” the white-haired girl corrected with a casual air, strolling around the confines of her cell. Her head was tilted slightly upward, probably watching the camera that was fixed on her.

“Well then... Seraph,” Emily said evenly, keeping her tone neutral. “What is it that you want?”

There was a pregnant pause.

They all watched as Seraph continued to move about—walking, pacing, occasionally breaking into short sprints against the cell's walls. Finally, she halted, tilting her head to the side, her piercing blue eyes seeming to bore directly into Emily.

“Do you want to go on a date?” Seraph asked abruptly.

“Wh—” Emily was momentarily stunned, her voice trailing off. Did she hear correctly? Images of what such a bizarre date might entail flashed through her mind: a movie, dinner, perhaps a stroll along the Boardwalk? She blinked, scowling as a shudder wracked her frame. “What?”

The same couldn't be said for one of the PRT agents, however. The man suddenly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “I'll date you!” he declared, his voice cracking slightly, “I'm a good, honest, upstanding guy! I have a steady, respectable job, and I—”

“Oh my god,” Renick muttered.

Someone thankfully shut the man up, a hand clamping over his mouth before dragging him out of the room. A sinking feeling settled in Emily's stomach.

Silver—Seraph, whatever her name was—was staring at the camera again, a strange expression on her face. Emily had the distinct impression that the girl was looking right at her. The girl was smiling—a smile that seemed almost innocent and friendly, yet it made Emily’s skin crawl, feeling utterly fake.

“I... didn't realise you were such a catch,” Calvert drawled, an amused, lilting tone to his voice. He was staring at the screen, his chin propped up with one hand.

Ignoring Calvert's snide remark and Seraph's unsettling proposition, Emily redirected the conversation to the heart of the matter. The question had been gnawing at her since the moment the girl surrendered: “Why did you choose to heal the patients in the hospital?”

Seraph resumed her pacing. “Someone asked me to.”

What?

Emily sat up.

“What do you mean? Who asked you to?” she pressed.

“Someone,” Seraph repeated vaguely, her gaze drifting around the room.

Emily turned to the people around the room and gave them a flat stare, the unspoken question obvious. None of them answered. They all looked confused, just as she was.

She tried to ask a few more questions but they were all ignored by the girl. No matter what she tried, the white-haired Cape refused to answer.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Seraph eventually posed the question once more, her tone light, as if the gravity of the situation eluded her.

Something about the way she asked that question irked Emily. The way the girl carried herself, the way she spoke, the way she acted: all of it felt like a mockery of the whole situation. All those people that had lost their lives, and here this girl was, making light of everything.

An angry hiss escaped her, fists clenching on top of the table. “Is this some sort of joke to you?” she growled, the words slipping through her teeth. “Do you think this is funny?”

Seraph appeared genuinely perplexed. “So you don't want to go on a date with me?”

Emily snapped as nausea and revulsion bubbled up inside her. “No! No, I'm not going to go on a date with you!”

“Oh. Okay then.”

A heavy silence filled the room, and it was only broken by abrupt gasps as the straitjacket restraining Seraph suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving the girl standing in her underwear. The unease that had been creeping up Emily's spine suddenly spiked, and her breath caught in her throat. Immediately, she found the button to the detonator strapped to the girl and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

Silence.

“I'm free now. I'll be seeing you, Director Piggot.”

She turned to Miss Militia who was also repeatedly pressing her detonator's button, her face growing pale.

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck.

Emily was out of her seat, slamming a fist against the table. “I want that girl's cell on lockdown immediately! We can't let her escape! She—”

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted as the white-haired girl reached a hand towards the bed in the cell, causing it to vanish. There was scrambling around the room as the men and women tried to understand what was happening.

“Director, she's—”

A gun appeared in the girl's hand.

Then, without any warning… without hesitation, she pressed it against the side of her head and—

BANG!

—pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening, even over the speakers.

Blood sprayed across the walls, staining the sterile grey concrete a deep, ominous red.

For a frozen moment, time seemed to stand still. No one moved. No one breathed. No one spoke. They were all paralysed by shock, unable to process the events that had just occurred.

A breath or two later, Seraph's lifeless body crumpled to the floor, a pool of crimson spreading around her.

“What the f*ck?”

Emily didn't know who uttered those words, nor did she care. Her eyes remained fixed on the spot where Seraph's body had been, now dissipating into a cloud of black ash. The cell was left in eerie silence, filled only with the remnants of the rollercoaster that were the past few minutes: the discarded straitjacket, the vanished bed, the gun, an array of inexplicable bottles, and the chilling puddle of blood.

What the f*ck indeed.

■

Loading… 44%...

■

■

Loading… 67%... 69%... 72%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Some quests and events are time-sensitive. Pay attention to the in-game clock and prioritise these activities to avoid missing out on unique rewards.

■

Loading… 96%...

■

■

“I can't remember who it was, but thank you to whoever pointed out that there's interaction options to unalive yourself with the gun.” The young man couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. “Do you think it's available for other items too? Does it even still work if you're at a higher level?”

...

FemBoisRTruLuv: yes lol i think its the respec mechanic lmao

DancingStar: easiest way to reassign lvl up bonuses lol

...

Sinner6969: theres so many items u can use lolool

...

Masteroid: this one doesnt count!!!!!@ u didnt actually get to talk to the director properly

Sassassin: i knew it wouldnt work lmfao

...

“Oh? Respec-ing? Err, I didn't think of that,” he said, co*cking his head to the side as his female avatar respawned. Having gotten rid of the bed that was his latest assigned respawn location, he was placed somewhere random in the city. “I was, um, thinking that it's a way to make sure you can't ever be stuck somewhere. But, uh, I guess that makes more sense.”

He rotated the camera around to figure out where he was, only to have no idea. Somewhere in the middle of the city, probably, judging by the buildings. With a laugh, he said, “Guess I'll just wander until I find the way back to Lisa to turn that quest in.”

◢✥◣

CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG

◥✥◤

[LEVEL]: 7 → 6

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 11 → 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 15

SKILLS UPGRADES !

SHUKUCHI

RANK: 2 → 1

Chapter 8: Tutorial 7

Chapter Text

With nothing equipped and an equally empty Inventory, the young man’s female avatar wandered blindly through the dimly lit streets of the city—Brockton Bay, if he recalled correctly. The ambient sounds of the area filled his headset: distant car horns blaring, the hum of electricity from streetlights, the buzz of insects, and the steady rhythm of his own footfalls. The attention to detail was incredible. Even the way his character's white hair occasionally ruffled in the breeze was perfect.

Celestial Forge, the company behind this new cult-classic game, had created a world so lifelike, it felt like you were truly there. The heart and soul of the developers had gone into everything, and it showed. It was a work of art. The little things—aspects so subtle that most studios would choose to skip over them—were polished to a shine. Flickering street lights, the way the shadows of the buildings danced on the ground, the sound of a distant ambulance... just minor, inconsequential details in the grand scheme of things, but they served to make the environment feel more alive. More real.

Honestly, for a tech firm apparently making its initial strides in game development, they were doing a phenomenal job. Really hit the ground running.

“Chat, are you sure, uhm, this is the right way? Why do I feel like you're all screwing with me?” the young man muttered, speaking through his mic. He tapped a button on his controller, bringing up the map for the nth time since getting lost.

The map sprawled across his screen, a vast expanse mostly shrouded in darkness. Only the current city, Brockton Bay, was partially illuminated. But even then, many areas of the city were dark—places he had yet to explore. Every time he accidentally zoomed out too much, the sheer size of the game gave him chills. And apparently, this wasn't the only... world?

Crazy. Just crazy.

“I'm pretty sure you're all messing with me. Aren't I supposed to be going the other way?” he grumbled, scanning the map for any familiar landmarks.

Turning his head, he stole a glance at his stream's chat.

...

Caribooboo: this is the right way, trust

Goose: take a right. therres a shortcut

...

Miss Sugar: lol lol

Hedgehoax: oh dear lol

Octopuppy: Lol

Tall-N-Buff: trust us

...

He clicked his tongue. Next time, he'd remember to put map markers down.

■

Loading… 54%...

■

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Different character builds offer unique play styles and advantages. Experiment with various combinations of Skills, Talents, Attributes, and equipment to find a build that matches your preferences. Respeccing is easy, so don't be afraid to try new things.

■

Loading... 88%...

■

Loading… 89%... 92%... 97%...

■

■

■

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brad Meadows (Hookwolf)

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Reputation was everything. It was a currency that bought fear, respect, and unspoken obedience. Brad Meadows understood this better than anyone; he was one of the ‘richest’ motherf*ckers in the city. As Hookwolf, his name carried more weight than gold. He'd earned that ‘wealth’ through violence, through bloodshed and brutality—a lifestyle that left a trail of broken bodies and shattered lives in his wake.

So when some jumped-up girls thought they could get away with disrespecting him, hitting his dog fighting business and f*cking up his operations, he knew he had to put them in their place. It didn't matter how old they were, or what their powers were. They'd made the mistake of stepping on his toes, and he was going to show them what happened to people who did.

No one got to sh*t on his territory and walk away unscathed.

Tracking down those f*ckers was the first step. One of them, apparently, had been snagged by the PRT. But the other one? Hellhound. She was out there, somewhere, likely holed up in some hideout. He'd find her soon enough. And when he did... well, she wouldn't be walking away.

The din of the crowd was deafening. People shouted and jeered, egging on the fighters in the cage. Fists pumped in the air, beer bottles clinked together, and money exchanged hands. There was no shortage of spectators tonight, and they were loving every minute of it. The atmosphere was electric.

In his civilian guise, Brad stood just outside the rusty chain-link cage that dominated the centre of the warehouse. Its metal surface was tarnished with years of use, dark splotches of dried blood stark against the cold, grey steel. Harsh floodlights beamed down from overhead, casting long shadows and highlighting every muscle and scar on the fighters' bodies. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and alcohol—a pungent co*cktail that clung to the back of his throat. Meanwhile, heavy thuds of music blasted through some speakers, the bass so loud it reverberated in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn't help but grin—a sharp, toothy smile that spread across his face. This was his element. His home. He watched as the two men in the cage went blow for blow, their fists and legs flying at each other with furious intensity. There were no holds barred here; no rules to restrict them. They fought until they couldn't fight any more, and the last one standing walked away with a hefty paycheck and a bit more respect from his peers. Brutal, barbaric, and completely honest. They were like animals, wild and untamed, driven by primal instinct and the raw desire to win.

The larger fighter, a hulking brute with a bald head and a neck thick as a bull's, landed a solid punch square on his opponent's jaw, sending him reeling. The smaller man staggered back, blood streaming from his mouth, but he refused to go down. He spat out a glob of crimson spittle onto the grimy floor and threw himself back into the fray, tackling the brute with reckless abandon. It was a grudge match; these two had a history, and they were determined to settle it tonight.

“Come on! Hit 'em harder, motherf*cker!” one of the spectators heckled.

“You got 'im, Baldie!” another shouted.

A loud cheer rose from the crowd as the bald fighter charged, driving the smaller fighter into the cage, metal clanging as the chain links rattled under the impact. The lean fighter gasped, twisting to slip out of the brute's grasp, and delivered a punishing knee to the gut. The crowd roared, chanting, “Hit 'im again! Hit 'im again!” as the two men traded blows, both refusing to back down.

Brad's smile widened. His own hunger for violence rose to meet the crowd's swelling bloodlust. This was what he lived for—the raw, brutal spectacle of combat, the adrenaline rush, the sweet taste of victory. It was beautiful; almost enough to make him forget about the little problem that had been plaguing him for the past few days. Almost.

He brought the half-empty beer bottle to his lips and took a long swig, the cheap, bitter liquid sloshing down his throat. The cold glass was a welcome distraction from the stuffy heat of the warehouse.

Inside the cage, the fight was reaching its peak. Both fighters were exhausted, bloodied and bruised, but neither seemed ready to give up. Brad almost wished he was in there, feeling the thrill of combat, the heat of the moment, the rush of adrenaline. There was nothing better than unleashing all your pent-up anger and frustration on someone, watching them crumble beneath you. But having powers meant he could fight people who were more interesting. It wasn't as much fun beating up normal people—they were too easy.

“Brad,” a voice, just barely audible above the music and uproar of the crowd, spoke from behind him. He briefly glanced over his shoulder and saw Oskar—Stormtiger—standing there. The tall, pale man wore an opened leather jacket, exposing his bare chest, and a pair of faded jeans. “Good news.”

“Yeah?” Brad replied, taking another swig from his bottle before turning back to the fight. Last he saw, his fellow Empire Cape was in some corner with two girls—one on each side—so this was definitely unexpected. What the f*ck did he want? “Spit it out, then.”

“We found one of the girls messin' with us. The pretty one,” the other man replied, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

Brad stopped, his grip tightening around the bottle. He turned away from the cage, setting his eyes on Oskar. “Silver? Where?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious and demanding. “Wasn't she arrested?”

A slow, wolfish smile crept across Oskar's face, stretching almost unnaturally. His lips peeled back, baring his teeth in a way that reminded Brad of a feral animal. The aerokinetic had wanted to get his hands on those girls for a while now, ever since they'd started causing problems for the Empire. Almost as much as Brad did; f*ck what Kaiser had to say about it.

“Well, by the looks of it, not anymore,” Oskar said. A pause, followed by a dark chuckle. “Girl must've escaped or something. Doesn't matter. Crazy bitch was snooping 'round the area practically naked. Can you believe that sh*t? One of the guys spotted her and almost threw a f*ckin' fit.”

“And?” Brad raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The man wasn't in any hurry, so clearly, they weren't about to get attacked. “Where's she now?”

The crowd erupted again, and his gaze snapped back to the cage just in time to see the bald fighter putting his opponent in a chokehold on the floor: arms wrapped tightly around the smaller man's neck, squeezing, the veins in his forearms bulging with the strain. The leaner fighter struggled, clawing at his opponent's arms, but the larger man had him in a vice grip.

“That's the funny part. Apparently, she ended up tryna get inside. By the time I got there, f*ckers at the door was about to let 'er in. What an idiot, right? f*ckin' crazy bitch tried to walk right in.”

Brad had heard the girl was loony, but damn. Did she not know she was in the heart of Empire territory? Did getting her powers f*ck up her brain that badly? Either that or she had some real brass balls, thinking she could just stroll up after what she'd done.

He finished off his beer, downing the last of it, before he finally gave his full attention to the other man. “Then what?” Brad prompted, trying to keep his growing excitement from showing. “Stop draggin' your ass and get to the point, Oskar. Don't got all night.”

“Alright, alright.” Oskar said, shrugging. “Well, the dumb f*cks at the door blabbed 'bout the sh*t going in here.” He jabbed a thumb at the cage. “And, long story short, apparently she wanted in. Wanted to join the fun. Hah! Imagine that, spent all that time runnin', and now she just walks right to us. I mean, sh*t, what the hell was she thinkin'?”

Brad grunted in agreement.

“Anyway, figured if she wanted in so bad, why not give her what she wants? Better than f*ckin' up what we got goin' on tonight,” Oskar continued, waving a hand towards the surrounding crowd. His voice grew increasingly excited, almost manic, as he spoke, his words coming faster and faster, like a dam had burst. “Might as well get a chance to settle the score too, y'know? Show her what happens when you f*ck with the Empire. Ain't got no place to run to now.”

There was a sick glee in his tone. A sort of twisted, sad*stic pleasure. Brad couldn't blame him—he felt the same. The Empire was strong. Respected. They owned this city, and they weren't afraid to let everyone know. It was important to send a message, to show what happened to anyone who crossed them.

And tonight, the Empire would send one hell of a message.

If the girl was stupid enough to come crawling, then who were they to deny her what she wanted? He'd take great pleasure in giving her a taste of her own medicine. The girl's built a bit of a reputation for herself recently, and it was time for someone to put her back in her place.

“She inside now?”

Oskar nodded. “In one of the private rooms. Thought you mighta wanted to fight her first. So, you in?”

Brad's lip twitched upwards. “Of course I f*ckin' am. She's my fight, not yours.” Lots of people in the Empire had their eye on her—himself included—but none of them had gotten the chance to get their hands on her yet. Well, he wasn't about to miss his shot, and neither was anyone else.

The other man chuckled. “Figured that'd get your attention. Should I start organising it then?”

“f*ck yeah. Get it set up. Let's see if this crazy bitch is all that. Gonna have some fun with her.”

Brad turned back to the cage. The crowd was still cheering, but the fight had flipped: the smaller fighter was now on top of his opponent, repeatedly slamming his fists into the larger man's face. Whack, whack, whack. Left, right, left. The f*cker seemed to not even care that his larger opponent had gone limp, simply continuing to pummel him, the downed man’s face a bloody mess. At this point, he was about to beat a corpse, but no one stopped him.

Huh. Maybe the little guy wasn't so bad.

The crowd was ecstatic, chanting and screaming, the noise nearly deafening. It was the sound of victory. Of triumph. Of success. The untamed, visceral sound of power.

“On it. I'll let you know when everything's set.” Oskar said. “I'd love to fight her first, but I guess you got dibs. Try not to kill her though. Don't want her dyin' and disappearing from us with that trick of hers. She's got lots to answer for. The crowd's gonna love this.” He laughed—a short, bark-like sound that turned into a vindictive growl. “Might even be able to convince the crazy bitch to join the Empire, be our little pet once we've knocked her down a few pegs and roughed her up a bit. Wouldn't mind havin' some fun with her later. I'm sure she'd look great on her knees.”

Brad snorted. The throb of blood rushing through his body echoed in his ears, a dull, pounding rhythm that drowned out the din around him. Adrenaline. The urge to hurt, to break, to dominate. It was a desire, a hunger that only fighting could satisfy. The fight in the cage hadn’t satisfied that hunger, but the girl would.

“Whatever. Just get it done.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It didn't take long for everything to be organised. Before he knew it, Brad was already inside the makeshift arena, waiting in the ring, shirtless and masked. His blond hair was slicked back, and his burly frame, dusted with coarse dark hairs, rippled underneath the harsh lights. The worn steel of the chain-link cage pressed into his bare back. He welcomed it. The slight pricks, the rough surface, the bite of metal against his skin: it grounded him, kept him focused. It helped take the edge off his simmering bloodlust.

Spectators surrounded him on all sides—Empire members; mid-level thugs, and a throng of rank-and-file grunts. There were also some hangers-on, non-members who were friends or family members of the gang. Sympathisers. People who believed in their cause. They were all gathered in the space outside the cage, some standing, others sitting on upturned crates or barrels. All talking, shouting, laughing. The noise of the crowd was deafening, a constant roar of voices that was impossible to pick out individual words or phrases from.

The thought of losing wasn't even something that crossed his mind. Why would it? Going all out might've been impossible with all the people around and the restrictions they'd put in place, but he was confident he would still come out on top. Years of experience had honed his violence into a skill. It was something he knew, something he understood. He had faced all kinds of opponents in his life—seasoned fighters, desperate survivors, and greenhorns looking to make a name. A newbie cape was nothing compared to that.

Nothing.

She'd barely made a name for herself, still learning to use her powers. Sure, she could take down ‘normal’ people—unpowered grunts—but he was no ordinary man. He was better.

Superior.

The girl would learn that the hard way.

Until now, Silver had only ever run away. Escaped. She'd never faced an actual opponent from the Empire—someone who knew how to fight and wouldn't hesitate to beat her senseless. He would teach her. Break her. Humiliate her. Show her the true difference between their abilities.

After all, if the heroes , weak as they were, could take her down, what was there to worry about?

Maybe if he had no idea what her powers were, he'd have felt a bit more apprehensive, a bit less co*cky. Blindly fighting someone whose powers you didn't know was a sure way to get your ass handed to you. But he had seen and heard what she could do. He knew exactly what he was up against. Props to her for agreeing to a slugfest—Brad could respect her a little for that—but the girl’s tricks didn't matter. She might be dangerous to others, but not to him.

Not that they hadn't prepared in case anything went wrong, of course. They couldn't risk the people in the crowd getting caught in the crossfire.

Brad cracked his neck and flexed his shoulders. His joints popped, the sound muffled by the background noise. Beneath his metal wolf mask, a grin stretched across his face: feral, savage, bloodthirsty. His power thrummed deep within his body, restless... hungry. Beneath his skin, metal encased his muscles, blades and hooks shifted and moved, scraping and clicking together.

He would enjoy this.

The voice of the announcer blared through the warehouse. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight! We've got a special treat lined up—a showdown you won't want to miss! A chance for redemption, for the Empire, for our city!”

A frenzy of howls, cheers, and catcalls erupted from the crowd. Feet pounded the concrete floor, the rhythmic stomping like the pounding of drums. Hands slapped together and banged on whatever was within reach, creating a racket so loud it was impossible to hear anything else. Screeching whistles and drunken shouts only added to the pandemonium, whatever words that were said lost in the roar of pure, unbridled bloodlust and excitement that swept through the room.

Did they even know why they were cheering? Did they understand who he was going to fight?

“We've got an uninvited guest, one that's been wreaking havoc, causing chaos. One that's been hiding, running, avoiding. But no more. Tonight, we'll show her just what she's up against. Tonight, the Empire will deliver vengeance.” The announcer continued on, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. Yet, it seemed some unease crept into the crowd, a sense of hesitation that had not been there before.

The cheering dropped slightly as the people shifted and murmured, confused at the sudden turn. Of course, it didn't help that the announcer, the same one who usually hyped up the crowd, had spoken with an air of apprehension: the slightest hint of uncertainty, of doubt.

It was more or less what Brad expected. Silver's massacre was still fresh in their minds, the wounds still raw and bleeding. The fear and anxiety lingered. The paranoia that maybe, just maybe, they'd be next.

But that's why he was here. To prove that their fears were unfounded, that their worries were for naught. He would show them that they were protected . He would show them the might and ferocity of the Empire.

He would show them justice .

The fact that he'd sate his bloodthirst at the same time was simply a bonus.

“And who better to handle this... pest, this vermin... than one of the Empire's finest?” The announcer spoke once more, his tone regaining its usual zeal. “Tonight, he will fight in the name of his comrades, for the honour and dignity of the Empire. Tonight, he'll give our guest the retribution she deserves!”

Brad's lips curled.

“Put your hands together for tonight's star of the show! HOOOOOOKWOOLF!”

The crowd's reception was immediate: a surge of applause and screams exploded throughout the room, almost as deafening as the ones before. It reached a fever pitch, their enthusiasm seemingly restored, when Brad raised his arm—the one branded with the ‘E88’ tattoo—with his fist clenched in a sign of victory. He stood tall, shoulders squared, chest puffed out proudly, and roared—a primal and animalistic sound. Tonight, he was the people's champion.

He would not disappoint them.

It took a while for the crowd to calm down and settle, but eventually the announcer managed to quiet them enough to continue.

“Our other contender... the challenger! You know her, you hate her, and soon, you'll have the chance to see her bleed. She's a Cape that's been making waves, the one that's been running amok. She's a nuisance, a menace, and tonight, we're going to show her what happens when she crosses us.” The announcer said, a hint of derision creeping into his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we bring her to heel . Give it up for... SIIIIILLVEEERR!”

The reaction was a little less enthusiastic this time... more subdued. Nervous muttering and anxious whispers rippled through the crowd, soon drowned out by a mixture of boos and jeers. But unlike the previous response, the booing sounded more hollow. Forced. Lacking in any real heat or vitriol. It wasn't until someone—or several someones—started throwing insults, screaming out obscenities and slurs, that the booing started to become a little more genuine. A little more passionate.

It seemed they had not forgotten, or forgiven, the death of their friends and loved ones. Good. That's how it should be; not the shameful fear, the cowardice, or the lack of courage and conviction that had started to set in after the attacks. The Empire did not bend. The Empire did not bow.

And tonight, he would remind them of that.

Brad watched as Silver, unmasked like usual, was escorted into the cage by some burly goons; Stormtiger, shirtless and in his signature white and blue tiger mask, followed closely behind. His brow twitched. The white-haired girl was in her underwear, and the thin fabric did little to hide her lithe, nubile figure. Pale skin was on full display, her slim curves and soft lines visible to everyone in the room. Did they force her into it? By the way she seemed unbothered by the leers and stares, or the way she walked with her head held high, it didn't seem so. He scowled, eyes lingering on the slight swell of her small breasts, the toned expanse of her thighs, and the shapely roundness of her ass.

He didn't mind the sight, but it was distracting. Annoying. Did she fancy herself like The Siberian, untouchable and immovable, that she would flaunt herself like this? Or was she simply shameless?

Whatever the case, she would regret her choice.

The throng of people reacted predictably, hooting and hollering, wolf-whistling and shouting lewd things at her. Brad sneered. Even from where he stood, it wasn't hard to notice that the people she walked past—the ones closest to her—quieted down. Some even shuffled further back, giving her a wide berth. A noticeable gap. Then, as if realising their actions, they immediately resumed their boisterousness, though not quite as loud or as passionate as before. Cowards, the lot of them. All that talk, yet they wouldn't dare stand against her.

Pathetic.

Silver ignored the people around her. The look on her face was impossible to read. Deadpan. Blank. She didn't seem angry or scared, nor did she show any kind of discomfort or displeasure at the crowd's behaviour. If Brad had to guess, he'd say she was... disinterested. She didn't react. She didn't even look around. Her eyes were straight ahead, fixed on the centre of the arena. She was like a robot, or a zombie, just... empty. Uncaring.

Emotionless.

Her body language was equally difficult to decipher. No tension. No wariness. None of the nervousness you'd expect in someone surrounded by enemies. Her shoulders were relaxed, her arms loose, and her feet firmly planted—not in a guarded stance, but a casual one. Like she was on a stroll through the park. If her introduction bothered her, it didn't show. She appeared perfectly at ease, her focus entirely on her destination.

That, or she was an idiot who didn't realise the situation she was in.

All the noise faded into the background as the girl approached. The crowd, the announcer, the screaming and loud, drunken uproar—everything receded until it was little more than a distant buzzing, a soft murmuring that was indistinct and muted. The world narrowed until there was nothing but the two of them.

Step, by step, by step. The distance between them closed, the gap shrinking. He stood tall, proud and defiant. She was the same, neither her pace nor her posture betraying any hesitation. No, if anything, she seemed even more determined. More resolute. More... assured.

His blood boiled. Wiping that co*cky attitude off her face would be sweet.

Then she was in the cage, the door closing behind her with a loud clang. His eyes never left her figure, watching… waiting.

Observing.

Brad walked to the centre of the ring, his movements deliberate and unhurried. When he came to a stop, the space between them barely a few metres, their eyes locked in an intense stare-down. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but she was unflinching, her blue eyes unwavering. It was almost as if she was looking down on him, a hint of arrogance in her eyes. Her posture was the same, her expression neutral and nonchalant. It was a challenge. A taunt. She was provoking him.

He would oblige.

“I've heard a lot about you.” Brad glared down at the girl. His voice was low and rumbling, almost a growl. He spoke slowly, tone full of contempt and disdain.

Silver didn't reply. Instead, the crazy bitch... curtsied .

The f*ck?

There was no dress to sweep or skirt to hold; instead, her arms mimicked the action, fingers pinched as if grasping at imaginary fabric. The motion was smooth, the curve of her spine flowing into the dip of her waist as she bent down.

His jaw clenched.

The girl rose a moment later, her expression as deadpan as before.

She was mocking him.

“They call you a monster, you know. A deranged killer. But all I see is a runt. A little girl with a big ego.” Brad spat the words out. “I'm gonna enjoy making you bleed, bitch. You'll pay for what you've done.”

Again, Silver offered no reply. Just silence. Her expression was as inscrutable as ever. Somewhere in the background, the announcer was talking, hyping up the crowd. But he wasn't listening. All his attention was focused on the girl in front of him.

“Nothing to say? That's fine. I'll make you scream, one way or another.” Grinning beneath his wolf mask, eyes narrowing, he continued, “let's see how long you can last. How many cuts before you scream for mercy?”

This time, there was a response. Silver pointed at him, then drew her thumb across her throat.

Boos and hisses came from the crowd.

He snorted.

Before Brad could say anything else, the tiny slip of a girl brought a foot forward and started pointing at the ground. Head slightly bowed, she jabbed her finger down. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“Bark, bark. That's all I hear from you. Keep going. Maybe someone will throw you a bone,” Silver finally spoke, her voice light, airy, and lilting. She paused briefly, only to start squatting a few moments later.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

The f*ck was this crazy bitch doing?

Brad's nostrils flared.

He didn't get a chance to think or react much beyond that; the fight was about to start.

“—ET THE FIGHTING—”

Silver stood straight and he tensed. The rest of the announcer's words fell away, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He didn't need to hear them. He'd done this enough times to know what came next.

“—BEGIN!”

A bell rang, loud and clear.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Brad was moving before the sound faded, lunging towards Silver. The crowd rumbled, screaming and yelling. His blood raced.

He'd barely taken two steps when she was already upon him.

There was no wind-up, no lead-in. She simply moved, blurring in his vision.

Pain blossomed on his side, sharp and jarring. The girl had hit him, leg flicking up in a snap-kick. He stumbled, a grunt of surprise left his lips. Wait, what? How? He'd changed, shifted most of his flesh into solid, dense metal beneath his skin. Yet her blow had hurt. Not truly harmed, no, but hurt ; the lance of pain somehow lingered, throbbing.

A hook followed, a vicious swipe at his chin. Brad blocked, bringing his arm up just in time. The force slammed into his forearm, and another dull ache flared, spreading from the point of contact.

Was this why she was so confident even without a weapon?

No matter.

For a while, Brad didn't get much chance to retaliate for a counter-attack; the girl rained blow after blow, striking out with her fists and her feet. She was fast, faster than he honestly expected, and she was relentless, attacking in a frenzy. Her blows came from everywhere. Every angle. Each hit was a twinge of discomfort. The dull clangs of her fists and shins colliding with his hardened flesh were interspersed with his annoyed grunts. There was no break. No respite. No gap. It was an endless barrage of strikes.

And, yet, she showed no signs of slowing.

Her breath was steady and measured, her expression calm. She didn't tire, nor did she seem the least bit fazed. She wasn't even sweating.

Didn’t she feel the pain of flesh striking metal?

Of course, after the initial surprise, he weathered the storm easily enough. The girl's attacks weren't exactly devastating, not really. Pinpricks of pain, perhaps, but nothing serious. Eventually, glancing blows were all she could achieve. The flow of her assault became simple enough to read, even in the flurry, that he chose not to hit her back. Just test her a little. See what she could do.

Block, block, dodge.

The rhythm was easy to fall into.

Block, dodge, parry.

Still, while she kept to a somewhat mundane style of fighting, he'd give her a warrior's respect and not rely too much on his power. He doubted the fight would last long after he started truly using it.

Block.

Duck.

Dodge.

Weave.

Parry.

Parry.

Dodge.

Brad's patience wore thin with each predictable strike though. The monotonous assault quickly grew tedious.

Enough was enough.

Was this all she had?

The next time she struck, instead of defending, he let her get a solid hit on him. At the same time, he whipped his leg to the side and caught her off guard, catching her midsection. A clean strike. The girl gasped as she crashed to the floor, the force knocking the breath from her lungs.

He grinned.

Got you.

“Was that the best you had?” Brad sneered, glaring at the fallen girl. He hoped that she had something more than what she’d just shown him. This was boring, far too easy. “You have guts. I'll give you that. But it ain't enough. Not by a long shot.”

She didn't reply, not that he expected her to. Instead, the girl was scrambling back to her feet, rising in one fluid movement.

Good, he thought, his grin widening.

It looked like there was still a bit of fire left in her yet.

“Come on. Show me what you got,” he taunted, his eyes glinting with excitement.

This was why he was here, wasn't it?

Face blank, she stared at him. Then, in a blink, she was gone. Not in a move-fast-and-vanish-from-sight sort of way, but a literal poof . One moment, she was there. The next, nothing.

Heh. Finally getting seriou—

Before he could complete the thought, his body erupted with a sudden burst of cold stings. It wasn't a single, localised area of pain. No, it was everywhere. His entire body felt like it had been cut by tiny, sharp blades. And those wounds were freezing, the frigid bite of ice and frost seeping deep into his body.

A beat later, his feet were swept out from under him.

He landed hard, and only his quick reactions to draw his fleshy human bits into his core stopped him from banging his head against the hard floor. Blades, hooks and other twisted metal shapes scraped against the ground as they absorbed his weight, cushioning the fall and leaving shallow gouges in their wake

f*ck.

Brad rolled aside, twisting his body as he did. Then, his leg—free from the restraints of flesh and now a mass of steel blades—snapped up in a savage kick. It cut through empty air, the girl having moved too fast for him to catch.

Just as he rose to his feet, he was struck again, this time on his right flank. From what, he didn't know. There was just a flash of blue, followed by two successive, dull explosions. It was like getting hit with a sledgehammer, or maybe a car. The result was the same though: pain. Even partially transformed, the ache burrowed deep, spreading outward, sending tendrils of agony coursing through his body.

sh*t. This f*cking bitch.

The force of the blow sent him floundering backwards, bits and pieces of metal clattering onto the floor as they were torn from him. He growled, the sound tinny and distorted with his transformation.

His temper flared. How was she hurting him so much?

Brad quickly recovered his bearings and pulled at his power, letting the change consume him completely until he stood in his favourite quadrupled form. A metallic wolf, made up entirely of blades, hooks and chains tipped with barbed spikes. He held back on the size though, not wanting to demolish the entire stage. Yet, the sheer bulk of his new body was still enough to easily dwarf the girl, looming over her menacingly.

Silver didn’t react. Not even a blink.

With a grating snarl, he launched himself at the girl.

Claws, fangs, blades, chains—all rained down, intent on ending the fight then and there. But the girl blurred, dodging his attacks.

Backsteps.

Sidesteps.

Leaping.

Rolling.

Not once did she let herself get caught.

Even when he thought he had a clean hit, she always found a way to avoid him. The sharp edges of his weapons would seemingly be a hairsbreadth from her, yet they were never quite able to make contact.

It was maddening.

He was sure there were times his bladed claws passed through her in between the girl's attempts to dodge, but there was no purchase to be found. No flesh or bone to rend. Was he just missing her by some freakish coincidence? Or was she actually phasing out of his way?

Brad growled in annoyance, his anger only growing with each miss. The fact that she kept positioning herself just outside of his range was pissing him off too.

Just hold still!

The girl didn't oblige.

When Silver disappeared for the second time, Brad, again , staggered from the frigid shock that passed through him. He swept his hefty tail and his long, barbed chains out around him, whipping them through the space where he'd last seen her. Both passed harmlessly through thin air, meeting no resistance.

Where did she go this time?

The white-haired, scantily clad girl reappeared a short distance away, suddenly and without warning, in the same way she had left. Silver didn't give him a chance to attack. Before Brad could respond, she glowed a bright, vibrant white.

A blink of his eyes was all he could manage before the girl gestured and two shimmering bolts of something rocketed towards him.

He tried to dodge: a leap to the side, a twist of his body, anything.

It didn't matter.

The twin blasts of crackling energy crashed into his metal form and the world became pain. His very being was consumed by it, his every nerve alight. A piercing, searing agony like nothing he'd ever felt before. He had no frame of reference. Nothing he could compare the sensation to. It was unlike anything he had experienced in his life.

Then darkness swallowed him…

…When Brad regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on his side

What happened?

It was something he would never admit out loud, but panic flared. The sudden confusion, the disorientation, had him lash out. Spears, spikes and chains flew, striking the surrounding area indiscriminately. Brad pushed and pushed at his power, the blades of his body elongating, spreading and twisting in a wild, chaotic mess.

Gasps from the crowd snapped him back to reality.

Brad paused, regaining control. His mind cleared. He realised where he was and what he was doing.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his body to settle, retracting the myriad of bladed edges and weapons that had sprung forth in his brief, irrational moment of panic.

f*ck. Get it together.

He stood up, the movement jerky and awkward. There were cracks and clatters, the sound of metal blades rubbing against one another. Looking around, he finally beheld the reason for the crowd's reaction.

Silver lay on the floor, sprawled out and unmoving. Dead. Crimson splotches of red stained the ground, pooling around her. The girl had numerous, bleeding cuts marring her body, the flesh a ruined mess of torn skin and exposed, dangling flesh. Oddly though, it was knitting back together.

Huh?

Her wounds closed slowly, skin reforming over the torn flesh. But before the ‘healing’ could progress, she dissolved into black ash.

Wait, what?

In an instant, Silver was gone.

The audience erupted, the cheering so loud that the area was filled with a near-deafening roar. For a brief moment, Brad cursed to himself. That wasn't good—she wasn't meant to disappear like that. He'd gotten carried away, lashing out when he should've kept his cool. It was a rookie mistake.

f*ck. He could already hear the earful from the other Empire Capes.

Whatever.

Brad slowly shifted back into his human form, the change less dramatic than his previous, frenzied transition. Then, with a raised fist, he took the opportunity to soak up the cheers.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Not even a full day later, Brad was attacked in his home. The culprit? Silver.

How she knew where he lived was beyond him. But the fact that she knew and could so easily ambush him was... troubling.

She appeared out of nowhere; one moment, he was happily lazing around his living room, and the next, the front door to his apartment was suddenly and violently exploded. Shards of wood flew, and there she stood, framed by the wreckage.

The girl waved. Then bowed.

For a moment, Brad stared, dumbstruck.

“Miss me?” she hissed.

In an instant, the room exploded into chaos.

■

Loading… 14%... 29%... 32%...

■

■

Loading… 44%...

■

< HELPFUL TIPS! >

Advanced combat techniques such as parrying, counter-attacking, and chaining combos can give you a significant advantage. Practise these techniques in training grounds or against weaker enemies to hone your skills. Perfecting your combat style will make difficult battles more manageable.

■

Loading... 97%%...

■

■

“sh*t!”

He cursed as his character was violently shoved out of a building, hurtling downwards in a dizzying freefall. Wind roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of destruction and panicked screaming that had been echoing through his headset just moments before. The ground rushed to meet him with alarming speed, and there wasn't anything he could do to stop it.

Impact.

The jolt through his controller mirrored the sickening crunch on screen as his character crashed against the pavement below. The world spun momentarily, a dizzying swirl of disorientation before the screen faded to a grayscale haze. Bold red letters flashed across his screen: “You Died.”

A frustrated groan escaped him; a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. He knew he should've watched out for that!

Ugh. Stupid.

“I-I was so close, chat,” he said, running a hand through his tousled hair.

...

Sinner6969: [:OMEGALUL:]

Sinner6969: lol lol git gud

DancingStar: rekt [:clap:]

...

Sassassin: [:FeelsRainMan:]

Sassassin: so much for the that lmfao

Crimson_King: F

...

A blush coloured his cheeks as he saw the comments roll by. The fact that he had been so co*cky, even going as far as to ask his viewers the whereabouts of the NPC who killed him in that cage fight so he could get his ‘revenge’, made him cringe.

...

FemBoisRTruLuv: F

DeezNuts69: F

Cinder-Ella: F

Miss Sugar: F [:sadKEK:]

...

“N-next time, for sure,” he stuttered, his voice wavering slightly. “You all saw how close I was, right?” He scratched nervously at the back of his head. “I'll definitely get him next time, just watch me, guys.”

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he continued. “No, seriously , I mean it. I just need something to handle that damage return when the NPC is shapeshifted. I'll figure something out.”

Chat continued to scroll:

...

Miss Sugar: You can do it!

HorsePower: you should probably grind first tho get those levels back

Sassassin: ye, and mayb respec so u can min-max

...

Masteroid: F

NyaBot: lol yes. go and kill some of that gang's goons. It'll be revenge AND you get to power level!

MaskedShade: F

...

◢✥◣

CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG

◥✥◤

[LEVEL]: 6 → 5 → 6 → 5

ATTRIBUTE SCORES

[CON]: 10

[STR]: 10

[DEX]: 10

[INT]: 10

[WIS]: 10

[CHA]: 15 → 14 → 15 → 14

SKILLS UPGRADES !

MEDICA

RANK: 1 → 0 → 1 → 0 (Skill Lost!)

Chapter 9: Loading Screen I ···

Chapter Text

■

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.

You are currently logged in,The Omniscient Reader

You are viewing:

• Threads you have replied to

• AND Threads that have new replies

• OR private message conversations with new replies

• Thread OP is displayed.

• Ten posts per page

• Last ten messages in private message history.

• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.

■

♦️ Topic: Gunshots and Sirens in Downtown Area — Anyone Know What's Happening?

In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay ► General Discussion

CatSlave(Original Poster)

Posted On Jan 29th 2011:

Hey guys,

Was heading home from work and heard a bunch of gunshots and crazy loud sirens near 8th and Maple. Sounded pretty wild. Anyone know what's going down?

Checked the news but nada so far. Any info would be awesome! Stay safe out there everyone.

(Showing page 1 of 4)

►Anonym0use

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

Saw a bunch of police cars racing past my place. Couple of other threads going up asking the same too. Probably should get out and dodge OP!

►GoblinEnthusiast

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

wtf is this new year man

►BearMama

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

Just told my kids to stay indoors. Whatever it is, I hope it gets resolved soon. This city is getting scarier every day.

►NewbieCap3Fan

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

Sounds crazy! I was thinking of heading out later, but maybe I'll stay in

►K1mmyK

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

soo after snooping and reading around, apparently Silver was spotted in the area

definitely might want to stay the f away op, im telling everyone I know to probably stay inside tonight

►Anonym0use

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

@K1mmyK wtf wasn't she arrested

►CapeWatcher007(Wiki Warrior)

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

It's really looking like sh*t's about to hit the fan, huh? I know people joke about how the city's gang infested, and there's like reports of Coil's mercs fighting the Empire Downtown from time to time, but man, the sh*tshow recently makes me feel like things are about to get worse

►K1mmyK

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

@Anonym0use the girl apparently 'escaped custody'

reported that the crazy bitch attacked Hookwolf in his home earlier too, lots of damages and some deaths. Can't believe there are actually people who wanted to suppoer that serial killer after the hospital incident

@CapeWatcher007 someone say GANG WAR? how many deaths have happnd just recently? we havnt had blatant, open fighting like this in a while... makes me scared to even leave the house

►Brocktonite0912

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

@K1mmyK It's because people just want to be edgy and 'different', probably doesn't help that the girl looks... aesthetically pleasing. f*ck, look at the sickos that gush over the siberian, disgusting

End of Page. 1,2,3,4

(Showing page 2 of 4)

►Mister Patches

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

@Brocktonite0912 have you heard of those people who've interacted with the girl? VOLUNTARILY? Makes me wonder what's wrong with some people

►Just An Ugly Grape

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

So Silver's been confirmed to have been at the scene where OP was wonderin about. No word out yet on concrete details, best to stay f*ck away though

►K1mmyK

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

For those who haven't seen... [ARTICLE]

►EdGarr

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

I don't know where it started but theres now rumours going around that it was the Empire being hit? idk how valid the information is though

►Miss Sunshine

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

looks like there's confirmed deaths... though that's not much of a surprise given who was involved... why haven't they done anything about that crqzy girl yet?

►Anonym0use

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

@K1mmyK don't wanna derail the thread too much, but wtf. I thought I was imagining it, but I went bck to what the PRT Director said when Silver first appeared and it's practically the same thing... how am I supposed to feel comforted by that

I know this is often said jokingly, but I actually really think it might be time to get out of the Bay

►Ahega0z

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

SILVER DID NOTHING WRONG11!!!!11

►Rabv

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

So do we actually have information on what happened/is happening yet?

►Big Antie

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

►Brocktonite0912

Replied On Jan 29th 2011:

Turn on the news if anyone's wanting information, they're covering it now

End of Page.1, 2,3,4

■