Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Foolish.' A single word summed up his entire thought process as Greg Veder trudged down the grimy streets of Brockton Bay. The winter chill nipped at his exposed skin, a stark reminder of the cruel reality he lived in.

Greg was not a well-spoken child. When he tried to talk, words instead tumbled from his mouth like an engine sputtering to life, then. Like a car with balding tires, he'd continue onwards without even a second thought, completely oblivious to the looks of confusion or derision his ramblings often elicited.

'If only I spoke as well as I think,' he mused, his internal voice a stark contrast to his external fumbling. 'Then I might be able to obtain a friend or two, instead of being so confined like this…' His head shook, causing his semi-bowl-cut straight blond hair to wave about as he walked down the cracked sidewalk. He was in no rush to get to school, after all. Winslow High loomed in the distance, a true monument to mediocrity and broken dreams.

Greg couldn't pinpoint exactly when this change had occurred. When had his thoughts become so organized, so articulate? It was as if a thick fog had lifted from his mind, leaving behind a clarity that was both exhilarating and terrifying in equal parts. 'Maybe it's because I have to witness stupidity daily,' he pondered. 'Do I think I'm better than them? It's not the hardest thing to be, yet would I be too arrogant to perceive myself as such?'

He knew, deep down, that he was no better than his peers. In many ways, he was actually worse. His social awkwardness, his inability to read social cues, his tendency to ramble about topics no one else cared about, these were all strikes against him. 'So what if I am experiencing a higher education than them?' he thought, referring to the college-level computer science courses he'd been taking. 'Even my awakening can't make me better than them. If I was better, then… I wouldn't even have awakened in the first place.'

The concept of his 'awakening' his newfound powers was still a source of both pride and anxiety for him. 'So, is it a good or bad thing that I am worse than them?' he wondered, his mind circling back to his earlier train of thought.

It felt almost like he was pondering his mortality, a weighty philosophical question that seemed out of place in the mind of a high school student. One answer gave rise to another question, which was then answered by the reason the first question was asked. It was a circular, frustrating mental exercise he hated getting caught upon.

'I've been gone for barely three weeks, and my thoughts are already getting philosophical,' Greg mused to himself, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'Does this happen to everyone over winter break? If so, is there an opt-out button? I'd rather not; I'm way too young to be questioning my own existence.' He felt a bit of a chuckle build in his throat, yet it died rather quickly as he remembered just where he was heading.

The sound of metal hitting a solid surface pulled his eyes up from the cracked pavement. He was currently walking from Brockton University, where he'd been taking his advanced courses, to Winslow. It was early in the morning, and the area around the south docks was just as dirty and run-down as ever. Broken windows, graffiti-covered walls, and the occasional junkie huddled in a doorway painted a very bleak picture of urban decay. It was a sight Greg was getting used to seeing given how often he had to take this route to his school, but it never failed to remind him of the stark realities of life in Brockton Bay.

'Why did I even start this thing?' he wondered, thinking back to his decision to take college courses. 'Probably just to stay out of the school a bit longer, not like those skills ever really helped me…' His thoughts turned bitter. 'Congrats, you know how to code. Now just watch all these other people who are super talented and all these people who have literal superpowers based around this that can do everything you could never hope to do just because they want to.'

He felt himself bristle at the very idea, a familiar pounding headache returning. He raised a hand idly to feel his temple, the pressure of his fingertips momentarily distracting him from the dull pain. Moving his train of thought away from that particular sore spot helped ease the throbbing.

'Besides…' Greg's internal voice took on a more confident tone. 'I'm awakened now. I've got a good handle on my abilities. I'm more than just Greg Veder, I'm better!' He stepped finally over a bit of a hill, Winslow now clearly visible in the near distance. Its dilapidated facade seemed to mirror the surrounding neighborhood, a physical manifestation of broken dreams and lowered expectations of the city.

Greg thumbed the dollar coin in his pocket, a nervous habit he'd developed since his awakening. The cool metal against his skin was a constant reminder of his newfound abilities, a secret power hidden beneath his honestly unremarkable exterior. He smiled as he stepped towards the school, a mix of anticipation and anxiety bubbling in his chest.

'It's about time that everyone else saw that,' he thought, his internal bravado masking the very real fear and uncertainty that lay just beneath.

Greg Veder stepped into Winslow High School on January 3rd, 2011. The grimy hallways and indifferent faces that greeted him were the same as always, but something had changed. Whether it was the start of something great or terrible, well, that was for future debates. For now, Greg squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and prepared to face another day in the unforgiving world of high school this time, with the secret knowledge that he was much more than what he appeared to be.

The halls of Winslow were just as filthy and packed as anyone would expect from this sort of school. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed teen bodies, cheap perfume, and the faint undertone of skunk-like marijuana smoke. Lockers lined the walls, their dented and graffitied surfaces a testament to years of neglect and vandalism they had weathered. Winslow was never the sort of school that would cultivate the greatest of minds. No, rather, it was where people came to take advantage of the great minds that couldn't make the list for Arcadia, the city's premier high school.

Gangs were an ever-present issue throughout Brockton Bay, their influence seeping into every aspect of life, but there were few places in the city where they thrived as openly as they did here in Winslow. It was no secret that the E88, a neo-Nazi group, thrived in the shadow of the rich, their white supremacist ideology finding rich and fertile ground among the disenfranchised youth. The ABB, or Azn Bad Boys, held sway in the docks, their pan-Asian membership a stark contrast to the E88's white supremacy values. And then there were the Merchants, the bottom-feeders who thrived wherever the other two didn't clean house in the cracks, which usually ended up being the Train yard and other places like it.

But if those areas were where the gangs grew, then Winslow was where they were planted, where the seeds sprouted into saplings before being transplanted to their respective territories. The hallways were a microcosm of the city's gang dynamics, with different cliques staking out their own territories near certain lockers or classrooms.

A place like this wasn't ruled by logic and reasoning, it wasn't ruled by authority or age. Two things ruled over Winslow: Power and Anonymity. Power came in many forms, physical strength, social influence, or the implied threat of gang connections. Anonymity was equally valuable, allowing students to blend into the background, avoiding the attention of bullies and gang recruiters alike.

Both of these currencies were foreign to Greg Veder. He possessed neither power nor anonymity, at least not in the traditional sense. His newfound parahuman abilities might have given him power, but he dared not reveal them. And anonymity? Greg's tendency to ramble and his general social awkwardness made him really stand out, though not in the way he would have liked.

As he walked through the crowded halls, his foot kicking a stray ball of paper that someone had tossed (likely some sort of note to a parent about a student's behavior), his head was on a swivel. He looked through the crowd of people he practically waded through, spotting familiar faces mostly those who were his bullies before everything had changed for him.

'I'm awakened, I'm not afraid of them,' he reassured himself, even as his eyes darted nervously from face to face. 'But I don't want to hurt them either. That's why I'm avoiding them, I don't want to kill someone on, accident or something.' His thoughts comforted him and affirmed his actions, but there was a deep undercurrent of uncertainty. He knew his powers were pretty dangerous, and the lack of control over them terrified him almost as much as the bullies once had.

Yet there was another reason he kept his head on a swivel. There was someone he wanted to see, someone who had occupied his thoughts more and more lately. As he looked through the crowds, he couldn't quite see what he was looking for. It almost worried him, until he bumped head-first into the very person he'd been seeking for this whole time.

He winced, but it was mostly out of habit. He hadn't even moved an inch, even though the other person had crumbled to the floor. He looked down, and his breath caught in his throat.

That beautifully glossy black hair draped over her head, cascading down her shoulders in graceful waves. She was looking up at him, giving him a good look into her large brown eyes, which seemed to glimmer with a mix of surprise and… was that fear? Her wide mouth trembled slightly, and Greg felt a pang of guilt. 'One of her more obvious tells has always been her face,' he thought. 'She's always so expressive. It hurts to see her so… scared.'

For a split second, Greg saw a superimposed image of her younger self, the girl he'd known before high school, before her bullying had started. But it faded rather quickly, and he realized his eyes had been wandering. Her baggy brown sweatshirt and simple jeans had no bright colors and showed nothing skin-wise leaving a lot to the imagination. In a way, Greg felt he preferred that. It felt simpler and more innocent, maybe it just enforced a button or picture he already had, but he enjoyed it.

'And you're standing there doing nothing, watching your crush, who fell due to you not seeing her, mind you, just sit and stare up at you.' Mortification met his mind as he stumbled forward, his face flushing red and burning with embarrassment.

"Ah! Taylor, sorry about that!" he blurted out, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to get out even just an apology. "I probably should have been looking where I was going. I wasn't focused on where I was going. But I was looking for you, so I mean I guess it worked out in the end and oh my god you're still on the ground here I can help you up." He babbled, knowing he was doing so but unable to stop the torrent of words. His hand jutted out rather quickly as he sort of grasped for her but tried to keep himself from being overbearing.

Taylor took his hand, but it was almost out of habit given she flinched so hard at his touch. 'Shit, did I forget to shower?' Greg thought, panic rising in his chest. 'No, I remembered that and deodorant. Or I'm just thinking wrong, and she's just flinching for some other reason.' The possibility that Taylor might be afraid of him, or disgusted by him, sent a cold shiver down his spine.

A second was all he needed to get his thoughts in order, but his mouth took a second longer, given he was still babbling a little bit. "So how was your break? Things went decently for me all things considered, but I can't call it the best, if you know what I mean."

He finally stopped talking, and Taylor looked at him as if he'd grown a second head before responding, her voice soft and hesitant. "I think I get what you mean. It went alright, I suppose. I didn't do much, but managed to get some progress on a few personal projects, I guess…"

She trailed off rather quickly, her eyes darting around the crowded hallway as if looking for an escape route. Greg, oblivious to her discomfort, felt a surge of excitement. 'That's fine though, I'm actually managing to talk to her. Now all you need to do is keep it together for long enough that you can ask her what those projects actually are.'

He observed her more closely, noting the way she seemed to lean from side to side, almost swaying as she stood there. While she was taller than him when she stood up straight, she now hunched over, making herself maybe an inch or so lower than him. It was a posture he'd seen her adopt more and more over the past year, and something about it bothered him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why it did.

"I-uh, that sounds nice," he managed to say, mentally kicking himself for the stutter. "What sort of book did you read?" He asked with a bit of a tilt in his head, proud of himself for remembering her love of literature. 'Okay, could have done without the stuttering, but it could have been worse considering you were ready to comment on her posture of all things. You're doing alright,' he reassured himself.

Taylor's eyebrows knitted together in mild confusion. "Oh, it's an old book called The Metamorphosis. It's this German literature book- but how did you know I was talking about reading a book? I never mentioned that I was reading specifically, I only said I was working on projects."

The sudden shift in her tone caught Greg off guard. He frantically tried to come up with a reasonable explanation, his mind racing. But before he could fully formulate his thoughts, his mouth ran away from him as it often does in moments like these.

"I was trying to figure out what you meant by that and figured because you looked good it probably wasn't something physical, or you would have to take more time to fix your look, but you're here too early for that, and I remembered that you're always on top of our English class and your eyes have a bit of strain on the corners, so I thought it was something you had to look at a lot, so I thought of books!"

The words tumbled out in a rush, and Greg immediately wished he could take them back. 'You failure,' he berated himself silently. 'I take my time to think of a nice, reasonable explanation, and you skim me to give that sort of shit!' He silently cursed his panicked body as he rambled on about how he figured things out. Only he was able to keep just enough of himself restrained that he didn't go fully in-depth in the process of how he came to that conclusion.

Taylor stared at him, blinking rapidly as she processed his verbal onslaught. After a moment, she spoke, her voice tinged with a mix of confusion and what might have been some amusement. "I see… well, yeah, I was reading The Metamorphosis. It's a pretty cool book…" She said with a bit of a nod, her eyes moving away from him, drifting through the surrounding crowd as if keeping watch for something.

Greg, sensing an opportunity to extend their conversation, jumped in. "It sounds pretty cool. I wouldn't mind trying to find it in the library, but I can never figure out that place. Dewey decimal system my ass." He paused, realizing he'd just sworn in front of her, and quickly tried to salvage the situation. "But uh, if you're free, maybe you could help me out?" He almost cringed at a little tone of his own voice but he steadies himself.

It was far more subtle than most of his requests to hang out usually were, and he admittedly felt very odd asking about it right now. He could have asked more overtly, but he didn't have that much faith in himself at the moment.

Taylor seemed a bit distracted, looking around the two of them before coming back into focus. Her mouth screwed up in thought before she slowly nodded. "Alright, sure. I guess I'll be free after about third hour. I just need to get some stuff from my locker before then."

Greg's heart soared. 'Here it is! Victory has come to Greg Veder on this day!' he thought triumphantly. 'Alright, now it's just a cleanup. As long as you don't act too weird or excited, you can take this home easy. You just need to ease it in…' He ignored the light heartbeat in his ears, focusing instead on not messing up this golden opportunity he had in front of him.

"Oh, awesome," he said, his voice pitched higher than he intended. "I guess I'll see you then? Oh, um, I mean I'll see you in second period too, I mean, 'cause we have that class together too, but uh, yeah, I'll see you then!" His voice was chipper, more so than when they first started talking. He backed up, waving to Taylor as he walked away, feeling giddy as a schoolgirl.

As he made his way to his first class, Greg's mind was buzzing with excitement. 'Not the best comparison, certainly doesn't help with my perception of myself, but to hell with that, I'm on cloud fucking nine!' With a grin, he moved past the hefty crowds, his backpack resting squarely on his shoulders.

He let his mind wander a bit, since it was just a review day after all. 'I'd end up in the principal's office, then they'd send me back out, and I'd get a talking-to from the Empire, or some ABB thug would shoot me in the head. Or maybe a Merchant would try to stick me with a needle. Even if they didn't, everyone would suddenly see me as a parahuman, not just a person.' He shook his head like he was trying to get rid of the thoughts, the movement subtle enough not to draw attention from his classmates or Mr. Lincoln.

The reality of Brockton Bay's awful gang situation weighed heavily on Greg's mind. The ever-present threat of the Empire 88, the ABB, and the Merchants loomed over every aspect of life in the city, even more so for someone with powers. The thought of being outed as a parahuman sent a chill down his spine and ice through his veins.

'I could do it, but it'd be really stupid. I got other options.' The thought came with him going back into his head, his eyes glazing over as he retreated into his inner world.

Suddenly, he saw a hazy outline of himself laid over his vision, a strange manifestation of his power that he was still getting used to. Sitting in his middle was a small token he'd thought about using for a while now, but it was a one-time thing. He wasn't sure exactly how long it'd last, but if he used this token, he'd get the powers of the person he fought back then, for a little while.

The memory of that fight flickered through his mind the fear, the adrenaline, the sudden surge of power that had both terrified and exhilarated him. 'I wonder what happened to that guy. He's prob'ly having a hell of a time in jail. Whatever, I ain't gonna waste his power like this. If I'm gonna use it, it'll be when I really need it, maybe in a big cape fight.' With a small shake, he shifted his focus away from his own self-portrait, the image fading from his vision.

His hand had slid under the desk without him realizing it, and he could feel the thing he'd made a coin formed from hard light in his palm. The slightly warm, ethereal presence against his skin was a constant reminder of his abilities. This wasn't just any coin, but a physical manifestation of the token he'd seen within himself, a real and tangible connection to his power.

'I didn't even notice… Have I not been using my power enough? I just took it to the boat graveyard to test how sharp it was on some scrap metal. Was that not enough? It was enough a few days ago…'

His eyes narrowed, a furrow appearing between his brows as he pondered this development. The hard light coin seemed to pulse slightly in his hand, as if responding to his thoughts. 'Does it want more or somethin'? Powers don't want anythin', though; it's just a power. So why's it so touchy? Will it… will it do more if I give it what it wants? Will I wanna use it more and more?'

He snorted at the idea, the sound thankfully covered by the drone of Mr. Lincoln's voice. But the deep feeling in his stomach almost hurt, and the way he silently gritted his teeth said a lot about what he thought of it. The idea that his power might have a will of its own, that it might be influencing his thoughts and actions, was deeply unsettling. The hard light coin in his hand seemed to grow warmer, as if reacting to his inner turmoil.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of equations and half-heard explanations. Before Greg knew it, the bell was ringing, signaling the end of the first period.

The second and third periods went by almost too fast, with the second being his favorite so far. Usually, Ms. Dalton's class was his favorite of the two because she didn't often give much homework and stuck to just discussion.

'Which means I can typically either avoid that entirely or say something once or twice and let everyone else carry the topic from there, not much, but it got us by the classes,' Greg thought to himself, a small smile playing on his lips. But that wasn't the case this time. Whatever had been happening at the beginning of the day, Taylor had a real chance to show her grit in Mr. Mire's class.

A smile flitted across his face as he recalled the scene. 'She was awesome… held that discussion and ended up tying the bastard up in his own words.' He could feel a little chuckle coming from his throat at that memory. English class was a show today, and he couldn't help but not care about anything else.

'Not like Mr. Mire has done anything to make me care,' Greg mused, his grin turning a bit shark-like. 'Taylor finally putting him in his place was… satisfying.' Mr. Mire was one of those teachers who treated Greg like he was an idiot. Acting as if he was some sort of excuse to make the class drag on, which certainly hadn't helped his position in the social hierarchy.

Speaking of fire, though, he practically skipped through the halls from Ms. Dalton's room, his excitement palpable. 'I think normally it'd be a mood killer to be held back by your teacher for a bit of a talk, but I can just head Taylor off at her locker,' he thought, strategizing. 'How should I apologize for being late, though? Oh wait, maybe I can even use this as a chance to flirt!'

He had only processed the thought when his stomach twisted up and his tongue swelled, the cloud-nine smile shrinking to a small grimace. The physical reaction to his own idea surprised him, a stark reminder of his own social anxiety.

'Nope, okay 10-4 buddy, no flirting, just begging for her forgiveness.' He couldn't help the small snort that came from his nose as he walked down the stairs toward the hallway, but he was close enough for it to matter.

Yet as he entered the hallway, maybe twenty seconds from the locker, a scream echoed through the air. It was raw and shrill, and everything in him screamed that it was wrong. Immediately, his heart started to pick up, and he could feel the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears.

Instinct alone had him panicked. He ignored the watering of his eyes that caused a dull sting in them, his body moving him on its own. But the crowd told him everything that he needed to know.

It was all surrounding a single locker that shook with a form inside of it. Bits of… something… and what looked like a dead bug were on the ground. Now only a handful of feet from the locker, he could smell the vile that sat confined by the metallic prison that held…

His body shook, everything felt wrong, and there was a crease in his mind. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as an awful realization dawned on him.

'How dare they laugh upon'r,' a voice in his head growled, slipping into an almost Shakespearean cadence. 'These fools, they circle as vultures towards the unsinew'd, how would they react to one who is firm-set? Would they find themselves banished from thy presence? They deserve so much more than just banishment, so thou should'st rip their chaps from their mouth.'

His hand twitched with every laugh, every giggle, and chuckle. Every scathing word that came second by second as he walked through the crowd, all cut off as he approached the locker, his mind a harsh whirl of rage and confusion.

Suddenly people were quiet as the buzzing grew louder in his ears. 'Today was going wonderfully, you were so full of hope, how goes't ,that emotions can change so apace, can I not have a day?' The stark contrast between his earlier joy and current horror made him feel dizzy.

Sophia was speaking, but the buzzing didn't let him hear her. She was even getting angry as he stood there unmoving, her face quickly contorting with rage. 'What do I even do here? Doth I rip the unsinew'd from piece to piece, that wouldn't end well, getting a teacher might help, they physically cannot ignore this incident. More than that, I just need to get her out of that locker.'

He had a plan now, or the bare-bones of one. 'Mr. Gladly is up next, I can just as easily go over to him and tell him.' The thought of involving a teacher, of following the proper channels, gave him a moment of stark clarity amidst the chaos.

Yet Sophia had moved forward by now, annoyed by his standing there unmoved. She was moving to hit him, and things just clicked. 'Maybe I was judging my line of thought too much, no way in hell, I just let them go.'

He moved just a bit left, remembering dodging too far the last time he fought, and how that made his retaliation too slow. They were able to block and turn the tables on him then, but that wouldn't be happening this time. 'I can't rip them from piece to piece, yet 'Tis no trial would I rip her chaps from her mouth.'

His fist came quick, faster than many would be able to react. In that split second, a moment of horror washed over him. 'That's a bad thought, shit, no, I can't out myself here. No fuck that I can't kill her because she's a bitch, hold back, hold back right the fuck now!'

Yet it was too late. His fist came and cracked against her face, the sound one that snapped the buzzing away, and suddenly the whispers became all the louder. Sophia stepped back a few steps, a growl on her lips as she made more distance between the two of them, aided by the fact that Greg didn't try to follow up on the punch to the face.

Suddenly thrown back into reality, Greg had time to go through things, his adrenaline pumping, and he wondered where that started. Giving his mind the power to think things over, aided by the fact that Sophia also wasn't doing anything.

'That punch was too strong,' he realized, horror dawning on him. 'I was too late to hold back on it, a hit like that should have snapped her jaw, no fuck that a punch like that should have spun her head right off of her shoulders. She should be dead right now, laying in a puddle of blood on the ground.'

Reality stared him in the face, cold and unforgiving. He pulled his hand back and got ready, feeling his muscles tense, ready for the moment he had once waited excitedly for, and that he now despaired against. The thought moved through his mind as he locked his blue eyes with her brown, and he knew that she had realized it too.

Both of them accurately identified the other, the realization hitting them like a physical blow. 'Parahuman. Sophia Hess is a parahuman.' The thought was poison in his mind that he couldn't afford to focus on.

'This complicates things so much.'

Chapter Text

They stood there for a bit and Greg could see a kid or two breaking off from the crowd out of the corner of his eye even as some stupid kids started chanting fight over and over again. 'They're going to go get the teacher, damn. Need to deal with this quickly, mom will kill me if I get in trouble on my first day back.'

That was a mistake his body tried to rectify, pulling his eyes toward the target, who was now only just inches away. He tried to move and there was already a fist in his gut, and it hurt, for the first time in a while, but unlike his hit, hers didn't look like it was a powerful hit.

'Shit, she's experienced.' He pulled his stomach in, folding himself inward. He clenched his stomach, holding her fist there as he tried to bring a knee up to hit her elbow, but she was already moving around his left. Rather than attempting to pull away, she was using the grip his stomach had on her fist to try to wrap around him. 'Is she trying to grapple me?'

Loosening his gut allowed him to spin opposite of her, exposing his back for a part of a second. This would be a bad thing but, she was trying to grapple him, not hit his weak points. The sudden movement allowed him to outstretch his arm and clothesline her. He was taller than her by a bit, which is mostly why despite difficulty lifting his arm, he still slammed into the top of her ribs, just below her collarbone and neck.

He could hear her gasp and knew she wasn't as durable as he was. 'Not that it matters, this is now a shit situation for both of us, I've awakened for… fuck don't think about how long, she's much more experienced. I can't hold back as well, so I have to hold back more otherwise I get outed. But it's not like she can be reckless either, she has to-'

A sudden slam drew his attention back to the locker, and he grits his teeth as he remembers he's not the only important person here. 'Taylor.'

He moved forward, his goals were getting reprioritized in his mind, 'She's right-hand dominant has to be given she didn't trust herself to hit me with her left hand. So going in at an angle should force her to throw a cross-'

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the shuffle of clothing, someone was trying to jump him. Without a thought he ducked a bit, twisting his body he made certain to hold back this time, he didn't want a death on his hands. He used maybe a quarter, maybe even less of the force he had just used on Sophia.

All he saw was a flash of red hair, a hand had moved by his face that he only barely dodged with his sudden spin. He brought a hand up and cracked the back of it across the face in a backhand that caused an even louder roar of horror, shock, excitement, and bloodlust from the surrounding crowd.

It was barely a tap in Greg's perspective, yet she went down nonetheless, fully crumpling in on herself and Greg felt something twitch inside of him, 'Shit I held back too much, is that enough to keep her down?'

Even so, he continued the movement, 'Sophia was moving towards me when I got distracted she's got three targets, either my back, the back of my head, or my legs. With the power we're throwing around she wouldn't go for the back of my head even with my durability that can be really dangerous, my back wouldn't do enough damage so she'll go for the legs for sure!'

So as he continued the spinning motion he had built, he lept, hands outstretching where she should have been in the vague hope that he could grab something to move him forward more. The momentum of his spin was moving him forward already, but he didn't think it would be enough to push him fully over Sophia.

He hit something, one of his hands landed on her head while the other landed a bit below her shoulder. Greg couldn't get a good grip from that with his hand slipping on the shirt, but the head gave him just enough grip for the maneuver, and he pushed himself forward. He could feel something brush along the end of his shoe, and that was probably how close he had been to hitting Sophia on the way down.

'Would have been satisfying, but that's not the target here.'

Yet not everything could go so perfectly, as he landed he stumbled a bit his foot suddenly taking a break to touch his ankle sending a jolt of pure hot pain through him. He hobbled up, his head looking back to see Sophia had landed on the ground and was scrambling to get herself back up off the floor.

Yet he also saw past her, he saw someone pushing through the crowd. That was most likely a teacher given the way the crowd was moving, and Greg knew that Sophia wouldn't want to stick around if the teacher was coming through. 'She'll probably head over to the girl I hit earlier, and the teacher will focus on her. If I can just get the locker opened, then I'll have a second person for them to focus on in all this.'

Greg hobbled over to the locker, pain jolting through him with every single step. He reached it, his hand grasping at the lock as he tried to get his balance. Standing there he tried to remember her locker number, 'Fuck okay, what was it, what did the note have again? Left two times to 23, right one to 7, and then left once to… 15, or was it 18? Shit, just going to have to try them both.'

He could have thanked the trio for giving out her locker number to everyone, but he preferred to just spit on them from where he was now.

In a rush, Greg adjusted the lock clumsily, 'Come on open you stupid thing!' He growled at himself, if only he'd put more effort into learning the number.

'That would be hyper-intrusive though and majorly creepy, actually is it good that you're showing you don't remember her locker number? Like how would the conversation afterward go, "oh hey yeah, I got you out of that locker by using the code I remember for your locker! Why do I know that? Uh… reasons." That surely wouldn't go too well.'

Rather than helping, all Greg felt was more and more anger at his own internal dialogue, this was the reason he couldn't help her. As he continually tried to enter the code he was only met with failure, after half a minute of this Greg saw the teacher look up and begin to say something. That combined with the fact that Taylor had suddenly stopped crashing into the side of the locker was enough for Greg to move his hand over to the latch.

'Oh, enough of this!' With that, he made a sharp jerk upwards, the metal crashing against the metal as the shitty-made locker snapped. Then the innards of the locker spewed outwards in their putrid "glory" a brown and lightly green mess of old tampons, tissues, and menstrual pads, caked and mixed with a yellowish fluid that could only be her vomit. Among the festering mass of it all, Taylor fell out.

'Oh my god, that smell-' He felt himself lurch forward as he grits his teeth holding himself back from vomiting as he moves quickly. His arms went around her to catch her from suddenly falling, caking his own limbs in that same awful putrid mixture while giving him a good look at Taylor. It was so much to take in.

She was trembling, the first thing he noticed was that her muscles twitched and writhed under his arms and despite this, they felt really warm. It would be comforting if not for the added moistness of her skin that squelched as he held her tighter. There were products stuck to her shaken loose from her skin as she stumbled about, leaning on him for balance. 'Thank god she wore such covering clothing.'

Taylor's face was smeared with a bit of shit, likely from one of the tissues he had seen, and her glasses were now cracked, fracturing her shaking eyes. The brown gems that had always been so bold: that had been confident and fierce just an hour or so ago: lay shattered like her glasses, and she was in his arms.

For a moment she felt very fragile, and then she started thrashing as if identifying him as a threat. She thrashed and crashed against him again and again, her arms lashing out, and he marveled at just how weak they felt. He watched them with how slowly they were coming to his chest and he couldn't help but think 'This is it, this is the power of awakening… what we have over people.'

His body shivered at the thought, and as the crowd was disassembled by the teachers coming in he whispered to her, "Taylor, it's all right, we got you out, you're free, relax, you won't go back in. No one will make you go back in there, you just need to take a breath and relax." His words did barely anything for a moment, yet it only took half a minute, and the teachers were wrapping up with the crowd, so he was hoping it would be quick for her to calm down. Yet her eyes still trembled, and her body copied just as easily.

He took a deep breath in, his eyes connected to hers, 'No… I was right earlier. She's fragile right now, so I need to be careful. What should I say next? Let's… let's just try to reassure her more.'

His mouth opened a slight bit, but he found the breath caught by his mind, and his attempt to speak cut off with just a slight hitch. Her eyes despite that never left him in those dark black pits he could only see his failure, he could only see what he couldn't be.

He was snapped out of his thoughts with the sound of skin hitting the floor and a small, thick, almost sounding splash. Looking over, Greg saw Mrs. Dalton, one of the rare heartthrobs of the school that managed to deal with the regular harassment without getting into relations with her students.

She slipped on a brownish liquid, different from the regular yellow of the locker vomit. 'It must have been another student, but that's weird. The only time I saw something that could have been that was… oh it must have been that guy that hunched over like a minute ago or so. So that's why a few teachers went over to him, I just thought he was just against leaving.'

Despite that initial thought, it makes far more sense than his initial assumptions. His eyes went back down to Taylor, who was looking far more disturbed than normal in his arms.

'Wait… something about that's wrong. Oh right, she's in my arms, and I'm still holding her decently tight.' A moment was all it took for his eyes to widen he began to stutter as he loosened and backed up, Taylor now seemingly right enough to stand on her own.

"I'm, sorry, I was just- you looked like you were about to fall over." His mouth shut as he looked away, the smell permeating the room and the moist feeling on his arms being the main issues holding him back from truly enjoying what he had just done here.

"Uh, Greg, okay I'm fine, oh my god you have that on you. Okay, Uhm, Ms. Hebert from Mr. Kiln's Art class, right? Well either way, we need to get you to the nurse, or that might not be the best idea…" A voice suddenly intruded on the conversation, that being Ms. Dalton, Greg's Art teacher. Greg couldn't help the small downward twitch of his lips, the heavy pumping of his heart subsided.

He turned to the red-haired woman, looking flustered for having slipped in the pile of vomit and shaking off her foot and skirt leg. "I'm sorry ma'am, I don't know what came over me just-" He was cut off by the woman raising her hand to shut him up.

"Look Greg I don't know what happened and to be frank I don't want to know. You, Taylor, and the two others involved in this little fight are dismissed from class today. Tomorrow in place of your first hour you will be expected to meet with Principal Blackwell along with your parents where we will discuss this mess in further detail." She says sharply, interrupting him with a look that… did nothing. It was crazy how little he was afraid now that they had just demonstrated to him what they could do.

They were nothing compared to his sheer power, not even his ability, and both Emma and Taylor had seen that. The thought of it caused a shiver to run through him once again, new fear now flushed through his veins.

'How dangerous am I?' The thought was silenced as he merely nodded to his teacher, "Uhm ma'am may I have permission to escort Taylor to the locker room, and to use it myself, I feel like I really need it."

He says it slowly giving her more of the power here, letting her lead, yet she glared at him first, almost as she was deliberating his words. "Very well, but I and Mr. Quinlan will escort the two of you, we will wait outside the lockers, but we will be there nonetheless, and the moment you are done you will be evicted from the premises until tomorrow, am I understood young man?"

Her voice leaves no room for deliberation, so he merely nods to her.

Cleaning up was… awkward. The showers were empty this time at least, but he wasn't able to be in there for too long. Yet, despite having been under the nice warm water, it felt as if there was still a layer of the ooze on his skin.

'God, if this is how I'm doing, then what the hell are you going through right now, Taylor?' He felt his gut twist again, that same wrenching feeling, that same ick that was permeating his very being. His body shivered in anger, then, 'Fucking Sophia.'

Speaking of the bitch, he looked inwards towards his center, where a second token now laid, "Alright… I don't know how that counted as me winning, but I guess this works out for me." A shit eating grin split his face, despite the situation, the surge of power that holding that token in his mind's hand gave him such a rush.

'Some sort of particle dispersion power held together by an odd sort of signal overlay, it's got some sort of weakness though, maybe to something like fire? Either way it's weird the token is… somehow rougher? It's worn and used, yet still detailed. Are these engravings?' It didn't make sense, but for some reason this power felt older than the other one he had before was.

'I did beat him after he just awoke, is that the reason?' He studied the two of them from his place leaned against the wall. Understandably, Taylor was taking longer than he had, and he was sitting there at the entrance, he wanted to be there when she left, wanted to talk to her.

'Damn it, I can't even focus on my power… well admittedly might be able to focus on the other one, but there's no way I can use that one secretly… I think?' He tilted his head a bit; it wasn't something he had thought of before.

'Not like you can blame me, who gets that sort of power and thinks about how to use it in a sneaky way?' That line of thought is interrupted by the doors opening and she was there. Her old clothing was discarded for a simple long sleeved black t-shirt. The shirt was the kind to be worn by some of the more promiscuous girls, and clearly showed far more skin than she was really used to. Additionally, she had a nice pair of simple slacks, she had some of the old cleats that the school kept in case of a sporting incident which didn't seem to quite fit her feet.

'But her old clothes aren't anywhere, did they try to keep them for evidence maybe?' Either way Greg sat up a bit of a smile, but it was damp, he tried to put more into it but found he just… couldn't. It felt far too wrong to smile at her now.

"Hey Taylor." The greeting was simple, yet there hung an undertone he wanted to bring out, yet every question he could maybe ask flew over his head, he couldn't grasp which would be right in this scenario.

"What is it, Greg… why are you even still here? You could get the cops called on you if you stick around the school too long after getting evicted." Her voice was quick, it had a tremble to it, yet it still struck him right where he was.

"I… I wanted to ask if I could walk you back home. Sophia and uh the red hair one, Emma right, Emma got evicted too." As he spoke he noted how while she didn't react to Sophia too much, she did react rather violently to Emma's name, her head pulling back almost as if she had been struck by a fist.

"Sorry just… I don't want them to think of trying something on you while you're heading back home." He spoke, yet he held back, 'dammit, just say you're worried, it's not that big of a deal!' Yet his mouth held itself tight. It felt far more intimate than he felt he deserved.

She looked at him, her body while hunched. She was leaning back a bit as she swayed further than normal forward before moving a bit at an angle like a messed up spinning top. For a time it was quiet, Taylor stared at him and he looked back. It was getting a bit awkward waiting in silence, but she finally broke it by nodding her head.

"Sure… sorry, I know that was getting awkward just, it's a lot right now." She looked like she wanted to say more on it, but she just walked up to him, and he shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, I understand. You're exhausted, I don't need to talk just uh, lemme know if you want to talk about, like homework or something. Or hell, even if you just want me to talk at you, lord knows I end up doing that around people enough anyway." His smile consisted, even brightening a little bit at the acknowledgement she gave him.

'I wish you knew how much I understood. I wanted to just get home and collapse then too, when… yeah, I wish I could talk to you about how much I understand it.' He received no verbal answer, yet she looked at him, her eyes finally meeting his own, he could see the sense, how that once dull light had sharpened once more with intelligence.

Taylor Hebert may not be back yet, but she would surely recover, the beat in his ears had grown just barely audible by the time she nodded, before looking away from him and beginning her way.

It ended up being a bit of a longer walk than Greg remembered it being, given they had to walk around the crater. It was always filled to the brim with tourists around this time so heading through would have probably taken longer than just going around normally does.

'Admittedly not the most entertaining walk, but I don't think I really mind. It's been a while since I smelled the uh, somewhat maintained grass and wildflowers.' The thought of it was rather funny, really, but he didn't dwell on it much.

As they walked into what Greg could only assume was her neighborhood, Taylor spoke, "So… when did you start going to the gym?"

Greg was almost immediately thrown for a bit of a loop by the question, 'The gym? Well, I mean, I've been working out for the past three days, but I haven't been using a gym.'

"I didn't, but I've been working out for a little bit, it's been doing me good!" He grinned as he looked at her, inquisitive eyes looked back at him, eyes that were far too curious for his own good. Immediately he thought back to what had been said so far and found his core mistake, she had been in the locker, 'Does she remember me breaking the latch?'

A chill ran down his spine, "I'm a bit of a freak though, or at least that's what my dad said." It was covering his ass, but he was panicking a bit and didn't know what to do now.

"That's cool, maybe you could show me your personal routine sometime, I think… I could stand to be a bit stronger." She says, casually, enough so he thinks he may need to doubt if she was actually on to him, but at the same time.

"Absolutely, do you want to maybe meet after school on Thursday, imagining we still end up having school on Thursday given what those bitches may say." The scathing remark seems to draw a smirk that shifts to a frown, as if uncertain as to what to classify his words as, funny or just disturbing.

He looked as she turned towards a house, one that could only have been hers, given how she appeared to confidently stride towards it. The house had no car in the driveway, yet she talked still.

"You're right, I don't really know what I'm supposed to do with that. They've already told me they need dad there, and I don't want to stress him out more than he already is, then there's the fact that nothing is really going to happen at the meeting. At worst, they get a suspension or something and god knows what they'll do with that…" As she got to the porch of the house, it seemed whatever she was thinking had toiled in her mind, stumbling out of her lips while they were there.

She stood there for a moment just looking at the door and Greg felt his stomach turning, he couldn't imagine what she was feeling, and more than that she sounded so… hopeless, he wanted to give her some hope. Yet he just stayed quiet, 'What else can I do? I can't out myself…'

"Not even in school. They're going to be out, for multiple days, they could mess with the land, could plant signs for us here, or maybe just come in and fuck up everything, or… or…" She shook, fear in her voice as it choked itself out, and the twist in Greg's gut was too bad, he just couldn't take it anymore.

"Taylor. Maybe…" His talking had grabbed her attention pulled her from her muttering, from her shaking and her eyes looked at his, desperation latching for him.

"I think I can help." Without another thought towards the matter, he locked eyes with her and brought his hand up to her. His hand was cupped in a sort of semicircle, because of that only Taylor could actually see the inside of his palm. Or at least he hoped so, otherwise he was in a seriously unfortunate situation.

Taylor could watch as light began to bleed from the surrounding of his hand, causing the area around there to darken. Greg watched closely as the light rippled in small waves, the heat from it flowing through his veins as he pulled at it with his power.

As the light bled it turned into a soft, yet sharp-edged light blue, Greg pushed a picture in his hand. A simple one of a dollar coin and the light solidified in the form of a common Dollar Coin at the center of his palm.

The coin was smooth yet had the standard engravings Greg had come to associate with coins, and cool to the touch. The edges of the coin however were grooved and in the center a picture of Hero. The picture was framed with a wide smile, it was originally meant to be a special edition of dollar coins, but after his death the image stuck around. The government said it was in memoriam, the date engraved on the bottom was 1953.

She stopped, she looked at it, her eyes glancing from his hand to him as he simply held the coin out to her. Slowly she grabbed it, bringing it up, she rubbed her thumb on the image of Hero's face with her fingernail getting caught on the date, she examined everything about it from where she stood, practically slack jawed from it.

"Greg, this… you're a…" He held his hand up stopping her from continuing just smiling a bit, he wasn't sure what really to do, and the awkward nature bled into his actions.

"We can talk about it inside, if uhm, if I can come in that is?" He asked, shuffling a bit, that nervousness suddenly on full display. 'God I look like a little kid telling his teacher he spilled some glue, grow a spine man!'

Without another word, though, she let him in. Greg stepped into the Hebert household, immediately struck by the lived-in feel of the place. The entryway opens into a modest living room, its walls adorned with faded family photos and worn, comfortable furniture. A large bookshelf dominated one wall, packed with an eclectic mix of titles that spoke to varied interests.

The air held a slight mustiness, as if the house hadn't been thoroughly aired out in some time. Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon light filtering through partially drawn curtains. Greg noticed a few empty spots on shelves and side tables, places where decorative items or photos might have once stood, hinting at a gradual decluttering – or perhaps a reluctance to maintain these old memories.

Taylor led him to the living room, gesturing vaguely towards an old, overstuffed armchair while she sank into the corner of a well-worn couch. The springs creaked softly under their weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Greg perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair, his eyes darting around the room, taking in details while trying not to seem like he was prying too much.

They sat in there for a while, looking at each other, the silence thick and heavy between them. Greg felt hyper-aware of every small sound – the tick of a clock on the mantle, the distant hum of a refrigerator, the occasional car passing outside. The atmosphere was charged with an odd mix of tension and exhaustion, both of them still processing the events of the day.

Taylor's posture was guarded, her arms wrapped around herself as if for protection. Her eyes, usually so expressive, seemed distant and unfocused. Greg found himself at a loss, wanting to offer comfort but unsure how, especially given the new dynamic his revelation had created between them.

He opened his mouth several times to speak, but each time thought better of it, letting the silence stretch on. It was all that could really happen, this awkward, shared quiet, until Taylor finally spoke up, her voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.

"So you're a parahuman," she said, her tone a mix of wonder and wariness. "I uh, it makes sense why you were able to just crunch through the latch then…" She paused, her eyes finally focusing on Greg with an intensity that made him want to squirm. "When did it happen, how'd you even get powers?"

Despite himself, Greg flinched, 'Starting on a hard one… sounds about right, not like I could catch a break if I tried.'

"It happened at the start of Winter Break. Almost the exact first day, I uh, would rather not talk about the details of it right now, it's still a little raw for me." She seemed to blink at that, which means she doesn't know what actually happened but whatever.

"Right, I'm sorry then. I don't really know what to say, is this your power? Like the whole light to items thing?" Taylor seemed incredibly interested which was admittedly pretty cool to Greg, he'd never really felt this seen before, and it was nice to see he wasn't the only one who geeked out over powers when presented with them.

"Uhm, not really. My actual 'main' power is just hard to show to people, basically I uh, when I fight a parahuman and win I get a "Token" that I can then use." He didn't exactly have a better way to put it then that, it's what they appeared to be for him at least.

"While I have a token I get a basic idea of any powers the person has, and if I use the token then I get those powers for roughly 24 hours. That's uh… well that's it for those powers, oh yeah I can only have one power set active at once, I feel like I could try two but… well I haven't had much ability to really test it out." He says rather simply, he wished he could give her more, but honestly that was all he really knew himself.

Then he grinned, "But yeah I awakened at the same time as someone else, as far as I can tell because of that I managed to get a little bonus power out of it, he likely got the same, but he's in jail so screw him!" A grin across Greg's face as he talked about it more.

He gestured to the coin that Taylor had in her hand, "the power he gave me is super cool though! It's like, there's light all around us and I can kind of see it but when I try to touch it I can like draw it into my hands, then I just need to picture something physical and boom! I will get an exact copy of the item just as I imagined it." He was proud of his power, and the excitement he had while explaining it to someone for the first time was honestly amazing.

She shakes her head a bit holding them up as she does, "Hold on now, just, wait a second. Backing up a little, what do you mean by 'awakened'?" She seemed a bit confused, and he couldn't blame her fully for it.

"Oh that's on me, sorry it's what I call the point where you gain powers, it's an… interesting experience, like you opened your eyes, then opened them again and suddenly everything about you is all different." A bit of a smile flitted across his lips thinking about the change.

"That sounds incredible. But… why tell me about all of this? Why would you just give me all of this information, hell, why would you even reveal yourself as a parahuman at all?" She sounded almost accusatory, her eyes narrowed to stare at him, attempting to discern his true intentions here.

"I… I want to help. Showing you this, telling you about this, it's all important to me trying to help you. I- admittedly, can't do too much. I'm a parahuman, but my power isn't all that developed just yet." He found his head sliding across the back of his head, his mouth screwing together into a tight frown.

"But, you'll help me, right? You're stronger than normal people, you can use your power in small ways too. You could help protect me from them at school and walk me home after, right?" She sounds almost desperate as she tries to come up with ways he could help out.

"I can do that, yeah absolutely, but I may not be able to do it all the time though. Plus, we don't have too many classes together, and I can't be with you all the time because I live on the other side of here. Along with that, it's… there's another big issue." He feels the sigh passing through his nose as he grimaces while Taylor locks gaze with confusion, hurt, and something else that he couldn't identify mixing and turns towards him.

"Sophia is a parahuman. I don't know if she's a cape, but I was using absolutely above human strength, and she took it without getting her jaw broken from it. I think I could keep her off of you by just sort of being there, but she may get involved in my personal life, hell she may even bring other capes in to try to get me." He twitched as he said it, some worry and faint fear starting to rush into his veins.

'I don't want to give her false hope, that would make things… so much worse, but I can still help her!' He cleared his throat, she looked so… hopeless, looking down, her eyes were covered by her long bangs now.

"But… you know what I have, you're smarter than I am by a mile! If you think of anything that I can help with, just… let me know, please?" He pleaded with her, yet she didn't look at him, only slowly nodding in his rough direction.

"Okay. I… I'll do that, Greg. Thank you, I'll think about it and… see you tomorrow." She nodded as she said it, but there was just something wrong in her tone as she spoke.

Slowly he nodded before walking out the door, he paused at the frame, looking back, and his eyes came into contact with hers. They held it for a moment, then walked away. 'Damn, Greg, you're so fucking stupid! You just, I, AUGH. Should I have given her some real hope? I could have said things differently, at least I'm sure! The whole point of you telling her you were a parahuman was to give her hope!'

He beat himself up about it for a moment as he walked from the porch. His hands clenched, the fingernails digging into his hands almost puncturing his palm, the pain brought him some sort of focus, it wasn't rough.

He growled at himself, letting some of that self-loathing out, he wanted to punch something. Greg' own mug was a tempting target if he were being honest. 'But I gave it to her straight, I don't want to just say I can fix everything for you then bam! I can't do jack and-'

Then he was falling, a sensation so unexpected it caught Greg completely off guard. His body, usually so quick to react, seemed to move in slow motion as he stumbled forward. The ground rushed up to meet him, and before he knew it, his hands were splayed out in front of him, scraping against the rough concrete of the sidewalk.

The impact came, his palms hitting the ground first, followed by his knees and chest. Greg felt the pressure, the texture of the sidewalk against his skin, but as expected, there was no pain there wasn't so much as a scrape even. What shocked him wasn't the lack of injury, but the fact that he had fallen at all.

'What the hell?' Greg thought, his mind reeling not from pain, but from sheer confusion. 'Did I just blank out or something?' He lay there for a moment, pressed against the sidewalk, trying to process what had just happened. His durability was nothing new – he'd tested it extensively since his awakening. But his enhanced reflexes and strength usually prevented him from stumbling over himself like this in the first place.

'Dammit Greg, you know how to walk, don't you!' he chastised himself, embarrassment coloring his thoughts. 'Well, whatever. Stupid feet being stupid.' But even as he tried to brush it off, a part of him knew this was odd. His powers had always made him more graceful, more in control of his body. This clumsy fall felt like a step backward for him.

Standing himself up, Greg brushed off his clothes more out of habit than necessity. He gave himself a little shake, confirming what he already knew – no injuries, not even a scratch. It was odd though; looking back, he saw the stairs leading up to Taylor's porch. It looked like he had tripped on literally the last step, a small lip of concrete that had somehow caught him unawares.

Narrowing his eyes, Greg stared at that last step, a frown creasing his forehead. How had he missed that? His enhanced senses and reflexes should have easily compensated for such a minor obstacle. Was he just more distracted than he'd realized? Or was something else going on?

For a brief moment, he considered going back to examine the step more closely. Was there something unusual about it? Some hidden trap or power at work? But as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. 'You're being paranoid, Greg,' he told himself. 'It was just a stupid trip. It happens.'

Shaking his head, Greg forced himself to turn away from the stairs. 'I need to get home,' he reminded himself. 'Mom's gonna be worried, not to mention I've got a lot I need to do tonight.'

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the worn streets of Brockton Bay. Greg Veder trudged along the cracked sidewalks, his fingers absently scratching at his scalp. To the casual observer, it might have seemed a harmless gesture, but those who knew Greg well would recognize it as a telltale sign of his mounting frustration.

The city around him buzzed with the usual cacophony of urban life, car horns blaring in the distance, the chatter of pedestrians filtering through open shop doors, and the occasional rumble of a delivery truck navigating the narrow streets. But Greg was oblivious to it all, lost in the whirlwind of his thoughts.

'I need to go on a patrol,' he mused, his internal voice tinged with a mix of determination and anxiety. 'It sucks, I'm not ready for this at all. Right now I'm untrained, underpowered, don't have a proper costume, and my power isn't developed at all. I mean, what if I run into Lung? Or Hookwolf? Or worse, what if I run into someone lame like Uber and Leet and still get my butt kicked? That would be so embarrassing. Maybe I should start with jaywalkers. Is that even illegal here? Note to self: look up Brockton Bay jaywalking laws…'

He let out a snort at his own rambling thoughts, the sudden sound startling a nearby pigeon pecking at discarded food wrappers. It took flight, wings flapping noisily against the urban backdrop, a blur of gray against the faded brick buildings. Greg shook his head, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The irony wasn't lost on him, even, the birds seemed more prepared for sudden action than he did.

His eyes flicked upward, squinting against the fading sunlight that filtered through the gaps between buildings. 'About 4:15,' he estimated, noting how the golden hour was beginning to paint the city in warm hues. 'This little quest took longer than I planned.' The weight of his earlier conversation with Taylor still hung heavy in his mind, a constant reminder of the complexities of his new life.

'Taylor…' he thought, his chest tightening. 'I want to help her, I really do. But what if I just make things worse? What if I can't protect her? What if she finds out I'm just… me?' He shook his head, trying to dispel the doubts. 'No, I have to try. She deserves that much.'

As he walked, Greg passed a small corner store, its windows plastered with faded posters advertising lottery tickets and discount cigarettes. The bell above the door jingled as a customer exited, the scent of stale tobacco and artificial air freshener wafting out onto the street. It was a familiar smell, one that seemed to permeate much of the city's less affluent areas.

Greg's eyes were drawn to an ancient computer sitting in the store window, its bulky CRT monitor a relic of a long bygone era. 'Geez, that thing belongs in a museum. I bet I could overclock it to run Doom, though. Might be fun to try if I ever need to hack into some villain's retro lair.' He chuckled at the absurd thought, his fingers itching to try to tinker with the outdated machine. With a lowercase t of course, he didn't have that sort of power yet.

'But despite all that,' he mused, sidestepping a broken bottle on the sidewalk, 'I can't let it stop me. Sophia knows I'm a cape, and that puts me in danger.' The thought sent a chill down his spine, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists at his sides. 'I don't know who she works for. Sure, I know a rough description of her power, but it tells me nothing of what she actually looks like in combat. So I can't go off that unless I actually use it on my own to see, and I can't afford to use power tokens willy-nilly like that.'

The possibilities raced through his mind, each more dire than the last. 'As she is now, she's completely capable of outing me to her whole organization, or she can just track me down to my house and kill or kidnap me.' His throat tightened at the thought, and he swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed. 'Not to mention what she could do to my parents… I don't want to think about what they would do to them.'

Greg's scratching intensified, his nails digging deeper into his scalp. He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his situation pressing down on him like a physical force. A group of teenagers passed by, laughing and shoving each other playfully. For a moment, Greg felt a pang of envy at how simple their lives must be, unburdened by the knowledge of powers and the heavy responsibilities they brought.

'Yet I shall grow, would I die and fight,' he thought, the archaic phrasing a strange comfort in his tumultuous mind. That was the whole point of this, the whole point of going out patrolling. He needed to grow, to become stronger. The alternative was unthinkable.

Inside, he felt his power stir, a restless energy coiling within him. It was like an itch he couldn't scratch, a potential he could sense but not yet fully grasp. 'I have more room to grow, I can feel it,' he realized, the sensation both exciting and frustrating. 'But training hasn't helped it grow. It feels like a muscle, so I have to use it for it to be stronger, but so far that just hasn't happened yet.'

The sensation intensified as he focused on it, like a drop of water in a vast, empty bowl. 'There's so much more here, I can feel it!' Greg's frustration mounted, his pace quickening unconsciously. 'But why can't I touch it? Why can't I access it?' He passed a graffitied wall, the colorful tags and murals a stark contrast to the drab buildings around them. At that moment, the vibrant art seemed to mock him, a reminder of the creativity and expression he felt trapped within himself.

Almost without thinking, Greg felt the familiar tingle of his power activating. A small, glowing object began to form in his palm a miniature version of the spray paint can that was depicted in the mural. He quickly closed his fist, dissipating the construct before anyone could notice. 'Great job, Greg. Real subtle. Why not just wear a sign that says "Hey, I'm a cape!" while you're at it?'

As he walked, he passed a homeless man huddled in a doorway, his weathered hand outstretched for spare change. The man's eyes were sunken, his beard matted and unkempt. Greg's eyes skimmed over him, barely registering his presence. The growl of frustration that escaped his lips was enough to make the man shrink back, any hope of a handout quickly fading. In his preoccupation, Greg didn't even notice the man's reaction, too caught up in his own thoughts to register the impact of his own presence on others.

'Fuck it, whatever!' Greg's internal voice rose to a shout, startling him with its intensity. 'I'll just… go home right now, grab my costume. I need to get more tokens, but if I'm going to do that, I need to fight some other capes.' His face contorted, a mix of determination and apprehension. The idea of actively seeking out conflict with other parahumans was daunting, to say the least.

'If I even find any tonight…' he thought glumly, kicking at a discarded soda can. It skittered across the sidewalk, coming to rest against a rusted fire hydrant. 'Ugh, this would be so much easier if I could just sense parahumans or some bullshit. C'mon, power, give me some of that juice!' Yet despite his mental plea, he found nothing, only the wiggling of an empty slot within his mind. 'Great. Some people get flight, super strength, or laser vision. Me? I got the amazing ability to create small objects and to occasionally borrow other people's powers. Watch out, Endbringers, Greg Veder's coming for you with his arsenal of glowy paperweights and borrowed talents!'

Biting the inside of his cheek, Greg blinked as he noticed a massive crowd ahead. The sidewalk, previously empty save for the occasional passerby, was now teeming with people. Tourists, mostly, their excited chatter and camera flashes creating a cacophony of sight and sound. The air was filled with a mix of languages snatches of Mandarin, German, and what sounded like Portuguese floated past him.

Slowly, he navigated through the throng, muttering apologies as he squeezed past groups huddled around tour guides. The crowd was thinner than it had been earlier in the morning, but still substantial enough to impede his progress. The scent of sunscreen and sweat hung in the air, a reminder of the day's earlier heat.

As he tried to slip between two particularly large tour groups, Greg found himself face-to-face with a cheerful-looking woman wielding a selfie stick. "Excuse me, young man!" she chirped in heavily accented English. "Would you mind taking our picture?"

Greg froze, his social awkwardness kicking into high gear. "I, uh… sure?" he stammered, accepting the proffered phone with fumbling hands. He held it up, trying to frame the shot, only to realize he had it backwards. Red-faced, he turned it around, acutely aware of the amused looks from the tourists. 'Smooth, Greg. Real smooth. Maybe your superhero name should be something like The Awkward Avenger.'

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to take the photo and hand the phone back, mumbling something that might have been "Hope you enjoy your stay" before practically fleeing from the group.

'…shit, why do I always come here?' he wondered, a note of resignation in his thoughts. As he pushed past a final group of sightseers, their cameras clicking incessantly, his destination came into view. The Crater.

Greg's eyes swept forward, past the imposing concrete barrier that surrounded the site. Before him stretched an endless expanse of carved stone, its surface marred by permanent char marks and soot. The sheer size of it was staggering – easily two or three football fields in length. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across its surface, emphasizing every little crack and crevice.

While not perfectly spherical, due to sections that had crumbled under their own weight after the initial event, it was still remarkably close. In the years since its creation, the city had integrated the Crater into Brockton Bay's infrastructure, sealing off openings to the sewage system and reinforcing unstable areas. Metal walkways now criss-crossed over parts of it, allowing visitors to peer into its depths from relative safety.

'They've cleaned it up some,' Greg noted, observing the informational plaques and safety railings that now dotted the area. 'But it's still not exactly safe. Or that popular with the locals.' A small frown creased his brow as he watched a family pose for a photo, their smiles incongruous against the backdrop of destruction. 'Can't blame them, though. It's only been… what, three years? Something like that.'

His eyes searched for the memorial he knew stood at the Crater's center, but from this distance, all he could make out was a faint glint of blue. That small reflection was enough to bring a smile to his face. As he gazed at that distant shimmer, he felt his worries lessen, a renewed sense of purpose flowing through him.

'I'm ready for more,' he thought, determination surging within him. 'I have to be.' The alternative failure, capture, or worse was unthinkable. 'Besides, how hard can it be? I mean, sure, I'm going up against hardened criminals with years of experience using their powers, while I'm still just trying to figure out how not to trip over my own feet. But hey, I've got determination and… well, determination. That's got to count for something, right?'

With a grin that belied the weight of his thoughts, Greg Veder turned away from the Brockton Bay Crater. His steps were purposeful as he headed home, mind already racing with preparations for the night ahead. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the city – shadows that seemed to hint at the new challenges and dangers that awaited him in the coming hours.

As he walked, the city's evening rhythms began to assert themselves. Streetlights flickered to life, their pale glow creating pools of light on the darkening streets. The after-work crowd began to emerge, filling sidewalks and bus stops. Restaurants opened their doors, the aroma of cooking food now mingling with the less pleasant scents of the city.

Greg's mind, however, was far from these mundane concerns. With each step, his resolve strengthened. Tonight, he would take his first real steps into the world of capes and conflicts that had always fascinated him from afar. Tonight, he would begin to test the limits of his power, to push beyond the boundaries that had so frustrated him thus far.

As he rounded the corner onto his street, the familiar sights of home came into view. But to Greg, they seemed somehow different now, as if viewed through a new lens. The cookie-cutter houses, the neatly trimmed lawns, the cars parked in driveways, all of it felt like a façade, hiding the dark true nature of the world he was about to step into.

With a deep breath, Greg climbed the steps to his front porch. His hand hesitated for just a moment on the doorknob, a final instant of doubt before plunging into the unknown. 'Well, Greg, this is it. Time to become a hero. Or make a complete fool of yourself. Probably both, knowing your luck.' Then, squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open, ready to begin his preparations for the big night ahead.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, plunging Brockton Bay into twilight. And somewhere in that gathering darkness, unseen and unknown, the threats that Greg would soon face were stirring, waiting for the night to fully claim the city.

As the door closed behind him, Greg leaned against it for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock in the living room. His parents wouldn't be home for hours, yet that left plenty of time to prepare for his first official patrol.

Greg took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of home, a mix of his mother's favorite lavender air freshener and the lingering aroma of that morning's breakfast. The entryway opened into a modestly sized living room, its walls painted a warm beige that his mother had insisted made the space feel larger. To his right, a well-worn leather couch faced an older model flat-screen TV, flanked by mismatched end tables that bore the scars of years of use. Water rings from forgotten drinks, small scratches from keys carelessly tossed aside.

Family photos lined the walls, chronicling the Veder family history. Greg's eyes lingered on a prominent photo of his older brother, Jason, at his high school graduation. Jason stood proudly in his valedictorian robes, their parents beaming on either side of him. Greg felt a familiar twinge of inadequacy as he looked at the image. His own high school experience had been far less illustrious, marked more by silent lunches alone and unnoticed academic efforts than by any real standout achievements.

To his left, the dining room beckoned, its oak table and chairs a testament to his father's brief foray into furniture making. The table was bare now, but Greg could almost see the ghost of countless family dinners where conversation had flowed easily between his parents and Jason, while he had often struggled to contribute meaningfully.

Beyond the dining room, the kitchen gleamed with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window above the sink. It was a cozy space, not large but efficiently organized. The countertops were cleared save for a fruit bowl filled with apples and bananas, and a coffee maker his mother just couldn't function without. A calendar hung on the refrigerator door, covered in his mother's neat handwriting detailing appointments, work schedules, and reminders. Greg noticed his brother's upcoming visit circled in red, yet another reminder of the family dynamics he typically felt lost in.

Greg's gaze drifted to the staircase leading to the second floor. The tan carpet was worn thin in the center of each step, a testament to years of feet trudging up and down it. More family portraits lined the wall alongside the stairs, capturing moments from both Greg and Jason's childhoods. Greg couldn't help but notice how, as the photos progressed, Jason seemed to grow more confident and outgoing, while he himself appeared to shrink deeper into the background, his smiles becoming more forced.

The house wasn't large or fancy, but it was still home. Every corner held memories, every room a familiar comfort. Yet as Greg stood there, on the precipice of his new secret life, it all felt somehow different. The quiet that had always been peaceful now seemed charged with anticipation. The ordinary surroundings felt like a facade, hiding the extraordinary truth of what he was just about to do.

With a slight shake of his head, Greg pushed off from the door. He had work to do, and not much time to do it in. As he headed for the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet house, he couldn't help but wonder if this. His becoming Void Cowboy might finally be his chance to step out of his brother's shadow and make a mark of his own.

"Okay, Void Cowboy," he muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face. "Time to suit up."

Greg bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his excitement. He burst into his room, barely remembering to close the door behind him. His eyes scanned the space, taking in the familiar posters of capes and sci-fi characters, the cluttered desk with his computer setup, and the overflowing bookshelf. But his gaze quickly settled on his closet door, behind which his own makeshift costume waited.

With a dramatic flourish, Greg flung open the closet door. "Ta-da!" he announced to his empty room, then immediately felt foolish. "Right, audience of zero. Good job, Greg."

He reached in and carefully pulled out the components of his costume, laying them out on his bed. It wasn't much, certainly nothing compared to the high-tech suits of the Protectorate heroes or even the more established independent capes. But it was his, and he felt a small surge of pride as he looked at the assembled pieces.

The base of the costume was a pair of black jeans, not the most practical for crime-fighting, perhaps, but they were what he had. He'd reinforced them with some extra stitching in key areas, hoping it would provide at least some protection. Next came a long-sleeved black compression shirt, tight-fitting to avoid snagging on anything during a fight.

Over this, Greg had pieced together a makeshift armor vest. It was far from professional, constructed from layers of dense foam padding and covered with a dark blue fabric he'd "borrowed" from his mother's sewing supplies. He'd cut jagged patterns into the fabric, creating a design that he hoped evoked the idea of a starry void. Small LED lights, carefully wired and powered by a hidden battery pack, were scattered across the vest. When activated, they would twinkle like distant stars.

"Still not sure if the lights are cool or just asking to get shot at," Greg mused as he examined the vest. "But hey, go big or go home, right?"

The crowning piece of his costume quite literally was the helmet. It had started life as a simple motorcycle helmet, something salvaged from a garage sale. Greg had spent weeks modifying it, adding a tinted visor and painting it a deep, midnight blue. Using some clever application of glow-in-the-dark paint, he'd created the illusion of a nebula swirling across the surface. The effect was striking, especially in low light.

"And now for the pièce de résistance," Greg said, reaching for the final component of his costume. From a shoebox under his bed, he pulled out a pair of foam gun holsters. They were crude, barely more than some painted cardboard, but they completed the "cowboy" part of his chosen name. In place of actual guns, which Greg neither owned nor wanted to use, he'd fashioned a pair of flashlights to sit in the holsters. "Because every cowboy needs his trusty… flashlights. Man, I really need to work on my equipment budget."

As he began to don the costume, Greg couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. The compression shirt clung to his body, reminding him of how scrawny he still was despite his recent attempts at working out. The armor vest felt bulky and awkward as he strapped it on, but he had to admit it looked pretty cool when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

"Looking good, Void Cowboy," he said to his reflection, striking what he hoped was a heroic pose. The effect was somewhat ruined when he nearly toppled over himself trying to pull on his jeans while keeping the vest in place.

Finally, after much adjusting and readjusting, Greg stood fully suited up. He turned slowly in front of his mirror, taking in the full effect. It wasn't perfect, far from it. The stitching on the vest was visibly uneven in places, the helmet sat slightly askew no matter how he adjusted it, and the foam holsters looked painfully fake up close. But when he stepped back and squinted a little, it actually looked… not half bad.

"Void Cowboy, defender of Brockton Bay," Greg proclaimed, his voice muffled by the helmet. He raised his arms in a triumphant gesture, then quickly lowered them when he heard the foam of his vest crinkle. "Note to self: work on some silent heroic poses."

With his costume complete, Greg faced his next challenge, getting out of the house without being seen. He peered out of his window, gauging the distance to the ground. It wasn't too far, and there was a convenient trellis that he could use to climb down.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, easing the window open. The cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the sounds of the city's distant traffic, a dog barking, the faint wail of a siren in the distance. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

Carefully, he climbed out onto the window sill, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached for the trellis, his gloved hands gripping the wooden lattice. For a moment, he hesitated, the reality of what he was about to do hitting him full force.

"Come on, Greg," he whispered to himself. "You can do this. You're a hero now."

With that, he began his descent. The trellis creaked ominously under his weight, and Greg winced at each and every sound, certain that at any moment a neighbor would spot him and raise the alarm. But luck was on his side, and soon his feet touched the ground.

Crouching low, Greg scurried across his backyard, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He vaulted over the back fence with surprising agility, landing in the alley behind his house. A stray cat yowled in surprise and darted away, nearly causing Greg to jump right out of his skin.

"Smooth, real smooth," he chastised himself. "Maybe I should have gone with 'The Graceful Gazelle' instead of Void Cowboy."

But he was out, and that was what mattered. Greg took a moment to orient himself, considering which direction to take for his patrol. The docks were known for criminal activity, but they were also the territory of the ABB, and Greg wasn't sure he was ready to tangle with some gang members just yet. The Boardwalk would be busy with nightlife, perhaps too public for a new cape's first outing.

In the end, he decided to stick to the residential areas near his home, at least for tonight. It seemed safer, and he reasoned that there might still be some low-level crime he could stop, maybe prevent a mugging or catch a burglar in the act.

With his route decided, Greg set off, trying his best to move stealthily through the shadowy streets. He stuck to back alleys and less traveled roads, his eyes constantly scanning for any sign of trouble. The LED lights on his vest twinkled softly in the darkness, creating the illusion of a piece of the night sky come to life.

For the first hour, the night was quiet. Greg found himself growing more confident in his movements, learning how to move in his costume without making too much noise. He practiced drawing his "guns", aka his flashlight, from their holsters, trying to perfect a quick draw that he felt looked suitably heroic.

As he turned onto Maple Street, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Greg pressed himself against a wall, peering around the corner. In the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, he saw two figures huddled near a parked car. One was keeping watch while the other seemed to be working on the car's door.

Greg's heart began to race. This was it, an actual crime happening right in front of him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "Okay, Void Cowboy," he whispered to himself. "Time to be a hero."

Stepping out from his hiding place, Greg tried to make his voice as deep and intimidating as possible. "Stop right there, criminals!" he called out, wincing internally at how his voice had cracked on the last word.

The two figures froze, then turned to face him. There was a moment of stunned silence as they took in the sight of Greg in his homemade costume. Then, to Greg's dismay, they burst out laughing.

"What the hell is this?" one of them, a lanky guy in a hoodie, wheezed between guffaws. "Halloween come early or something?"

Greg felt his face burning with embarrassment beneath his helmet. This was not how he had imagined his first confrontation going. But he steeled himself, determined to see this through.

"I said stop!" he repeated, trying to sound more authoritative. He reached for his holsters, forgetting for a moment that they held only flashlights. "I'm… I'm placing you under citizen's arrest!"

The laughter died down, replaced by a more menacing atmosphere. The second figure, shorter but stockier than his companion, took a step forward. "Listen, kid," he growled. "Why don't you go run along home before you get hurt? This ain't no game."

Greg's mind raced, trying to figure out what to do next. He couldn't back down, that would make him look weak, and he'd never be taken seriously as a hero. But he also wasn't sure he could take on two full-grown men in a fight, powers or no powers.

Then, an idea struck him. Focusing intently, Greg activated his hard light power. In his hand, a glowing object began to form a pair of handcuffs, shimmering with an otherworldly light.

The effect on the would-be car thieves was immediate. They stumbled back, eyes wide with a mix of shock and fear.

"Holy shit," the lanky one gasped. "He's a cape!"

Greg seized on their surprise, advancing with more confidence than he felt. "That's right," he said, his voice steadier now. "And unless you want to find out what else I can do, I suggest you step away from the car and put your hands where I can see them."

For a tense moment, Greg thought they might call his bluff. But then, to his immense relief, they raised up their hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay," the stocky one said, his earlier bravado gone. "We're backing off. Just… just don't hurt us, alright?"

Greg nodded, trying to look stern and heroic. "Smart choice. Now, I want you to leave this area immediately. And if I catch you trying to steal cars again, you won't get off so easy. Understood?"

The two men nodded vigorously, then turned and ran, disappearing into the night. Greg waited until they were out of sight before letting out a huge sigh of relief, the tension now draining from his body.

"Holy crap," he muttered, leaning against the car they had been trying to break into. "I can't believe that worked."

As the adrenaline of the encounter began to fade, Greg found himself grinning beneath his helmet. He had done it and he had stopped a crime! Sure, it wasn't exactly taking down a supervillain, but it was a start.

He looked down at the hard light handcuffs still glowing in his hand. With a thought, he dissipated them, watching as the light faded away. It was a small use of his power, but it had been enough to turn the tide of the confrontation.

"Not bad for a first night out, Void Cowboy," he said to himself, feeling a surge of pride. "Not bad at all."

Emboldened by his success, Greg continued his patrol with renewed vigor. The night was still young, and Brockton Bay had plenty more to offer a fledgling hero.

About an hour later, Greg's wanderings took him to a small convenience store. As he approached, he noticed the flickering neon 'OPEN' sign in the window and the conspicuous absence of any other customers at this late hour. Something about it didn't feel right.

'Okay, Void Cowboy, time to earn your spurs,' Greg thought to himself, trying to quell the nervous flutter in his stomach. He crept closer, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would give him away.

As Greg peered through the grimy window of the convenience store, his heart raced. 'This is it, Greg. A real robbery. Not just some punks messing with a car, but an actual gun-toting criminal. What would Jason do in this situation? Probably something brave and heroic without even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, I'm here trying not to just wet myself in my homemade costume.'

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. 'Come on, Void Cowboy. You wanted to be a hero. This is what heroes do. They don't run away when things get scary. They stand up, they fight back. Even if they're terrified out of their minds.'

As he pushed open the door, the little bell jingling overhead, Greg felt a surreal sense of disconnect. 'Is this really happening? Am I really about to confront an armed robber? Maybe I should have started with something easier. Like rescuing kittens from trees. Do heroes even do that anymore, or is that just a cliché at this point?'

"I think you should reconsider your life choices," Greg said, trying to keep his voice steady. He winced internally. 'Really, Greg? That's the best you could come up with? What happened to all those cool one-liners you practiced in the mirror?'

The robber recovered from his surprise quickly. "Back off, freak," he snarled, swinging the gun , a small thing that Greg could only describe as a pistol, towards Greg. "This ain't none of your business."

Greg's heart hammered in his chest. He raised his hands, partly in a gesture of peace, partly to prepare his power. 'Okay, okay, don't panic. He's pointing a gun at you, but that's fine. Totally fine. You're a superhero now. Superheroes have to deal with guns all the time. Just… don't make any sudden moves. You're super durable, but never tested it with guns before.'

"Actually, it kind of is my business," Greg replied, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. "You see, I'm new in town, and I'm trying to make a good impression. Stopping a robbery seems like a pretty good way to do that, don't you think?"

'Keep him talking,' Greg thought. 'The longer he's focused on you, the less danger the cashier is in. And maybe if you keep him distracted long enough, he'll forget he even has a gun. That's how it works in movies, right?'

The robber's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "You some kinda cape? You don't look like much."

'Ouch. Way to hit a guy where it hurts,' Greg thought, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness about his homemade costume. 'But hey, at least he recognizes I'm a cape. That's something, right?'

"Looks can be deceiving," Greg replied, trying to sound mysterious and confident. "Now, why don't you put the gun down, and we can all walk away from this?"

For a moment, it seemed like it might work. The robber's gun hand lowered slightly. 'Holy crap, is this actually working? Am I talking down an armed robber on my first night out? Eat your heart out, Protectorate!'

Then, with a sudden movement, the robber lunged forward, swinging the gun like a club right towards Greg's head.

Time seemed to slow down. Greg saw the gun coming towards him, knew he needed to dodge, to counter. But his body, pumped full of adrenaline and still not fully under control, reacted with more force than he had intended.

'Move, you idiot!' Greg's mind screamed at him. 'Don't just stand there like a deer in headlights! Do something!'

Greg's arm shot out, catching the robber's wrist. He meant to just deflect the blow, maybe twist the gun away. Instead, his enhanced strength sent the man flying across the store, crashing into a display of chips and candy bars with a thud and crash.

'Oh crap,' Greg thought, staring at his hand in shock. 'Did I just kill him? Is this how my superhero career ends? One night out and I've already killed someone? Mom's gonna kill me if I get arrested for manslaughter.'

But the robber was already stirring, groaning amidst the scattered snacks. He looked dazed, but very much alive. Relief flooded through Greg, quickly followed by new determination.

'Okay, no more Mr. Nice Cowboy. Time to end this before someone really gets hurt.'

Greg called forth his hard light power. Twin beams of light shot from his palms, coalescing into a pair of glowing manacles around the robber's wrists and ankles.

"What the hell?" the man yelled, struggling against the ethereal bonds. "Let me go, you freak!"

Greg ignored him, turning to the cashier, who was staring at the scene with wide eyes. "Are you okay? Can you call the police?"

The cashier nodded frantically, reaching for the phone with their shaking hands.

As the cashier dialed, Greg kept his attention on the restrained robber. The man had stopped struggling and was now glaring at Greg with a mixture of fear and anger.

"You don't know what you're doing, kid," the robber spat. "You think playing the hero is all fun and games? You have no idea what's really going on in this city."

Greg felt a chill run down his spine. 'What does he mean by that? Is this just the ramblings of a caught criminal, or is there something more sinister going on? God, I hope I haven't stumbled into some big conspiracy on my first night out. I can barely handle a simple robbery!'

Before he could ponder it further, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.

"That's my cue," Greg said, trying to sound nonchalant. 'Exit stage left, Void Cowboy. Time to make a dramatic departure before the cops show up and start asking big questions you can't answer.'

He turned to the cashier. "The police will be here soon. You'll be okay."

The cashier nodded, a weak smile forming on his face. "Thank you," he said softly. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up when you did."

Greg felt a warm glow of pride at the words. 'This. This is why I wanted to be a hero. To make a difference, to help people. To be the person I always wished would show up when I was scared or in trouble.'

"All in a night's work," he replied, tipping an imaginary hat. 'God, that was cheesy,' he thought immediately after. 'Need to work on my one-liners. Maybe I should start keeping a notebook of cool superhero phrases to use.'

With a final nod to the cashier, Greg slipped out the back door and into the night. His legs felt shaky, and his heart was still racing. He ducked into a nearby alley, leaning against the cool brick wall as he tried to process what had just happened back there.

'I did it,' he thought, a giddy laugh bubbling up in his throat. 'I actually stopped a robbery. A real, honest-to-god robbery with a gun and everything. Take that, everyone who ever said I'd never amount to anything!'

But as the adrenaline began to fade, doubts crept in. 'I could have really hurt that guy. If I had thrown him just a little harder… And what did he mean about not knowing what's really going on in the city? Am I in over my head here?'

Greg shook his head, trying to clear the doubts away. 'No, focus on the positive. You did good tonight. You helped someone. You made a difference. That's what matters.'

As the sirens grew louder, Greg pushed off from the wall. The night wasn't over yet, and Brockton Bay had yet more secrets to reveal. 'Alright, Void Cowboy. Round one down, but the night is still young. What other trouble can we find?'

With a deep breath, he stepped back onto the street, ready to face whatever came next.

As the night wore on, Greg found himself involved in two more incidents. The first involved breaking up a heated argument between a pair of drunk men outside a bar before it could escalate into a full-blown fist fight.

'Great, drunk guys. Because what this night really needed was the smell of cheap beer and the threat of vomit on my costume,' Greg thought as he approached the situation.

Greg's appearance, combined with a stern warning and a brief display of his hard light power, was enough to send the would-be brawlers on their separate ways.

'Huh, that was a lot easier than I expected,' Greg mused as he watched the men stumble off in opposite directions. 'Maybe there's something to this whole "intimidating hero" thing after all. Or maybe they were just too drunk to put up a fight. Either way, I'm counting it as a win.'

The second incident was much more lighthearted. Greg came across a group of teenagers attempting to tip over a neighbor's trash cans hardly a serious crime, but still a nuisance.

'Ah, youth,' Greg thought wryly, conveniently ignoring the fact that he was barely older than the teens he was about to confront. 'Don't they have anything better to do on a school night? Video games? Homework? Literally anything that doesn't involve inflicting property damage?'

Using his hard light power, he created a glowing lasso and snagged the ringleader's ankle, sending the boy tumbling to the ground. The sight of a glowing cowboy emerging from the shadows was enough to send the group scattering, leaving behind apologies and promises to "never do it again, please don't zap us, Mr. Cowboy!"

'Mr. Cowboy? Really?' Greg thought, torn between amusement and exasperation. 'I spend hours coming up with a cool superhero name, and I end up with "Mr. Cowboy". Maybe I should have gone with something simpler. Glow Guy? The Human Nightlight? …Yeah, Void Cowboy is definitely better.'

As the night began to wane, Greg found himself both exhilarated and exhausted. He had done more in one night than he ever thought was possible, facing real dangers and making a tangible difference in his city. With a mix of pride and weariness, he decided it was time to call it a night.

'Not bad for a first outing,' Greg thought as he made his way home. 'Stopped a robbery, broke up a fight, scared some kids straight. Pretty sure that covers all the bases for Superhero 101. Wonder if there's a cape version of a Boy Scout badge for this?'

Greg spent the next couple of hours making his way back home, his mind buzzing with the events of the evening. He had stopped a robbery, prevented a fight, and even tackled some minor vandalism. It wasn't saving the world, but it was a start and more importantly, it was his start.

As he climbed back up the trellis to his room, moving as quietly as he could, Greg reflected on his first night as a hero. 'Definitely not as glamorous as they make it look in the movies,' he thought, wincing as a thorn from the trellis pricked his finger. 'No adoring crowds, no grateful mayor handing me the key to the city. Just some sore muscles, a costume that desperately needs washing, and the constant fear of waking up my parents. Living the dream, Void Cowboy. Living the dream.'

Back in his room, Greg carefully removed his costume, hiding it away in his closet. 'Note to self: invest in some air freshener. Or maybe just burn the costume and start over. Pretty sure "eau de back alley dumpster" isn't the signature scent I want to be known for.'

As he flopped onto his bed, still buzzing with excitement despite his exhaustion, he couldn't help but to smile.

"Watch out, Brockton Bay," he whispered into the darkness of his room. "Void Cowboy is here to stay."

'And maybe invest in some better one-liners,' he added mentally as he drifted off to sleep. 'Can't fight crime with bad dad jokes forever.'

As he slept, the city continued its nightly rhythm, unaware that a new protector had joined its ranks. In the shadows and alleyways, criminals and capes alike went about their business, oblivious to the fact that a proud young hero was now walking among them. The stage was set for Greg's journey into the world of capes and conflicts, a journey that would test him in ways he couldn't yet imagine.

'Tomorrow,' Greg's subconscious mind whispered as he slept, 'tomorrow, the real adventure begins. Void Cowboy, defender of Brockton Bay, protector of the innocent, and… high school student who still has to turn in his math homework. Being a superhero is complicated.'

And with that final thought, Greg fell into a deeper sleep. As he did, his dreams filled with visions of heroic deeds, daring rescues, and maybe, just maybe, a future where he could finally step out of his brother's shadow and finally become the hero he always dreamed of being.

Chapter Text

The insistent beeping of an alarm clock pierced through Greg Veder's consciousness, dragging him reluctantly from the depths of sleep. He groaned, fumbling blindly for the source of the noise, his hand eventually finding the offending device and silencing it with a small slap.

For a moment, Greg lay there, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the memories of the previous night came rushing back all at once. His eyes snapped open, suddenly wide awake.

"Holy crap," he muttered, sitting up abruptly. "That really happened."

The events of his first night out as Void Cowboy played through his mind in a whirlwind of images and sensations. The confrontation with the car thieves, the convenience store robbery, the drunken brawlers, and the mischievous teens, it all seemed like a dream, just too fantastic to be real.

Greg's gaze drifted to his closet, where he knew his homemade costume lay hidden. A grin spread across his face. "I did it," he whispered, a mixture of pride and disbelief coloring his voice. "I actually did it."

The urge to check if there was any news about his nocturnal activities was just overwhelming. Greg scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to his computer. He winced as his shin caught the edge of his desk, a reminder that even with his newfound powers, he wasn't immune to the basic hazards of a messy bedroom.

"Ow, ow, ow," he hissed, hopping on one foot as he waited for his ancient computer to boot up. "Note to self: super strength does not equal super grace. Maybe I should add 'cleaning room' to my new superhero training regimen."

Finally, the computer whirred to life, the familiar desktop background a collage of various cape logos greeting him. Greg's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up all the local news sites and cape forums.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, scrolling through headlines. "There's gotta be something…"

At first, his search yielded nothing. Reports of traffic accidents, local politics, and upcoming events dominated the news cycle. Greg felt a twinge of disappointment. Had his actions really gone just completely unnoticed?

Then, buried near the bottom of a local news aggregator, he saw it:

"MYSTERIOUS CAPED FIGURE FOILS ROBBERY ATTEMPT"

Greg's heart leapt into his throat. He clicked the link, his eyes devouring the short article that appeared before him:

{"In the early hours of this morning, a convenience store on Maple Street was the site of an attempted robbery. According to the store clerk, who wishes to remain anonymous, the situation was defused by the timely intervention of an unknown cape.

"He just appeared out of nowhere," the clerk reported. "At first, I thought it was some kid in a Halloween costume, but then he did something with light. Next thing I know, the robber was tied up, and this… cowboy hero was gone."

Police arrived on the scene shortly after, apprehending the would-be robber. When questioned about the mysterious cape, authorities stated they had no information about any new heroes operating in the area.

This incident has sparked speculation among local cape enthusiasts. Some suggest this could be a new independent hero making their debut, while others theorize it might be an established cape testing out a new costume or persona.

Brockton Bay PD reminds citizens that vigilantism is discouraged, and any parahuman activity should be reported to the proper authorities."}

Greg leaned back in his chair, a mix of emotions washing over him. Pride at seeing his actions reported, even if anonymously. Excitement at the speculation his appearance had caused. And a touch of indignation at the police's warning against vigilantism.

"Vigilantism," he scoffed. "I'd like to see them try to stop every crime in this city. Sometimes you need a Void Cowboy to get things done."

He scrolled through the comments section, his grin widening as he read the various theories being put forward:

"New Ward maybe? Seems kinda amateur for Protectorate."

"Nah, probably just some indie trying to make a name for themselves. Bet they don't even last a week."

"A cowboy theme? In Brockton Bay? Gotta be a joke, right?"

"Hey, as long as they're stopping criminals, I don't care if they dress up as a dancing banana. We need all the help we can get in this city."

Greg chuckled at the last comment. "Dancing Banana, huh? Maybe that'll be my backup costume if Void Cowboy doesn't end up working out."

His amusement was short-lived, however, as his eyes caught a more troubling headline further down the page:

"GANG TENSIONS RISE: EXPERTS WARN OF POTENTIAL WAR"

Frowning, Greg clicked on the link, his earlier elation giving way to concern as he read:

{"Brockton Bay has long been a powder keg of gang activity, with the delicate balance between the major players the ABB, E88, and the Merchants keeping an uneasy peace. Recent events, however, suggest that this fragile equilibrium may be on the verge of shattering outright.

Sources within law enforcement report a noticeable decrease in visible gang activity across all major factions. While this might seem like good news on the surface, experts warn that it could be a sign of something far more sinister.

"When gangs start pulling back their street-level operations, it often means they're gearing up for something big," explains Dr. Amanda Chen, a criminologist specializing in parahuman gang dynamics. "It's like the calm before the storm. They're consolidating their resources, planning strategies, and preparing for conflict."

The ABB, led by the notorious Lung, has been observed reducing their presence in traditional territories. Similarly, the neo-Nazi group E88 has scaled back on their usual recruiting efforts and public displays of force. Even the typically chaotic Merchants seem to be operating with unusual discretion as of late.

Adding to the complexity of the situation are reports of increased activity from smaller gangs like the Louis Bay Lurkers (colloquially known as The Louies) and The Mulchers. These lesser-known groups appear to be taking advantage of the power vacuum left by the retreating major players.

"It's a dangerous time," warns PRT spokesperson James Henderson. "We urge citizens to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity. The PRT and Protectorate are monitoring the situation closely and are prepared to respond to any escalation that happens."

As Brockton Bay holds its breath, waiting to see if these ominous signs will indeed erupt into full-scale gang warfare, residents are left to wonder: in a city already plagued by crime and parahuman violence, how much worse could things get?"}

Greg leaned back in his chair once more, his earlier excitement now tempered by a growing sense of unease. The idea of a gang war erupting in Brockton Bay was terrifying, especially now that he had decided to put himself out in the line of fire as a hero.

"Maybe I picked a bad time to start this whole cape thing," he muttered, running a hand through his shaggy hair, some grease still there from last night. "Then again, is there ever really a good time in this city?"

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his mother calling from downstairs. "Greg! Breakfast is ready! You're going to be late for school!"

"Coming, Mom!" Greg called back, his eyes still glued to the screen. He was about to close the browser when another headline caught his attention:

"GANG ACTIVITY SPIKE: TURF WARS ESCALATE"

Confused, Greg clicked on the link, his brow furrowing as he read an article that seemed to directly contradict the previous one he was just reading:

{"Brockton Bay residents report a sharp increase in visible gang presence across the city, as tensions between rival factions reach a boiling point. Over the past week, incidents of gang-related violence have spiked, with territorial disputes becoming increasingly brazen and public.

The Azn Bad Boys (ABB), under the leadership of the dragon-like cape Lung, have been observed pushing aggressively into areas traditionally controlled by the Empire Eighty-Eight (E88). Witnesses describe frequent clashes between ABB members and E88 enforcers, often resulting in both property damage and civilian injuries.

Meanwhile, the Archer's Bridge Merchants, known for their drug trade, have been capitalizing on the chaos. Reports indicate a huge surge in Merchant activity in areas where ABB and E88 forces are preoccupied with each other, leading to a rise in drug-related crimes and overdoses.

"It's like they're all trying to grab as much territory as they can, as fast as they can," says Sergeant Maria Lopez of the BBPD. "We're seeing more gang tags, more open drug deals, more intimidation of local businesses. It's a real powder keg out there."

Adding to the volatile mix are the actions of smaller gangs like the Louis Bay Lurkers and The Mulchers. These groups, typically content to operate in the shadows of their larger counterparts, have become increasingly bold as of late. Several neighborhoods previously considered "neutral ground" have seen an influx of Louie and Mulcher activity, further complicating the already tangled web of gang politics in the city.

The PRT and Protectorate have increased patrols in affected areas, but resources are stretched thin. "We're doing everything we can to maintain order," assures PRT Director Emily Piggot. "But we need the community's help. If you see something, say something. And above all, stay safe."

As Brockton Bay braces for what many fear could be the worst gang violence the city has seen in years, residents are left wondering: in this escalating turf war, is anywhere truly safe?"}

Greg stared at the screen, his mind reeling from the conflicting information. One report claimed the gangs were pulling back, while another insisted they were more active than ever. Both articles cited seemingly reputable sources and presented compelling evidence for their claims.

"What the hell?" Greg muttered, scratching his head in confusion. "How can they both be right? Unless…"

His mind raced, trying to reconcile the contradictory reports. Could one be a cover-up? Was there some deeper game being played that he couldn't see? Or was it simply a case of different parts of the city experiencing different trends? Checking when each was posted it was rather close, only a couple of hours between them, so he doubted that it could be a cover-up, but maybe? It didn't really make sense.

"Greg!" His mother's voice, more insistent this time, interrupted his thoughts. "Your breakfast is getting cold!"

"Just a minute!" Greg called back, his eyes still glued to the screen. He quickly bookmarked both articles, making a mental note to investigate it further when he had more time.

As he reluctantly closed his browser and stood up, Greg's mind was awash with conflicting emotions. Pride at his successful debut as Void Cowboy, excitement at the speculation his actions had caused, and now a deep sense of unease about the greater state of his city.

"Well, Void Cowboy," he muttered to himself as he grabbed his school bag, "looks like you picked one hell of a time to become a hero."

With that, Greg headed downstairs, the weight of his secret identity and the troubling news about gang activities weighing heavily on his mind. As he descended the stairs, he couldn't shake the feeling that his life, and indeed the entire city of Brockton Bay, was teetering on the edge of something truely big. Whether it would be triumph or disaster remained to be seen.

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of coffee and toast as Greg entered, his mother bustling about in her nurse's scrubs, preparing for her early shift at Brockton General. She turned as he walked in, a tired smile on her face.

"There you are, sleepyhead," she said, sliding a plate of slightly burnt toast and eggs across the counter to him. "I was beginning to think you'd slept through your alarm again."

Greg managed a sheepish grin as he slid onto a stool. "Sorry, Mom. I was, uh, doing some last-minute research for a school project."

It wasn't entirely a lie he had been researching, just not for school. The guilt of his deception gnawed at him, but Greg pushed it aside. This was part of being a hero, right? Keeping secrets to protect the ones you love?

His mother raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her face. "Research, huh? This wouldn't happen to be on the Parahumans Online forums, would it?"

Greg felt his face heat up. His mother had caught him more than once staying up late, engrossed in cape discussions and debates online. "No, not this time," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just, you know, just normal school stuff."

She sighed, shaking her head fondly. "Well, try not to let your 'research' keep you up too late. You know how your father feels about those cape forums."

Greg nodded, taking a bite of his toast to avoid having to respond. His father's disapproval of his cape obsession was a long-standing point of contention in the Veder household. If only they really knew…

As Greg ate, his mother turned on the small TV in the corner of the kitchen, flipping to the local news. The anchor's voice filled the room:

"…and in other news, tensions continue to rise between Brockton Bay's major gang factions. The PRT has issued a statement urging citizens to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity…"

Greg's head snapped up, his attention immediately captured by the report. It seemed to echo the articles he had just read, but somehow hearing it on the news made it feel more real, more immediate to his life.

His mother tsked, shaking her head. "This city, I swear. Sometimes I think we should just pack up and move somewhere quieter."

"It's not that bad, Mom," Greg found himself saying, even as part of him agreed with her. "I mean, we've got the Protectorate, and the Wards, and… you know, other heroes looking out for us."

She gave him a look that was part amusement, part exasperation. "Other heroes? Like those vigilantes who keep popping up? Honey, I know you find all this cape stuff exciting, but trust me, it's better to leave it to the real professionals."

Greg bit his tongue, fighting back the urge to defend his alter ego. Instead, he just nodded, focusing on finishing his breakfast.

As he was about to leave, his mother caught him in a quick, tight hug. "Have a good day at school, sweetie. And please, be careful out there. With all this gang business going on…"

"I will, Mom," Greg promised, feeling a twinge of guilt. If only she knew what he had been up to last night…

As he stepped out onto the street, backpack slung over his shoulder, Greg couldn't shake the feeling of unreality that had settled over him. Here he was, heading to school like any other day, while carrying the secret of his superhero debut. And now, with the threat of escalating gang violence looming over the city, everything just felt… different.

The walk to Winslow High School was a route Greg had traveled countless times before, but today, everything seemed different. The familiar streets of Brockton Bay took on a new, almost sinister quality as Greg's newfound awareness of his new superhero status colored his perception.

Every shadow seemed to stretch a little longer, every sound a little sharper. Greg found himself hyper-aware of his surroundings, his eyes darting from side to side, scanning for potential threats or opportunities for heroism.

An alley between two crumbling brick buildings caught his attention. Two teenagers, probably no older than Greg himself, were spray-painting graffiti on the wall. In the past, Greg might have hurried past, eyes averted. Now, he found himself assessing the situation. Were they gang members marking some newterritory? Should Void Cowboy make an appearance?

'No,' Greg decided after a moment's consideration. 'Not worth it for some graffiti. Save the heroics for the big stuff.'

He continued on, passing a group of men loitering outside a rundown convenience store. Their eyes followed him as he walked by, and Greg felt a small chill run down his spine. Were they just ordinary citizens, or members of one of Brockton Bay's numerous gangs? The Merchants, maybe, given their disheveled appearance? Or perhaps some undercover ABB members?

Greg quickened his pace slightly, his hand unconsciously moving to his backpack where his makeshift costume was hidden. Just in case.

A sleek black car with tinted windows cruised slowly down the street. Greg's imagination went into overdrive. Could that be a cape on patrol? Or maybe a villain scoping out their next target? He found himself both thrilled and terrified by the possibilities.

'This must be how real heroes feel all the time,' Greg thought, a mix of excitement and anxiety churning in his stomach. 'Always on alert, never knowing when danger might next strike.'

As he turned a corner, Greg suddenly found himself facing a familiar alleyway. His steps faltered as recognition hit him like a physical blow. This was where it had happened. Where he had awakened.

Greg's breath caught in his throat as memories flooded back. He could almost hear the echoes of that day, the sounds of a struggle, a cry for help, his own racing heartbeat as he made the decision to intervene on what was happening.

He remembered the flash of light, the surge of power, the look of shock on the face of the parahuman he had somehow managed to defeat. It had been terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

'I wonder if he's okay,' Greg thought, a twinge of guilt mixing with his sense of pride. 'I mean, he was hurting someone, so he deserved to get taken down. But prison… that's honestly pretty rough.'

Greg's eyes scanned the alley, half expecting to see some sign of that fateful encounter. But there was nothing, just garbage and some graffiti, the ever-present detritus of city life.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a movement caught his eye. Perched on a rusty fire escape was a bird unlike any Greg had ever seen before. It was about the size of a pigeon, but its feathers seemed to shimmer with an iridescent quality that was almost metallic. Its eyes, unnaturally large and alert, seemed to be fixed directly on Greg.

For a moment, the bird and the boy stared at each other. Then, as if startled by Greg's attention, the strange creature spread its wings and took flight, disappearing over the rooftops in a flash of those shimmering feathers.

Greg blinked, momentarily puzzled by the odd encounter. But the thought was quickly pushed aside as his mind returned to the memory of his awakening.

'Man, I must have looked so cool,' he thought, a grin spreading across his face. 'Just swooping in like a real hero, powers blazing. Bet that guy had never seen it coming.'

He struck a heroic pose, reenacting the moment in his mind. In his imagination, his movements were fluid and graceful, his powers manifesting in dazzling displays of light and energy. The reality had probably been far less impressive all flailing limbs and panicked shouting but Greg preferred his more cinematic recollection of it.

'Void Cowboy, defender of the innocent, scourge of evildoers,' he narrated to himself, his grin widening. 'Has a nice ring to it.'

With one last glance at the alley, Greg resumed his walk to school. His steps had a new bounce to them, fueled by the memory of his first heroic act and the anticipation of his adventures to come.

As Winslow High School came into view, Greg felt a curious mix of emotions. On one hand, he was still just Greg Veder, an awkward teenager and social outcast. But on the other, he was Void Cowboy, a fledgling superhero with a growing reputation.

'Wonder what everyone would think if they knew,' he mused, adjusting his backpack with his shoulder. 'Bet they'd all want to be my friend then.'

With that thought buoying his spirits, Greg strode towards the school entrance, ready to face whatever the day might bring be it algebra tests or supervillains.

As he approached the school, Greg spotted a group of students huddled around someone's phone, their voices excited and worried in equal measure.

"Did you see this?" one of them was saying. "They're saying the ABB is making a big push into Downtown."

"No way," another responded. "My cousin swears he saw Hookwolf prowling around the Docks last night. The Empire's not backing down."

Greg slowed his pace, trying to catch more of the conversation without seeming too obvious. His mind raced, attempting to reconcile this new information with what he had read earlier. It seemed like everyone had a different story about what was going on with the gangs.

As he passed the group, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against the school's chain-link fence. Sparky, with his characteristic messy long hair and perpetually sleepy expression, was absently strumming an air guitar while staring off into space.

His scrawny body was still fit to get into a scrap but it didn't have the same amount of muscle that Greg did. Before Greg had far less then Sparky did, although he knew Sparky hadn't noticed. The fellow outcast was always with his head in the clouds, but he had his moments where he'd impart great wisdom upon Greg.

Greg felt a surge of excitement. Here was someone he could talk to about all this! Well, not about his secret identity, of course, but at least about the gang situation. He bounded over, a wide grin on his face.

"Hey, Sparky!" Greg called out enthusiastically. "What's up, man?"

Sparky's head turned slowly, his eyes taking a moment to focus on Greg. There was a brief flash of something, resignation? Annoyance? Before his expression settled back into its usual languid state.

"Oh. Hey, Greg," Sparky replied, his tone noncommittal.

Undeterred by the lukewarm response, Greg plowed ahead. "Did you hear about all this gang stuff going down? It's crazy, right? I mean, I was reading online, and some people are saying the gangs are pulling back, but then others are saying they're more active than ever. What do you think?"

Sparky blinked slowly, seeming to process Greg's rapid-fire words. After a pause that stretched just a bit too long to be comfortable, he shrugged. "Dunno, man. Sounds heavy."

Greg, sensing the conversation flagging, pressed on. "Yeah, it's wild. I heard someone say they might have seen Hookwolf near the Docks. Can you imagine? I wonder what the Protectorate's doing about all this. Do you think we'll see more hero activity around town?"

Sparky's eyes had started to glaze over, but Greg was too caught up in his thoughts to notice now. He continued, barely pausing for breath, "I bet Kid Win's got some new tech to deal with it. Ever since he got- well, he's been doing alright recently. Or maybe they'll even bring in heroes from other cities. Wouldn't it be cool if Alexandria showed up?"

"Uh-huh," Sparky mumbled, his gaze drifting past Greg to the school entrance. "Look, man, I gotta get to class. Don't wanna be late again."

"Oh, right!" Greg said, suddenly remembering why they were at school in the first place. "Yeah, we should head in. Want to talk more about this at lunch? I've got some theories about-"

But Sparky was already moving away, offering a vague wave over his shoulder as he merged into the crowd of students entering the building.

Greg stood there for a moment, his excitement deflating slightly. He couldn't understand why Sparky didn't seem as interested in discussing the cape scene as he was. After all, with everything going on in the city these days, how could anyone not be fascinated?

Shaking off his disappointment, Greg hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder and headed into school. As he walked, his mind drifted back to his activities as Void Cowboy the night before. 'If only they knew,' he thought, a small smile playing on his lips. 'Bet Sparky would want to talk then.'

With that comforting thought, Greg entered Winslow High, ready to face another day of classes all while secretly knowing that he, ordinary Greg Veder, was actually Brockton Bay's newest hero.

The morning classes dragged on, but Greg found his mind wandering from the lessons. Instead, he focused on snippets of conversation he overheard between his classmates.

In Computers, he heard Julia whispering to her friend, "My brother saw a bunch of E88 guys patrolling near the market. Said they looked ready for a fight."

During Chemistry, Madison was gossiping quietly, "I heard the ABB is even recruiting at Immaculata now. Can you believe it?"

By the time lunch rolled around, Greg's head was spinning with rumors and speculation. He sat alone at his usual table, picking at his food and trying to make sense of it all. 'If only they knew,' he thought, a small smirk playing on his lips. 'Void Cowboy's going to get to the bottom of this.'

Just as he was imagining himself heroically breaking up a gang fight, the cafeteria intercom crackled to life. "Greg Veder, please report to Principal Blackwell's office immediately."

Greg froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. What could this be about? Has someone discovered his secret identity already? Panic rose in his throat as he gathered his things and made his way to the office, ignoring the curious stares of his classmates.

The walk to Principal Blackwell's office felt like a journey through a gauntlet of whispers and stares. The hallways of Winslow, with their scuffed linoleum floors and walls adorned with faded motivational posters, seemed to close in around him. The flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly pallor over everything, adding to the growing sense of unease churning in his stomach.

As Greg approached the office, the peeling paint on the door and the tarnished nameplate reading "Principal Blackwell" came into focus. But it was the three figures waiting outside that truly captured Greg's attention, each a stark contrast to the others.

Sophia Hess stood with her back against the wall, one foot propped up behind her. Her athletic frame was coiled with tension, like a predator ready to pounce. Her dark skin seemed to glow with barely contained energy under the harsh lighting, and her eyes, when they locked onto him, held a mixture of disdain and something much darker, more dangerous.

"Well, if it isn't the wannabe hero," she spat, her voice dripping with contempt.

Next to Sophia, Emma Barnes was a study in calculated perfection. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders in carefully styled waves, catching the light in a way that seemed almost unnatural in the drab school hallway. Her green eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or cruelty, now held a cold, analytical gleam as they sized him up.

Emma tossed her hair over her shoulder and let out a derisive laugh. "Hero? Please. He couldn't save a kitten from a wet paper bag."

And then there was Taylor Hebert. Unlike the other two, who commanded attention, Taylor seemed to be trying her best to disappear into the background. Her tall, thin frame was hunched, making her appear smaller than she was. Her long, dark curly hair hung like a curtain, partially obscuring her face. She wore oversized, worn clothing that only added to her air of trying to hide away from the world. When Greg's eyes fell on her, he noticed how she seemed to shrink even further, as if expecting a blow.

Greg had no idea why she did, he would never hit her! But she seems so much more… tucked in, around them, around her bullies. When he compared her to the same Taylor he met with yesterday, the differences just couldn't be more stark.

Before he could respond to their taunts, the door opened and Principal Blackwell ushered us inside. Her office was a cramped space that smelled faintly of stale coffee and photocopier toner. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves stuffed with educational texts and policy manuals.

Behind the imposing desk sat Principal Blackwell herself, a thin woman with graying hair pulled back in a severe bowl cut haircut. She looked dressed more to be at a funeral than to be a principal at a school. Her wire-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose as she peered at us over a stack of papers.

"Now," Blackwell began, her voice clipped, "I've called you all here to address the… incident from yesterday. Ms. Hess claims that Mr. Veder physically assaulted her without provocation."

Sophia's eyes flashed dangerously. "That's right. He came at me out of nowhere. Probably thought he could impress Hebert by playing the white knight."

Greg's mouth fell open in shock. "What? That's not what happened at all! I was just trying to help Taylor-"

"Oh, so you admit you were involved," Emma interjected, her voice dripping with false forced sweetness. "How noble of you, Greg. Always rushing to Taylor's rescue. It's almost like you have a crush on her or something."

Greg saw Taylor flinch at this, shrinking further into her chair. A surge of anger rose in him at Emma's words. How could she be so cruel to someone who was once her best friend?

"That's enough, Ms. Barnes," Blackwell said tiredly. "Mr. Veder, do you deny striking Ms. Hess?"

But he hesitated, acutely aware of the power humming just beneath his skin. Greg couldn't tell the truth without revealing his powers, but he couldn't let Sophia's out right lie stand either. "I… I may have pushed her, but only because she was hurting Taylor. You should have seen what they did to her locker!"

Blackwell's eyes narrowed. "Ms. Hebert, is this true? Were you being… harassed?"

Taylor looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. There was a flicker of something, gratitude? Fear? Before she looked away again. "I… I don't want to cause any trouble," she mumbled.

Something inside of him snapped. Greg couldn't stand by and watch Taylor shrink into herself, couldn't bear to see Sophia and Emma get away with their lies and cruelty. The words burst out of Greg before he could manage to stop them.

"Are you kidding me?" he exploded, jumping to his feet with a thump. His chair screeched against the floor, the sudden noise making everyone flinch. "Taylor, you can't just let them get away with this! Principal Blackwell, they stuffed her locker full of…" he paused, the disgusting memory making him gag slightly. "…of used tampons and other gross stuff. They trapped her in there!"

Emma's eyes widened in mock innocence. "Greg, that's a pretty serious accusation. Do you have any proof?"

"Proof? The whole school saw it!" Greg was on a roll now, words tumbling out faster than he could even think them through. "And it's not just that. They've been tormenting her for months. Stealing her work, ruining her projects, calling her names. It's constant!"

Sophia leaned forward, her voice dangerously low. "Careful, Veder. You're starting to sound crazy."

But Greg couldn't stop. He turned to Taylor, his voice pleading. "Taylor, please. You have to tell them. You can't let them keep doing this to you."

Taylor looked like she wanted to disappear into her chair. Her face had gone pale, and he could see her hands trembling slightly now.

Principal Blackwell's voice cut through his tirade. "Mr. Veder, that's quite enough. Unless Ms. Hebert is willing to corroborate these… allegations, we cannot proceed on hearsay alone."

Greg spun to face Blackwell, frustration boiling over now and visible on his face as he stared daggers into Blackwell. "But you have to do something! Can't you see what's happening here? They're bullies, and they're getting away with it because no one's willing to even stand up to them!"

"Greg," Emma said, her voice sickly sweet, "I think you might be projecting a bit. Just because you feel like a victim doesn't mean Taylor is one too. Maybe you should focus on your own issues instead of making up stories about us."

"Making up-" he sputtered, indignant. "You know what? Fine. If you won't do anything, I will. I'll go to the school board, the PTA, hell, I'll go to the local news if I have to!"

The room fell silent. Greg stood there, chest heaving, suddenly aware of what he'd just said. Sophia was glaring at him with undisguised hatred. Emma looked amused, as if his outburst was some kind of entertaining show. And Taylor… Taylor looked absolutely mortified.

Principal Blackwell's voice was ice-cold when she finally spoke, her eyes specifically focusing on him, not looking at the other girls. "Mr. Veder, I think you need to take some time to cool down. You'll be serving detention for the rest of the week for this outburst. And if I hear anymore about you spreading unsubstantiated rumors or threatening to go to the media, there will be severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

Greg deflated he couldn't help it when faced against someone he knew had higher authority. He felt as the fight drained out of him almost as quickly as it had come. "But… but I'm just trying to help," he said weakly.

"You're dismissed," Blackwell said firmly. "All of you. And I don't want to hear about any further incidents between any of you. Understood?"

As we filed out of the office, Taylor hurried away without a word, her hunched shoulders radiating misery. Emma sauntered off, a smug smile playing on her lips. But Sophia lingered, her eyes locked on him with predatory intensity.

Once we were out of earshot of Blackwell's office, Sophia stepped closer, her voice low and menacing. "You're dead, Veder. You have no idea what you've just done."

Something in him snapped. Maybe it was the frustration of the meeting, or the pent-up anger at seeing Taylor bullied, or just the knowledge that he wasn't as powerless as Sophia thought. Whatever it was, Greg felt a surge of reckless courage.

Greg straightened up, using his slight height advantage to loom over Sophia. "No, Hess," Greg growled, almost surprised at the steel in his own voice. "You have no idea what I can do."

Sophia's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of uncertainty now crossing her face before it hardened into a scowl. "What are you talking about, loser?"

Greg leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared daggers into Sophia. "I know what you are, Sophia. A cape. And guess what? So am I. And I'm stronger than you. Tougher, too."

To emphasize his point, he let a faint glow of hard light dance across his fingertips, just enough for her to see. Sophia's eyes darted to Greg's hand, then back to his face, her expression a mix of shock and growing anger.

"You think that matters? Hell, you think I was stupid enough not to notice when your hit nearly blew my head off?" she hissed, recovering quickly. "I've been doing this a lot longer than you, Veder. I know how to handle myself. You're just a newbie playing at being a hero."

Greg felt a chill at her words, but he pressed on, riding the wave of adrenaline that came with this sort of annoying. "Maybe. But I don't have to hold back like you do. Next time you try something, you better remember that."

Sophia's hand shot out, grabbing the front of his shirt and trying to push him against the wall, Greg stood unmoved despite the force she brought to bear. Despite her smaller size, her grip was like iron. "Listen carefully, you idiot," she snarled. "You might be stronger, but I'm smarter. I know how to hurt people without leaving a mark. And next time? I might not have to hold back either."

She released him with a shove that Greg refused to let move him, her eyes burning with barely contained rage. "Watch your back, Veder. And stay away from Hebert. She's not worth all the trouble you're bringing on yourself."

As Sophia stalked away, the full weight of what just happened crashed down on me. Greg had just outed myself to another cape, one who clearly had no qualms about using her powers for less-than-heroic purposes. Even if she already knew he was a cape. And he'd basically just threatened her. What was he thinking?

Greg slumped against the wall, his heart racing as his thoughts swirled around him. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Greg was trying to be a hero, to help Taylor, but everything he did seemed to just make the situation worse.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the next period. As students began to fill the hallway, he straightened up, trying to compose myself. Greg caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby trophy case. The face that looked back at Greg seemed older somehow, more burdened.

'What have you gotten yourself into, Void Cowboy?' He wondered to himself, a mix of fear and determination swirling in his gut. Greg made a powerful enemy today, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for the consequences. But as he watched the sea of students flow around him, his resolve hardened. Greg couldn't back down now. Somehow, he had to find a way to be the hero that he aspired to be both as Void Cowboy and as Greg Veder too.

With a deep breath, Greg stepped into the stream of students, his mind was already racing with plans and possibilities. The path ahead was more dangerous than ever, but he was determined to see it through. For Taylor's sake, for his own, and for the city that needed heroes more than ever.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur, each class blending into the next in a haze of distraction and self-recrimination. As he slouched into his seat during algebra, Mr. Quinlan's voice faded into a distant drone, just overwhelmed by the cacophony of his own thoughts.

'You absolute idiot,' Greg berated himself, staring blankly at the equations scrawled across the blackboard. 'What were you thinking, blowing up like that in Blackwell's office?'

Greg's pencil tapped an erratic rhythm on his desk, drawing annoyed glances from nearby students. He barely noticed, too lost in his internal post-mortem of the disastrous meeting that had happened.

'Okay, Greg, break it down,' he thought, his stomach churning at the chaos of his thoughts, craving that order of a proper analysis. 'What exactly went wrong there?'

As Mr. Quinlan droned on about polynomials, his mind began its relentless dissection of the disastrous meeting.

'You completely lost your cool in there,' He thought, his fingers tightening around the pencil until the knuckles turned white. 'Heroes are supposed to stay calm under pressure, not fly off the handle like some kind of… well, like me, I guess.' Greg could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, a physical manifestation of the embarrassment over his past actions.

Greg's gaze dropped to his notebook, where he'd been absently scribbling nonsensical patterns instead of taking notes. 'And what about all those accusations you threw around? No proof, no evidence, just your word against theirs.' A wince, his stomach churning as they remembered the harsh look on Blackwell's face, the… almost skeptical if he wanted to place it. 'You might as well have been spouting some conspiracy theories.'

A humorless chuckle almost escaped his lips as the next thought hit him. 'Oh, and great job threatening to go public, genius.' His leg began to bounce nervously under the desk. 'Way to paint a target on your back. Now they'll be watching you even closer. So much for keeping a low profile on this.'

The image of Taylor's mortified expression flashed through Greg's mind, sending a pang of guilt and hurt through his chest. His shoulders slumped as the full weight of the actions hit him. 'God, Taylor… She looked terrified. Greg's little crusade probably made things a thousand times worse for her. Nice job, "hero".'

But it was the final realization that made his blood run cold. 'And then you went and revealed your powers to Sophia. An enemy cape. Even if she knew you were a cape already, she had no idea what you could do!' he could feel the color draining from his face, palms suddenly clammy with worry. 'That's like, Tactical Error 101. What if she tells her… whoever she works for?'

The bell rang, startling Greg out of his spiral of self-criticism. He blinked, realizing he'd absorbed exactly none of the lesson. 'Great, another thing to add to my ever-growing list of failures.'

As Greg shuffled out of the classroom, he caught sight of Taylor down the hall. She was hunched over, practically hugging the wall as she hurried to her next class. His heart sank. Had he made her even more of a target, too? That was the opposite of what he wanted, of what he promised her when he told her that him being a parahuman would help.

Greg opened his mouth to call out to her, but the words died in his throat with a strangled and quiet noise. What could he possibly say? 'Sorry, I made a huge scene and probably made your life even more hellish'? Yeah, that'd go over real well.

Instead, he just watched helplessly as she disappeared around a corner, feeling more useless than ever.

English class was next, and as Mr. Mire waxed poetic about Shakespearean sonnets, his mind continued its relentless dissection of the day's events.

'You know,' he mused, absently doodling in the margins of his trusty notebook, 'in a way, this whole thing is like a sonnet. Fourteen lines of pure disaster, culminating in a couplet of me just screwing everything up.'

The thought almost made him laugh. Almost.

As Mr. Mire's voice washed over him, Greg found himself wondering about Sophia. She was a cape, that much he knew now. But who was she really? What were her powers? And more importantly, who did she actually even work for?

The questions swirled in his mind, a puzzle that he was itching to try to solve. It was easier to focus on that mystery than to dwell on his own failures.

By the time the final bell rang, he felt emotionally and mentally drained. The initial righteous anger that had fueled the outburst had long since faded, replaced instead by a gnawing sense of dread and shame.

As he walked home, his feet carried him along the familiar route without conscious thought. The neighborhood passed by in a blur of cracked sidewalks and graffitied walls, a visual representation of the decay that seemed to be eating away at Brockton Bay on every level.

It wasn't until he passed a particular intersection that Greg snapped out of his daze. The street here was torn up, the asphalt scarred and buckled as if by some great force. Old soot caked onto the nearby buildings, a grimy reminder of past violence.

"Another remnant of The Battle," he muttered to no one really, the capital letters clear in his tone.

Greg paused for a moment, taking in the scene. It was a stark reminder of how quickly things could go wrong in a city like Brockton Bay. 'One day you're going about your business, the next you're caught in the crossfire of a cape fight that leaves entire city blocks in smoking ruins.'

'Is that what you want, Greg?' He asked himself as he slowly resumed walking. 'To be responsible for that kind of destruction?'

The thought sobered Greg a little bit. Being a cape, being a hero, it wasn't just about flashy powers and cool costumes. It was about responsibility. About the potential for both great good and terrible harm.

When Greg finally reached home, he pushed open the door to find his mom in the kitchen, still in her nurse's scrubs from her shift at the hospital. The smell of something burning wafted through the air, another of her culinary experiments gone wrong, no doubt.

"Greg, honey? Is that you?" she called out, her voice tinged with the familiar mix of exhaustion and forced cheerfulness.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me," he replied, trying for that same forced cheerfulness, dropping his backpack by the door.

She emerged from the kitchen, a smudge of flour on her cheek and a small, concerned frown on her face. "Is everything alright? You look… upset."

For a moment, Greg was tempted to tell her everything. About the bullying, about his powers, about the mess that he'd made of things today, that he was responsible for. But the words caught in his throat. 'How could I explain any of this without putting her in danger too?'

"I'm fine, Mom," Greg lied, mustering a weak smile. "Just a really long day at school. Lots of homework. I'm gonna go start on it now."

She looked like she wanted to press further, but just nodded. "Okay, honey. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Or, well, something will be ready. Might be dinner, might be a reason to order some pizza. Your father isn't going to be home tonight, but we're getting a call from Jason later today!"

He managed a genuine chuckle at that, too tired to be worried about his personal feud with his brother. "Looking forward to it, Mom."

Before she could change her mind and start interrogating me, Greg hurried up to his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

For a while, he just laid on his bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. They were a relic from a younger, more innocent time, when his biggest worry was whether he'd get to stay up late enough to see them actually glow.

The events of the day played on repeat in his mind, a chaotic mess of regret and frustration.

"You really screwed up this time, Void Cowboy," he muttered to the empty room. "Some hero you turned out to be. Can't even stand up to a couple of school bullies without making everything worse."

Rolling onto his side, his gaze falling on the computer desk in the corner. The ancient monitor sat dark and silent, but in that moment, it represented a lifeline to him. A way to maybe, just maybe, to start fixing this huge mess.

Slowly, Greg sat up, a new determination beginning to form. "No," he said aloud, his voice stronger than he expected it to be. "I'm not giving up. I made mistakes, but I can learn from them. I can do better."

With renewed purpose fueling his movements, he moved to the computer, hitting the power button and listening to the familiar whir of its fans kicking to life. As he waited for the machine to boot up, he cracked his knuckles, a plan forming clear in his mind's eye.

"Alright, Sophia Hess," he murmured, fingers poised over the keyboard. "Let's find out exactly what kind of cape you really are."

The screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow over his face as he began to search. Sifting through forums and news articles, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were crossing a line now. But he pushed the doubt aside. 'If I was going to be a hero, I needed information. And right now, information about Sophia Hess might be the key to protecting Taylor and myself.'

The soft clicking of keyboard keys filled the room as Greg delved deeper into the shadowy world of Brockton Bay's cape scene. With each search, each forum post, he felt like he was pulling on a thread of a wild goose chase. Greg just hoped that he was ready for whatever he ended up unraveling.

Chapter Text

The insistent beep of an alarm clock pierced through Greg Veder's unconscious mind, dragging him reluctantly from the depths of sleep. His hand fumbled blindly in the dim pre-dawn light, searching for the source of the sudden noise. After a few unsuccessful swipes, he finally managed to silence the offending device.

For a moment, Greg lay there, his mind still fuzzy with the grip of sleep. The events of the past few days swirled in his thoughts, his debut as Void Cowboy, the confrontation with Sophia, the disastrous meeting in Principal Blackwell's office. It all seemed like a big chaotic blur, a whirlwind of excitement and anxiety that left him feeling both exhilarated and exhausted.

Groaning softly, Greg forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The digital display on his alarm clock read 5:30 AM, earlier than he'd ever willingly woken up for school before. But things were very different now. He was different.

"Alright, Void Cowboy," he muttered to himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Time to get serious."

The cool morning air nipped at his skin as he padded over to his computer desk. He'd left the ancient machine running overnight, the low hum of its fan a constant backdrop to his sleep. As he wiggled the mouse to wake up the monitor, Greg couldn't help but smile at the cape-themed wallpaper that greeted him, a collage of hero logos and iconic images. How many times had he stared at that wallpaper, dreaming of being one of them? And now, here he was, taking his first steps into that world.

The browser was still open to the Parahumans Online forum, the last thread he'd been reading before finally succumbing to the call of sleep. Greg leaned in, his eyes scanning the text as he scrolled through the most recent posts.

The thread title caught his attention immediately: "New Cape in BB? Mysterious 'Cowboy' Sighted!"

Greg's heart skipped a beat. They were talking about him. Actually talking about him on PHO. He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face as he dove into the discussion.

■

►XxVoid_CowboyxX (Unverified Cape) (Banned)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Hey guys, just wanted to share some info about this new cape. First off, he's me! And as a little sneak peek to whatever you guys figure out, one of my powers have something to do with hard light. ; )

►Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
XxVoid_CowboyxX And you're banned again. How many times do we have to go through this? No roleplaying as capes, especially not any unverified ones.

To everyone else Take this with a grain of salt, but I've heard some whispers about this new independent hero operating in Brockton Bay. Not much solid info yet, but keep your eyes peeled. I'll probably make a post about him when my sources get back to me.

►Brocktonite03 (Veteran Member)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Another new cape? In this economy?

Seriously though, with all the gang tensions lately, I hope this guy knows what he's getting into. Brockton Bay isn't exactly the friendliest place for indie heroes right now.

►AllSeeingEye (Verified Cape)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Oh, this should be interesting. A cowboy-themed cape in Brockton Bay? Either someone's got a death wish or a really good sense of humor. Maybe both.

I'll be keeping an eye on this one. Could shake things up around here.

■

Greg leaned back in his chair, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Pride at seeing people talk about his alter ego, even if they didn't know it was actually him. Frustration at being banned yet again for trying to share his experience. And a twinge of anxiety at AllSeeingEye's comment. Did he have a death wish? Was he really ready for this?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the doubts. No, he couldn't think like that. He was Void Cowboy now, a hero. He had to be ready.

Glancing at the clock, Greg realized he'd spent more time than he'd intended browsing the forums. If he wanted to get to school early and avoid any potential confrontations with Sophia or her cronies, he needed to get moving soon.

As he stood up to start getting ready, a soft knock at his door made him jump. His eyes snapped over, and his hands were at his side in a moment, staring at the door.

"Greg? Honey, are you up already?" His mother's voice, tinged with surprise and a hint of concern, came through the door.

"Yeah, Mom," he called back, quickly closing the browser window he had up. "Just, uh, getting an early start on some homework."

The door creaked open, and his mother poked her head into the room. She was already dressed in her nurse's scrubs, ready for her early shift at the hospital. Her eyebrows rose as she took in the sight of her son, awake and alert at this hour.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "What's the occasion? Hot date?"

Greg felt his face heat up at his mother's suggestion. "Mom! No, nothing like that. Just… trying to be more responsible, I guess."

His mother's smile widened, a mix of pride and amusement in her eyes now. "Well, I certainly won't complain about that. Since you're up, why don't you come down and have some breakfast with me before I head to work? Your father's already left for his early meeting, but we could have some mother-son time."

For a moment, Greg hesitated. He had planned to use this extra time to do some more research, maybe even practice with his powers a bit. But the hopeful look on his mother's face made him reconsider.

"Sure, Mom," he said, returning her smile. "That sounds nice."

As they made their way downstairs, Greg couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Here was his mother, excited about spending time with him, and he was keeping such a huge secret from her. But what choice did he really have? He couldn't exactly tell her that her son was moonlighting as a superhero.

In the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toast filled the air. His mother busied herself at the counter, pulling out a pair of plates and mugs, as Greg took a seat at the small kitchen table.

"So," she said, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, "what's really going on, Greg? It's not like you to be up this early voluntarily."

Greg wrapped his hands around the warm mug, buying himself a moment to think before opening his mouth. "I just… I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, you know? About the future, about what I want to do with my life."

His mother's eyebrows rose again as she sat down across from him, her own coffee in hand. "Oh? And what conclusions have you come to?"

Greg took a sip of his coffee, wincing slightly at the sharp, bitter taste. How did adults drink this stuff? "I think… I think I want to make a difference, you know? In the world, in Brockton Bay. I want to help people."

A soft smile spread across his mother's face, her eyes shining with a mix of pride and something else, was that worry? "That's a noble goal, honey. But the world can be a dangerous place, especially in a city like ours. You need to be careful."

"I know, Mom," Greg said, trying to keep the frustration he was feeling out of his voice. If only she knew what he was really capable of now. "But someone has to do something, right? We can't just sit back and let the gangs take over everything."

His mother reached across the table, placing her hand over his. "Greg, sweetheart, I understand how you feel. Believe me, I see the results of this city's problems every day at the hospital. But you're just one person, and you're still so young. There are people whose job it is to handle these things, the police, the PRT, the Protectorate."

Greg bit his tongue, holding back the urge to argue. How could he explain that he wasn't just one person anymore? That he had powers now, that he could make a real difference with them?

Instead, he just nodded, forcing a smile. "I know, Mom. I'm not planning on doing anything crazy. I just… I want to find ways to help out, you know?"

His mother squeezed his hand gently. "And that's admirable, honey. Just promise me you'll be smart about it, okay? No putting yourself in danger."

"I promise, Mom," Greg said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. Another lie, another secret for him to keep.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts as they sipped at their coffee. Greg's mind raced, trying to reconcile his newfound determination to be a hero with the promise he'd just made to his mother.

"Oh!" his mother exclaimed suddenly, breaking the silence. "I almost forgot to tell you. Your brother called last night while you were asleep."

Greg felt a familiar mix of emotions at the mention of Jason admiration, jealousy, and a touch of resentment towards him. "Yeah? What did he want?"

"He's coming home for a visit next weekend," his mother said, her voice bright with excitement. "He says he has some big news to share."

Greg's stomach churned. Jason, the golden child, coming home with more good news. Probably another academic achievement, or a big job offer from some prestigious company. How could Greg ever measure up to something like that?

But then a new thought struck him. By next weekend, Void Cowboy would have made his mark on Brockton Bay. He'd show Jason show everyone that he was more than just the screw-up little brother of the family.

"That's great, Mom," Greg said, mustering up some enthusiasm. "I can't wait to see him."

His mother beamed, clearly pleased by his positive reaction to the news. "I'm so glad to hear that, honey. I know things haven't always been easy between you two, but I really think this visit will be good for everyone."

Greg nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. Maybe by then, he'd have taken down a gang leader or foiled some major crime. Wouldn't that be something to share at the family dinner table?

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, Greg realized he needed to start getting ready for school if he wanted to stick to his plan of arriving early to school.

"I should probably start getting ready," he said, standing up and taking his mug to the sink.

His mother nodded, rising from her chair as well. "Of course. I need to head out too. Have a good day at school, sweetie. And remember what we talked about, okay? Be smart, be safe."

Greg gave her a quick hug, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at his insides. "I will, Mom. You have a good day too."

As he watched her gather her things and head out the door, Greg couldn't shake the feeling that his whole life was balanced on a knife's edge. On one side, his family, his normal life, the safety, and security of the known. On the other, the exciting but dangerous world of capes, the chance to be a hero, to make a real difference in the city.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. No matter what happened, he knew one thing for certain, things were changing, and there was no going back now.

With that thought firmly in mind, Greg headed back upstairs to get ready for school. As he dressed, he couldn't help but feel a sense of growing anticipation. Today was going to be different. Today, he was going to start taking his role as Void Cowboy seriously.

He paused in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. The same shaggy blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same skinny frame that had always seemed so inadequate before. But now, there was something different in his eyes, a determination, a fire that hadn't been there before.

"You've got this, Void Cowboy," he murmured to his reflection, clenching his fist and watching as a faint glow of hard light danced across his knuckles. "Time to show the world what you're made of."

As Greg made his way to school, his mind was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. The cool morning air nipped at his face, but he barely noticed it, too focused on the task at hand. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, he ducked into a quiet alley and pulled out his phone to check it.

His hands shook slightly as he navigated to the Parahumans Online website and opened up the private messaging system. He'd spent hours the night before preparing for this moment, recording and re-recording a short video that would prove his identity as Void Cowboy.

"Okay, Greg," he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. "This is it. No turning back now."

With one last moment of hesitation, he hit send on the message to the PHO moderators

■

To: PHO Moderation Team

Subject: Verification Request Void Cowboy

Hello,

I'm writing to request verification for my account, XxVoid_CowboyxX, as the cape known as Void Cowboy. I understand I was recently banned for claiming to be a cape, but I assure you, this is not a joke or some roleplay.

Attached to this message, you'll find a video demonstrating my powers. I hope this will be sufficient proof of my identity.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

XxVoid_CowboyxX

From: PHO Moderation Team

Subject: Re: Verification Request Void Cowboy

Dear XxVoid_CowboyxX,

Thank you for your verification request. We have reviewed the video you submitted and consulted with our parahuman experts. Based on the evidence provided, we are prepared to grant you with verified cape status on our forums.

However, we must stress the importance of maintaining your secret identity. We strongly advise against sharing any personal information or details that could compromise your civilian identity.

Your account has been unbanned and upgraded to Verified Cape status. Please remember to adhere to our forum rules, especially those pertaining to the discussion of ongoing PRT operations and sensitive information.

Welcome to the PHO cape community, Void Cowboy.

Best regards,

Tin_Mother

PHO Head Moderator

■

Greg had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle the sudden whoop of joy that threatened to escape. He'd done it! He was now officially recognized as a cape on PHO. The excitement was almost overwhelming. With trembling fingers, he navigated back to the thread about his cape persona.

■

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■

♦ Topic: The Newest Hero!
In: Boards ► America ► East North East ► Brockton Bay
XxVoid_CowboyxX (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)
Posted On Jan 5th 2011:
Hey everyone, Void Cowboy here. I just wanted to introduce myself properly now that I'm finally verified. Yes, I'm new to the cape scene, but I'm committed to helping make Brockton Bay a safer place. I know it won't be easy, but I'm ready for the challenge.

To answer some questions: Yes, I have light-based powers. No, I'm not affiliated with any existing teams or organizations. And yes, the cowboy theme is intentional (and awesome, thank you very much).

I look forward to working alongside the other heroes in our city. Brockton Bay deserves better, and I'm here to help make that happen.

Stay safe out there, everyone!

(Showing page 1 of 1)

►SpecificProtagonist (Cape Groupie)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Wait, THAT Void_Cowboy? The one who's been banned like 50 times for spreading wild conspiracy theories and claiming to have insider knowledge about every cape fight ever? How did HE get powers? This has got to be some kind of wild cosmic joke. What's next, Void_Cowboy joining the Triumvirate?

►Brocktonite03 (Veteran Member)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
I take back what I said earlier. We're doomed. Absolutely doomed. If this is the caliber of new heroes we're getting, I might as well start learning some Cantonese and brushing up on my Nazi salutes. At least then I'll be prepared for when the ABB and E88 inevitably take over after Void_Cowboy accidentally blows up half the city trying to prove his latest crackpot theory.

►Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Well, this is… unexpected. I'm not sure whether to be intrigued or terrified. On one hand, Void_Cowboy has always been a fountain of… let's call it "interesting" information. On the other hand, now that information might actually be legitimate, which is a terrifying thought in of itself. I guess we'll just have to wait and see how this plays out. God help us all.

►GstringGirl
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
OMG VC! You finally did it! I always believed in you! <3 I knew all those theories of yours couldn't be complete nonsense. This just proves that if you throw enough spaghetti at the wall, eventually some of it will stick! I can't wait to hear all about your heroic adventures. Maybe you can finally prove that Eidolon is secretly three powered kids in a trench coat!

►Antigone
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
This has to be a mistake. There's no way the universe would be cruel enough to give HIM powers. I mean, this is the guy who once argued for three days straight that Scion was actually an advanced AI created by Andrew Richter. And let's not forget the infamous "Siberian is a Projection" thread. If he actually has powers now, I think I might need to find a new forum. Or a new planet even.

►Xyloloup
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Now he's going to be even more insufferable. As if his constant "well, actually" posts weren't bad enough, now we have to deal with him having some actual cape knowledge. I bet his power is the ability to generate infinite amounts of hot air. It would explain so much about his posting history.

►Reave (Verified PRT Agent)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Heavy sigh I don't get paid enough for this. Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to generate? Every single one of Void_Cowboy's past posts is going to have to be reviewed for potential security breaches he might have gotten from a Thinker Power he decided to reveal only now. That's thousands of posts, people. THOUSANDS. I hope you're all happy. I'll be retiring sometime around 2050 at this rate.

►Ekul
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Is there a way to unverify someone? Asking for a friend (and the entire city of Brockton Bay). I mean, come on. This is the guy who once spent an entire week trying to convince us that Velocity's suit is actually hiding some laser nipple upgrades from Kid Win. How are we supposed to take anything he says seriously now?

►Sothoth
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
I for one welcome our new cowboy overlord. May his reign of chaos be long and entertaining. Just think of the possibilities! Will he use his powers to finally prove that Dragon is actually a collective hivemind of Canadian geese? Or perhaps he'll uncover the truth about the secret underground cape fight clubs? Whatever happens, it's bound to be a wild ride

►Morgan Sinister
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
This is either the best thing or the worst thing to ever happen to PHO. No in-between. On one hand, Void_Cowboy's posts might actually contain some real information now. On the other hand… it's still Void_Cowboy. I predict a 500% increase in facepalm-induced injuries across the forum in the coming weeks.

►Laotsunn (Kyushu Survivor)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
I've seen some shit in my time, but this… this takes the cake. I survived Leviathan sinking Kyushu, but I'm not sure I can survive Void_Cowboy as a verified cape. Maybe it's time to move to that desert island I've been considering. No internet, no Void_Cowboy, no problems.

►Nod
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Does anyone know if Master/Stranger protocols apply to forum verifications? Asking for the entire PRT. Because if there was ever a time to implement them, it's now. I mean, what's more likely: that Void_Cowboy actually got powers, or that this is some kind of elaborate Master plot to drive us all insane?

►Brilliger (Moderator: Protectorate Main)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
I leave for ONE DAY and this happens? I need a drink. No, scratch that. I need ALL the drinks. Do you have any idea how many reports we're going to get about Void_Cowboy now? Every single post is going to be flagged as "potential security risk" or "suspected trolling." This is going to be a moderation nightmare.

►Capes_Anonymous
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Plot twist: Void_Cowboy is actually Eidolon's secret identity. It would explain so much. Think about it: who else would have such a wide-ranging and often bizarre knowledge of cape affairs? Who else could come up with such outlandish theories that occasionally turn out to be true? Wake up, sheeple! The truth is out there!

►Assembler
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
So, what are the odds that Void_Cowboy's power is actually just the ability to convince PHO mods that he's a real cape? Because that seems more plausible than him actually having any real powers. Then again, if anyone could annoy the universe into giving them superpowers, it would be him.

►Miraclemic
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
You know, I always thought that if the world was going to end, it would be because of some dramatic Endbringer attack or a clash between S-class threats. I never considered the possibility that it might be because someone gave Void_Cowboy of all people superpowers. I guess it's time to start working on that doomsday bunker I've been putting off.

Edit: @Assembler you got stranger'd, already like three suggestions like that.

►TheGnat
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Does this mean all of Void_Cowboy's past theories are going to be re-examined now? Because I really don't think I can handle another round of debates about whether Lung can actually turn into a literal dragon if he gets angry enough. Please, for the sake of my sanity, let's not go down that rabbit hole again.

►FlamingNoodles
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
You know what? I'm choosing to be optimistic about this. Maybe having actual powers will give Void_Cowboy some perspective and make him a bit more… grounded in reality. pauses Yeah, even I don't believe that. We're in for a wild ride, folks. Stock up on popcorn and aspirin.

►Miss Militia (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Welcome to the cape scene, Void_Cowboy. While I'm sure this transition must be exciting for you, I want to stress the importance of discretion and responsibility. Being a hero isn't just about having powers; it's about using them wisely and for the benefit of others. Please remember that your words and actions carry much more weight now. I strongly advise you to think carefully before posting or acting, especially when it comes to any sensitive information. If you need guidance, the Protectorate is always here to help new heroes find their footing. Stay safe out there, and remember: with great power comes great responsibility.

►XxVoid_CowboyxX (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)
Replied On Jan 5th 2011:
Wow, thanks for the warm welcome everyone! I can't wait to show you all what I can do! I promise I'll use my powers responsibly and totally prove that all my theories were right all along. BTW, does anyone know where I can get some cheap spandex in bulk? Asking for a friend (who is definitely not me). Also, quick question: if I were to, hypothetically, stumble upon a secret underground cape fight club, would it be considered bad form to live-toss it? Asking for a friend (who is still definitely not me).

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As Greg approached the gates of Winslow High, his mind was still reeling from the whirlwind of wild responses on PHO. The cool morning air did little to calm the mix of excitement, pride, and anxiety churning in his stomach. His phone felt heavy in his pocket, a constant reminder of the digital storm he'd unleashed on the world.

'They know,' he thought, a giddy smile threatening to break across his face. 'They all know I'm a real cape now.'

The familiar sight of Winslow's worn facade came into view, but today it seemed different somehow. The graffiti-covered walls and rusted chain-link fence that had always symbolized the mundane drudgery of high school life now felt like a secret identity of their own. Behind this unremarkable exterior, a hero walked among the ordinary students.

As he passed through the school gates, Greg couldn't help but straighten his posture a bit. He imagined a large cape billowing behind him, even though he was just wearing his usual worn jeans and faded t-shirt. In his mind's eye, his fellow students turned to watch him pass, whispering in awe about the hero in their midst.

Reality, of course, was far less dramatic. The usual cliques of students milled about, paying him no more attention than they ever had to him. A group of Empire 88 wannabes stood smoking by the bike racks, their hostile glares sweeping across the courtyard. Near the entrance, a couple of ABB teens were engaged in what looked like a tense conversation.

'If they only knew,' Greg thought, his hand unconsciously curling into a fist. 'I could take them all on right now. Show them what a real hero can do.'

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Miss Militia's words from the PHO thread echoed in his head: "Remember that your words and actions carry much more weight now." Greg forced himself to relax, unclenching his fist. Now wasn't the time for any heroics. He had a secret identity to maintain, after all.

As he entered the school building, the excited chatter of his classmates washed over him. Snippets of conversation caught his ear:

"Did you see that thread on PHO?"

"Another new cape in the Bay? We're gonna have more heroes than civilians at this rate."

"Bullshit, we don't even have more heroes than villains."

"Void Cowboy? Sounds like a dork if you ask me."

Greg's cheeks flushed at that last comment, a mix of embarrassment and indignation rising in his chest. 'They don't know what they're talking about,' he reassured himself. 'Wait until they see The Void Cowboy in action. Then they'll change their tune.'

He made his way to his locker, trying to act as normal as possible while his mind raced with possibilities. Should he try to eavesdrop on conversations, gather some intel on gang activities in the school? Should he be on the lookout for signs of other parahumans? The weight of his new responsibilities pressed down on him, making even the simple act of retrieving his textbooks feel like something momentous.

The early morning chill nipped at Greg's face as he waited at the bus stop, his mind buzzing with excitement from his recent PHO verification. The weight of his backpack, laden with advanced biology textbooks, seemed lighter somehow. He was Void Cowboy now, a verified cape, and even the mundane task of going to his college class felt like part of a grand adventure.

As the bus pulled up, Greg couldn't help but scan the other passengers, wondering if any of them had seen the PHO thread about him. Did they know a hero was in their midst? The thought made him stand a little straighter as he boarded.

The ride to Brockton Bay University was uneventful, but Greg's mind was far from quiet. He kept replaying the PHO responses in his head, a mix of pride and anxiety swirling in his stomach. Miss Militia's words echoed in his thoughts: "Remember that your words and actions carry much more weight now."

'I've got to be more careful,' Greg reminded himself. 'But I've also got to be bolder. That's what heroes do, right?'

As he entered the biology lab, the familiar smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant brought him back to reality. Mr. Lilac, a tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, was already setting up slides at the front of the room. He had baggy violet pants that look ridiculous but so comfy in this weather and a simple shirt which practically screams he's not paid enough for this.

"Good morning, class," Mr. Lilac said as the last few students trickled in. "Today, we'll be examining the effects of various stimuli on cellular structures. Please pair up and collect your lab materials."

Greg looked around, a familiar sense of dread settling in his stomach. He was always the odd one out in these sorts of situations, the kid no one wanted to partner with. But today felt different. He was the Void Cowboy now. He could do this.

With a deep breath, Greg approached a girl he vaguely recognized from his previous classes. "Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Want to partner up?"

The girl looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, why not? I'm Abby."

"Greg," he replied, feeling a small thrill of success. This was already going better than usual.

As they began the lab work, Greg found himself more focused than ever before. The microscopic world under the lens seemed to come alive in new ways. He wondered if this heightened perception was a side effect of his powers, or just the increased confidence.

"Whoa," Abby said, peering into the microscope. "Check this out. The cell membrane is reacting way faster than I expected."

Greg took a look and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, it's like the stimulus is supercharging the whole system. Kind of reminds me of how some parahuman powers work, you know?"

Abby raised an eyebrow at me. "You into all that cape stuff?"

Greg felt his cheeks heat up. "Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that. It's just interesting, you know? The way powers can change up things on a fundamental level."

"I suppose," Abby said, turning back to her notes. "Though sometimes I think this city could do with fewer capes and more normal people just trying to make things better."

The comment stung more than Greg expected. He opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. What would the Void Cowboy do in this situation?

"Maybe," he said carefully, "but don't you think capes could inspire people to be better? To stand up and make a difference?"

Abby considered this for a moment. "I guess that's true. If they're doing it for the right reasons and not just for fame or whatever."

The conversation trailed off as they focused on completing the lab project, but Greg's mind was racing. Was he doing this for the right reasons? Was Void Cowboy really going to make a difference, or was he just playing at being a hero?

As the class ended and Greg headed back to Winslow for his next period, these questions continued to nag at him. The bus ride seemed shorter this time, his thoughts consuming him entirely.

As Greg entered the Physics classroom, his eyes automatically scanned for either Taylor or Sophia. He spotted Taylor near the back of the room, her head down as she scribbled in a notebook. Sophia was nowhere to be seen, which Greg found both relieving and somehow disappointing. He wanted a win against her, even if it was just a few answers he got right that she didn't.

Mr. Lincoln, their elderly Physics teacher, was already at the board, his wrinkled hand shakily writing equations. His perpetual scowl deepened as the last few students finally trickled in.

"Alright, you lot," he grumbled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Today we're covering energy conservation and transformation. Not that most of you will bother to remember it beyond this class."

Greg's hand shot up almost involuntarily. Mr. Lincoln's rheumy eyes narrowed at him. "What is it, Veder? This better not be another one of your inane questions."

"I was just wondering," Greg started, his enthusiasm dampened by the teacher's tone, "could we talk about how cape powers relate to energy transformation?"

A few Snickers echoed around the room. Mr. Lincoln's scowl, if possible, deepened even further.

"Cape powers?" he sneered. "This is a Physics class, Veder, not a comic book convention. We deal with real science here, not any fairytales and wishful thinking. Now, can anyone with their head not in the clouds give me an actual example of energy transformation?"

Greg slumped in his seat, face burning with embarrassment. Another student raised their hand and offered, "A light bulb, sir? It transforms electrical energy into both light and heat."

"Finally, someone with a modicum of sense," Mr. Lincoln grunted. "Yes, a light bulb. Now, let's examine the equations governing this process…"

As the lecture continued in Mr. Lincoln's dry, irritated tone, Greg found his mind wandering back to his own powers. How did his hard light constructs even work? He knew they didn't follow the rules Mr. Lincoln was explaining, but he couldn't help wondering about the energy involved. He made a mental note to experiment more with his abilities later, even if he couldn't understand the science behind them.

Throughout the class, he couldn't help but glance occasionally at Taylor. She seemed much more alert than usual, her eyes darting around the room as if watching for something. Did she suspect he was Void Cowboy? Or was she just on edge after everything that had happened?

Greg tried to focus on the lesson, but between Mr. Lincoln's caustic remarks and his own preoccupation with his newfound powers, it was a struggle. He might not understand the physics behind parahuman abilities, but he knew he had to learn how to use his own powers effectively if he wanted to be a real hero, regardless of whatever Mr. Lincoln thought about "fairytales and wishful thinking."

When the bell rang for lunch, Greg packed up his things slowly, debating whether to approach Taylor. His mind raced with a number of potential conversation starters. 'Maybe I could ask her about the Physics homework? Or just check if she's okay after yesterday?' But by the time he'd made up his mind, she had already slipped out of the classroom, her long, dark curly hair disappearing around the corner.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around the strap of his worn backpack. "Missed another chance."

In the cafeteria, Greg found himself scanning the room, not just for Taylor this time, but for any signs of trouble. The various cliques and gang-affiliated groups seemed more pronounced now, their territories within the lunchroom clearly defined. The harsh fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glow over everything, making the already unappetizing food look even less edible than it was.

'It's like a map of Brockton Bay in miniature,' he thought, noting the ABB members clustered near the windows, their red, and green colors a stark contrast to the drab cafeteria walls. The Empire sympathizers dominated the center tables, their shaved heads and surly expressions creating an invisible barrier of hate around them.

He spotted Sparky sitting with another boy at a table near the back, absently strumming air guitar as he stared into space, his long, greasy hair hanging in his face. The other boy, who Greg recognized as Mildew, one of Sparky's bandmates, was animatedly talking about something, his hands gesticulating wildly yet not hitting anything.

Mildew was a sight to behold. His mohawk, dyed a vibrant electric blue, stood at least six inches tall, defying gravity and probably several of the school's dress codes. Multiple piercings adorned his ears, eyebrows, and bottom lip, glinting in the cafeteria lights. His t-shirt, bearing the logo of some obscure punk band, was artfully ripped and safety-pinned back together. Despite his intimidating appearance, his round face and enthusiastic expression gave him an almost puppy-like charm.

Taking a deep breath, Greg made his way over, navigating around the overcrowded tables and dodging a few carelessly tossed food items.

"Hey, Sparky, Mildew," he said, sliding into the seat across from them. The plastic chair squeaked loudly, drawing a few irritated glances from nearby tables. "Mind if I join you?"

Sparky blinked, focusing on Greg with what seemed like effort. "Oh. Hey, Greg. Sure, whatever." His voice was barely audible over the background cafeteria din.

Mildew, on the other hand, grinned widely, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow added to his charm. "Greg! My man! Pull up a chair. We were just talking about our next gig. You should totally come!" His voice was a pleasant baritone, full of enthusiasm that seemed at odds with his overall punk aesthetic.

An awkward silence fell between them as Greg settled in. He fidgeted with his fork, trying to think of something to say. The smell of overcooked vegetables and mystery meat wafted from his tray, making his stomach turn slightly from it. "So, uh, did you guys hear about that new cape? Void Cowboy?"

Sparky's eyebrows rose slightly, disappearing under his curtain of hair. "You mean that weirdo from PHO who's always spouting conspiracy theories? He's a cape now?"

Greg felt a twinge of annoyance at the description but pushed it aside for now. "Yeah, that's the one. What do you think about it?"

Sparky shrugged, his shoulders barely moving. "Dunno, man. Seems kind of sketchy to me. I mean, who chooses a name like 'Void Cowboy' anyway?"

"I think it's kind of cool," Greg said, a bit more defensively than he had intended. "Like, mysterious, you know?"

Mildew jumped in, his eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. "Dude, I think it's awesome! It's like, space cowboys or something. Maybe he shoots laser revolvers or rides a rocket horse!" He mimed shooting with finger guns, nearly knocking over his soda can in the process.

Greg couldn't help but laugh at Mildew's enthusiasm. "That would be pretty cool. Though I think his powers are something to do with light, based on the PHO thread."

Sparky gave him a strange look, actually brushing his hair out of his brown eyes for once. "Since when are you so into capes, dude? I thought you were more of a computer nerd."

Greg felt his cheeks heat up. "I can be interested in more than one thing," he mumbled, suddenly finding his unidentifiable cafeteria food fascinating.

"Hey, no shame in that," Mildew said, clapping Greg on the shoulder with a hand adorned with chipped black nail polish. "Capes are cool. Though I gotta say, I prefer my heroes with a sick guitar riff backing them up."

Before Greg could respond, a commotion from across the cafeteria caught their attention. A group of ABB members were surrounding a younger student, their postures rather aggressive. The chatter in the cafeteria dimmed slightly as other students noticed the confrontation going on.

Greg's heart began to race, his palms suddenly sweaty. This was it, a chance to be a hero, right here in the school. He started to stand up, his mind already racing with plans of how to use his powers subtly to intervene in the fight.

'Maybe I could create a small light distraction? Or trip one of them up with a hard light construct?' he thought frantically, his powers itching to be used.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Taylor. She had also noticed the confrontation and was watching intently, her body tense as if ready to spring into action. For a moment, their eyes meeting across the cafeteria. There was something in her gaze, determination? Fear? That made Greg hesitate.

'Is she going to do something? Should I wait and see?' The questions raced through his mind, paralyzing him with indecision.

At that moment of hesitation, a teacher appeared on the scene, breaking up the confrontation with a few sharp words and threats of detention. The ABB members backed off, shooting venomous glares at the younger student as they dispersed. The tension in the cafeteria eased, conversations resuming as if nothing had happened.

Greg slowly sat back down, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over him. He'd missed his chance to be a hero, but at least the situation had been resolved without much violence.

"See what I mean?" Sparky said, shaking his head. "This place is messed up, man. We don't need some wannabe cowboy hero. We need the whole system to change."

Mildew nodded solemnly, his usually cheerful expression clouded now. "Yeah, it's pretty rough. But hey, maybe this Void Cowboy guy will actually make a difference. You never know, right?" His optimism seemed sort of forced, but genuine.

Greg nodded absently, his eyes still on Taylor. She had returned to her lunch, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes kept darting around the room. He wondered, not for the first time even today, what was going through her mind.

"Yeah," Greg said softly. "Something's gonna have to change around here."

"So, Greg," Mildew said, clearly trying to lighten the mood, his cheerful demeanor reasserting itself. "You never said if you were coming to our gig. It's gonna be epic, I promise. We've got this new song about fighting against the system. It'll blow your mind!"

As Mildew launched into a detailed description of their upcoming performance, complete with air guitar solos and drumming on the table, Greg found his attention split between the enthusiastic musician and his own wildly swirling thoughts.

The cafeteria buzzed around them, the incident already forgotten by most. But for Greg, it was a stark reminder of the challenges he faced as Brockton Bay's newest hero. As he half-listened to Mildew's animated chatter, he couldn't help but feel that his journey as Void Cowboy was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Greg made his way through the hallways, his face in a false smile that idly rested on his face, he found himself unconsciously scanning the surrounding faces as if looking for something. The usual cacophony of slamming lockers, chattering students, and squeaking sneakers filled the air, but Greg felt oddly detached from it all, as if he were moving through a world slightly out of sync with his own.

His eyes caught on a familiar figure further down the hall Taylor Hebert, her shoulders hunched and her head down as she navigated the throng of students. Greg felt a sudden pang of guilt and frustration. He'd tried to stand up for her, to expose the bullying, but it had all backfired spectacularly on them. Now, Taylor seemed more isolated than ever.

Lost in his thoughts, Greg almost didn't notice when a hand suddenly shot out from a nearby classroom doorway, grabbing his arm and yanking him inside. Caught off guard, he stumbled into the room, his heart racing as he tried to process what was now happening.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Greg found himself face to face with Sophia Hess. Her dark eyes blazed with a barely contained fury, her athletic frame tense as if ready to pounce. Greg's mind raced, acutely aware of their last confrontation and the dangerous knowledge they now shared about each other.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Veder?" Sophia hissed, her voice low and menacing. The empty classroom felt claustrophobic despite the size, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through dusty windows casting long shadows across the room. The shadows were cast on empty desks in rows around the front, a small classroom even for Winslow's standards. The chairs were upside down on top of the desks, with the teacher's desk near the right hand of the room, a bit further away from the entrance, with a back to a blank wall.

Greg straightened up, trying to project a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sophia," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "But if this is about what happened back in Blackwell's office-"

"Shut up," Sophia snapped, taking a step closer. Greg could feel the barely contained energy radiating off her, like a coiled spring ready to release. "You think you can just waltz in and play hero? You have no idea what you're really getting into."

Greg felt a surge of anger, both at Sophia's words and at the whole situation. "What I'm getting into? You're the one bullying Taylor, making her life miserable. Someone had to finally stand up to you!"

Sophia reacted practically immediately, throwing her head back, she started to laugh wildly. The laugh was cold and humorless despite its loud, almost reverberating sound. "Stand up to me? Please. You're just a wannabe hero who doesn't understand how the world really works. You think you're helping her? You're just making things worse."

"How am I making things worse?" Greg demanded, his hands clench, nails digging slowly into the skin of his palms. "By actually trying to do something about the bullying? By not just standing by while you torment her?"

Sophia's eyes narrowed dangerously at him. "You don't get it, do you? This isn't some game where you swoop in and save the day. There are things going on that you can't even begin to understand."

Greg felt a chill run down his spine at her words. There was something in Sophia's tone, a hint of something deeper and darker than just some high school bullying. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice dropping to match her hushed intensity.

Sophia seemed to catch herself, realizing she might have just said too much. She took a step back, her expression shifting to one of cold disdain. "Just stay out of it, Veder. This is your last warning. Keep pushing, and you'll regret it."

The threat hung in the air between them, but Greg found himself standing his ground, the sound of his grinding teeth echoing the room. "Or what, Sophia? You'll use your powers on me? Go ahead and try. I'm not afraid of you."

For a moment, Sophia looked genuinely taken aback by his out of character boldness. Then her eyes hardened again. "You should be," she said, her voice dripping with menace. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Greg felt a surge of reckless courage, fueled by frustration and a desire to regain some control over the situation. He knew it was a risk, potentially a huge one, but he just couldn't stop himself. He only had one lead which stuck out when compared to every other option based on the very bare-bones description of her power that he has. The words tumbled out before he could fully consider the possible consequences.

"Actually, I think I do know what you're capable of… Shadow Stalker."

The effect was immediate. Sophia's eyes widened in shock, her composure cracking for a split second before her face twisted into a horrible snarl. She moved with lightning speed, reaching out to grab Greg by the front of his shirt, clearly intending to slam him against the wall. But to her evident surprise, Greg didn't budge slightly.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, but Greg stood firm, unmoved by her attempt to manhandle him. Sophia's eyes widened further, a flicker of confusion and perhaps fear crossing her face as she realized her physical advantage was now gone.

"What did you just say?" Sophia hissed, her face inches from his, her eyes burning with a mixture of rage and growing uncertainty.

Greg swallowed hard, but pressed on, acutely aware of the physical power dynamic that had just shifted before her very eyes. "You heard me. I figured it out. You're Shadow Stalker. That's why you're so confident, why you think you can get away with everything. But here's the thing, Sophia, you might know what you're fully capable of, but you have no idea what I can do."

Sophia's grip on his shirt tightened, her knuckles turning white, but she just couldn't move him. "You don't know what you're talking about," she growled, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, amplified by her failed attempt to physically intimidate him.

"Don't I?" Greg countered, his voice steadier than he felt. "Your powers, your attitude, the way you move, it all fits. And now you know that I know. So maybe we're both in over our heads here."

For a long moment, they stood there, locked in a tense standoff. Greg could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, acutely aware of how badly this could go if he'd miscalculated. But he held his ground, meeting Sophia's glare with one of his own, the physical demonstration of his strength adding real weight to his words.

Suddenly, the door burst open, startling them both. Emma Barnes sauntered in, her red hair catching the sunlight as she surveyed the scene before her. "Everything okay in here?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet but with an undercurrent of harsh steel.

Sophia's posture shifted almost imperceptibly, some tension leaving her frame. "Just having a little chat with Veder here," she said, her tone casual but her eyes never leaving Greg's face.

Emma's gaze flicked between them, an intense, calculating look in her eyes. "Well, we'd better get going. Don't want to be late for class, right?" Her smile was all teeth as she looked at Greg. "You should run along too, Greg. Wouldn't want to keep Mr. Gladly waiting."

Greg knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he wasn't about to let them have the last word. "This isn't over," he said, his voice low but firm. "I won't let you keep hurting Taylor."

Emma's laugh was like tinkling glass, beautiful but sharp enough to cut. "Oh, Greg. You really are clueless, aren't you? Taylor doesn't need your help. She doesn't want it. You're just making a fool of yourself."

The words stung more than Greg wanted to admit. He opened his mouth to retort, but Sophia cut him off. "Just go, Veder. And remember what I said. Next time, I won't be so nice."

Greg looked between them, frustration and anger warring with uncertainty and fear. He wanted to say more, to stand his ground, but he knew this wasn't the time or place. With a final glare at both of them, he turned and walked out of the classroom, his mind whirling with a mess of questions and half-formed plans.

As he made his way down the hall towards Mr. Gladly's class, Greg couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stumbled into something much bigger and more complicated than he'd realized. Sophia's cryptic words echoed in his mind, "There are things going on that you can't even begin to understand."

What did she mean? What was really going on with Taylor, with the bullying? And most of all, how did Sophia's status as a parahuman fit into all of this?

Greg's steps slowed as he approached the classroom door, his earlier determination to be a hero now tempered with a growing sense of the complexities and dangers he was facing. He thought about his own powers, about the responsibilities that came with them. Was he really ready for this? Could he handle whatever it was that Sophia was hinting at?

As he reached for the door handle, Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. Whatever was going on, whatever challenges lay ahead, he knew he couldn't just back down now. He was Void Cowboy, and he had made a promise to himself and to Taylor. He would find a way to help her, to be the hero she needed, even if he had to beat the shit out of Sophia to do it.

Greg trudged into Mr. Gladly's World Issues classroom, his mind still reeling from the events of the morning. Mostly just the odd interactions with Taylor in the cafeteria. He was confused why she acted that way, why she looked like she was ready to leap into a fight despite everything that had happened. Hell, he was confused why she was in the lunchroom in the first place. Usually she would be off in the corner of the school or something, trying to avoid the bullies.

The classroom itself was a microcosm of Winslow High's general state of disrepair. Posters about various global issues hung crookedly on the walls, their corners curling up from age and humidity. The desks were scratched and marked with years of student graffiti, telling silent stories of boredom and rebellion. Flickering fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glow over everything, making even the most enthusiastic students look tired and washed out in it.

As the final bell rang, Greg's eyes unconsciously sought out Taylor. She was hunched over her desk two rows ahead, her long, dark hair forming a thick curtain that hid her face from view. He felt a pang of guilt, wondering if his outburst in Blackwell's office had made things even worse for her. The memory of the confrontation still burned fresh in his mind, the anger in Sophia's eyes, the disappointment on Taylor's face, the frustration that had driven him to reveal more than he really should have.

Greg's hand unconsciously moved to his pocket, where he could feel the hard light coin he'd created earlier. It was a constant, tangible reminder of his newfound powers and the responsibility that came with them. He'd wanted to help Taylor, to be a hero, but had he just gone and made everything worse?

Before he could dwell on it further, Mr. Gladly's enthusiastic voice cut through the classroom noise, snapping Greg back to the present moment.

"Alright, everyone! Settle down, settle down. We've got a lot to cover today, and I think you're all going to find it pretty exciting!"

Greg couldn't help but roll his eyes. Mr. Gladly always tried so hard to be the "cool teacher," and while some students ate it up, Greg found it a bit grating to put up with. The man's perpetual enthusiasm, his need to be liked by his students, it all felt a bit… desperate. Still, Greg had to admit that today's topic did actually pique his interest.

He glanced around the room, taking in the familiar faces of his classmates. There was Sparky, looking as disinterested as ever, his long hair falling over his eyes as he doodled in his notebook. Julia and Madison sat together, whispering and giggling about something, probably nothing good though, given their association with Emma and Sophia. In the back corner, Greg spotted the kid everyone called Under, though Greg was pretty sure that wasn't his real name. The guy was built like a human tank and always seemed to excel at whatever physical task was put in front of him.

"Now, who can tell me what we were discussing last class?" Mr. Gladly asked, his gaze sweeping the room. His eyes lingered for a moment on Taylor, who seemed to shrink further into her seat, before moving on from her.

A few hands shot up, and Mr. Gladly pointed to Julia, one of the more popular girls in class. "We were talking about the impact of parahumans on modern society," she answered confidently, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Greg couldn't help but notice how she seemed to just preen under Mr. Gladly's attention.

"Excellent, Julia! That's exactly right," Mr. Gladly beamed. "We discussed how the emergence of parahumans has affected everything from politics and economics to popular culture. Can anyone give me a specific example we talked about?"

Madison's hand shot up this time. "Oh! We talked about how the construction industry has changed because of parahuman abilities. Like how some capes can build structures super fast or create materials that are way stronger than normal."

Mr. Gladly's enthusiasm dimmed slightly at her answer, and he shook his head. "Well, Madison, that's a common misconception. While parahumans do have those capabilities, in the United States, they're actually prohibited from using their powers in most commercial activities, including construction."

Greg perked up at this, recognizing the topic from his own online research. He raised his hand, and Mr. Gladly nodded for him to speak.

"That's because of NEPEA-5, right?" Greg said, feeling a small surge of pride at knowing this. "The bill that prohibited parahuman involvement in business to ensure fair competition."

Mr. Gladly beamed. "Excellent, Greg! That's exactly right. The National Emergencies and Parahuman Employment Act of 1999, commonly known as NEPEA-5, was designed to prevent parahumans from dominating industries and potentially destabilizing the economy as a whole."

He turned back to Madison. "So while parahumans could theoretically revolutionize construction, they're legally barred from doing so in most circumstances. However, your point about disaster recovery is spot on. NEPEA-5 does have some exceptions for emergency situations, allowing parahumans to assist in rebuilding efforts after natural disasters or Endbringer attacks."

Greg nodded along, thinking about the complexities of integrating parahumans into society. It was a topic that always fascinated him, especially now that he was secretly one himself.

Mr. Gladly continued, "This is a great example of how society has had to adapt to the existence of parahumans. Laws like NEPEA-5 try to balance the potential benefits of parahuman abilities with the need to maintain greater economic stability and fairness. It's a contentious issue, with valid arguments on both sides."

"Today," Mr. Gladly continued, his voice taking on a tone of excitement that even Greg had to admit was a little infectious, "we're going to dig a little deeper into the subject of parahumans themselves. Specifically, we're going to talk about parahuman physiology and how their powers develop over time."

A low murmur of interest rippled through the classroom. Greg found himself leaning forward slightly, his earlier troubles momentarily forgotten in the face of a topic that actually fascinated him. He noticed several other students perking up as well, their postures straightening as they turned their full attention to Mr. Gladly.

Even Taylor seemed to show a flicker of interest, her head lifting slightly from behind her curtain of hair. Greg felt a small surge of hope at that. Maybe this class could provide a brief respite from whatever was troubling her.

"Now, one of the most interesting things about parahumans," Mr. Gladly continued, pacing at the front of the room with an excited energy, "is that they all exhibit enhanced physical abilities to some degree. Even if their powers don't seem directly related to physical enhancement, they're still generally stronger, faster, and more durable than the average person is."

He paused, letting that sink in. Greg's mind immediately went to his own enhanced strength and durability. He'd noticed the changes in his body almost immediately after his awakening, the way he could lift things that should have been too heavy, how falls that should have left bruises barely fazed him now. It was both exhilarating and a little terrifying.

"Can anyone think of why this might be?" Mr. Gladly asked, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Why would a parahuman whose power is, say, controlling plants, also be physically stronger?"

The class was silent for a moment, students glancing at each other in uncertainty. Greg's hand twitched, tempted to raise it. He had theories, ideas he'd developed from his own experiences and countless hours on parahuman forums. But after his earlier outburst, he didn't want to draw any more attention to himself. He could feel Sophia's eyes boring into him from across the room, a silent warning to keep his mouth shut on the topic.

Finally, a boy near the front, Greg thought his name might be Dennis, raised his hand. "Is it because their bodies need to be tougher to handle their powers?"

Mr. Gladly nodded enthusiastically. "That's a great theory, Daniel! And you're not far off. The current prevailing theory is that parahuman powers come with a sort of 'package deal' of physical enhancements. These enhancements seem to be tailored to complement the parahuman's specific abilities to some level."

He moved to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker. The squeak of the marker against the board seemed to capture everyone's attention, even Sparky's, as Mr. Gladly began to write.

"Let me give you an example," he said, his voice taking on the tone of someone about to share a particularly juicy piece of gossip. "There was a study done a few years ago on a parahuman with teleportation abilities. Now, you might think that teleportation wouldn't require much in the way of physical enhancement, right?"

Several students nodded in agreement. Madison, one of Emma's friends, spoke up without raising her hand. "Yeah, I mean, they're just disappearing and reappearing, right? How hard can that really be?"

Mr. Gladly smiled, not seeming to mind the interruption. Greg noticed how he always seemed more lenient with the popular kids. "You'd think so, Madison. But the results of this study were pretty surprising." He wrote 'TELEPORTER STUDY' at the top of the board in large letters.

"This parahuman, without using their powers, demonstrated strength and stamina levels just shy of Olympic athletes," Mr. Gladly explained, his voice building with excitement. "But here's where it gets fascinating. They showed superhuman levels of durability, and could run at speeds of up to 50 miles per hour!"

A wave of impressed murmurs swept through the class. Greg felt a little thrill run through him. He'd read about this study online, but hearing it discussed in class made it feel more real to him somehow. He couldn't help but compare it to his own abilities. Was he capable of such feats? How fast could he run? How much could he lift? The possibilities seemed positively endless.

"But why?" Another student, Jake, asked. "Why would a teleporter need to be super fast or tough?"

Mr. Gladly's eyes lit up at the question. "Excellent question, Jake! Initially, researchers thought it might be to help the teleporter's body handle the stress of instantaneous movement. However, further studies revealed that this theory didn't quite hold up to scrutiny."

He paused, gauging the class's reaction and likely to give him a moment to breathe. "You see, the teleporter's power itself seemed to take care of the physical stresses of teleportation. Their body wasn't actually moving through space in a conventional sense, so there was no need for any extra durability to 'survive' the teleportation process."

Greg found himself nodding along. This made more sense to him than the initial explanation did.

Mr. Gladly continued, "However, the enhanced physical abilities weren't useless. In fact, they opened up some fascinating new possibilities for the teleporter. Can anyone think of how super speed and durability might complement a teleportation power?"

The class was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, to Greg's surprise, Taylor raised her hand.

"Yes, Taylor?" Mr. Gladly acknowledged, a note of encouragement in his voice.

Taylor's voice was soft but clear as she spoke. "Well, if the teleporter can run really fast, they could teleport to a spot and then quickly move from there without teleporting again. It would make their overall movements less predictable."

"Excellent observation, Taylor!" Mr. Gladly beamed. "That's exactly right. The enhanced speed allowed the teleporter to perform what they called 'blink-and-run' maneuvers. They could teleport to a location and then quickly sprint to another, making their movements incredibly hard for others to track or predict."

He turned back to the whiteboard, sketching out a quick diagram. "But it goes even further than that. The enhanced durability and strength opened up new possibilities for the teleporter's power itself. They discovered they could teleport larger objects, or even multiple people at once, something they couldn't really do initially."

A murmur of interest spread through the class. Greg found himself fascinated. This was starting to sound a lot more like how his own powers worked, seemingly simple at first, but with potential for a number of creative applications.

Mr. Gladly continued, "Perhaps most interestingly, the teleporter found they could perform what they called 'precision jumps'. By combining their teleportation with their enhanced speed and reflexes, they could teleport into extremely tight or dangerous spaces, like the inside of a moving vehicle or a falling object, and then immediately teleport out again."

He paused, letting that sink in for the class. "So while the initial theory about why the teleporter had these enhanced abilities was incorrect, the abilities themselves proved incredibly useful in expanding and complementing their core power."

Madison raised her hand, a slight frown on her face now. "So, like, their power just gave them random extra abilities that turned out to be useful? That seems kind of… convenient."

Mr. Gladly nodded thoughtfully. "It does seem that way, doesn't it? But this actually leads us to an important concept in parahuman studies, the idea of power synergy. It appears that parahuman abilities often come with secondary powers or other enhancements that, while not directly related to the main power, work in concert with it to create a more versatile and effective overall package."

He wrote 'POWER SYNERGY' on the board in large letters. "This concept suggests that parahuman powers aren't just isolated abilities, but complex systems designed to work together for the parahuman. It's almost as if the powers themselves have an intelligence behind them, anticipating how they might be used and providing complementary abilities to maximize their effectiveness."

Greg felt a chill run down his spine. This was hitting very close to home for him. His own powers, the ability to create hard light constructs and to mimic other parahumans' abilities, seemed to work together in ways he was only just beginning to understand.

Mr. Gladly continued, "Of course, that's widely considered a conspiracy theory and is easily disproven, not to mention this is still a developing field of study. We don't fully understand why powers manifest the way they do, or how these synergies actually develop. But cases like our teleporter provide valuable insights into the complex nature of parahuman abilities."

He looked around the room, his expression serious. "It's important to remember that while we're discussing these concepts academically, for parahumans, this is their lived reality. The process of discovering and learning to use their powers can be challenging, confusing, and sometimes even dangerous."

Greg nodded unconsciously, thinking of his own experiences trying to understand and control his powers. It was a sobering reminder of the heavy responsibility that came with being a parahuman.

As the class discussion continued, Greg found his mind wandering to his own experiences as a parahuman. Mr. Gladly's words about enhanced physical abilities and power synergy resonated deeply with him, prompting a bout of introspection.

Greg discreetly flexed his arm, feeling the newfound strength coursing through his muscles. Since his awakening, he'd noticed a significant increase in his physical capabilities. He was much stronger now, able to lift weights that would have been impossible for him before. His durability had increased too, he'd discovered this the hard way during his patrol when he'd taken hits that should have left bruises but barely fazed him.

'But how do I compare to other parahumans?' Greg wondered, his thoughts inevitably drifting to his earlier confrontation with Sophia. He'd been surprised by how easily he'd overpowered her, his enhanced strength clearly surpassing hers. The memory of her shocked expression when he'd effortlessly deflected her attack brought a small, guilty smile to his face.

Yet, Sophia wasn't outclassed in every aspect. Greg frowned as he recalled how swiftly she'd moved during their brief scuffle. Her speed and agility were clearly superior to his own. 'She was like a blur,' he mused, 'reacting faster than I could follow.'

This realization made Greg ponder the nature of his own powers. His primary abilities, creating hard light constructs and mimicking other parahumans' powers didn't seem directly related to his physical enhancement. Yet here he was, significantly stronger and more durable than before.

'Is this what Mr. Gladly means by power synergy?' Greg thought, his attention briefly returning to the ongoing class discussion. 'My enhanced strength lets me create larger and more complex constructs. And the durability… well, that's just handy for not getting hurt while playing hero.'

But Sophia's speed advantage nagged at him. If they ever came to blows again, a thought that sent a chill down Greg's spine, her superior agility could prove problematic for him. 'I need to find a way to counter that,' he realized. 'Maybe I could use my constructs to limit her movement? Or create some kind of protective armor?'

As these thoughts raced through his mind, Greg felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. The potential of his powers seemed vast, but so did the challenges he faced. He was stronger than Sophia, yes, but she was faster and likely much more experienced. And who knew what other parahumans he might encounter, each with their own unique set of enhanced abilities?

"But sir," a voice piped up from the middle of the room. Greg recognized it as belonging to Tyler, one of the class's more outspoken students. Tyler was known for his sharp questions and occasional challenges to authority, which often made classes more interesting. "If all parahumans get physical enhancements, then how come some of them are known just for being super strong or super tough? Isn't that like their whole power?"

Greg found himself nodding along with Tyler's question. It was something he'd wondered about too, especially since getting his own powers. He'd noticed his increased strength and durability, but they seemed pretty secondary to his ability to create hard light constructs and mimic other powers.

Mr. Gladly smiled, clearly pleased with the question. His eyes lit up with that familiar spark he got whenever the discussion turned to parahumans. Greg couldn't help but notice how much more animated their teacher became when talking about capes, compared to his usual demeanor when discussing more mundane topics.

"Excellent point, Tyler! You're absolutely right that some parahumans seem to specialize in enhanced physical abilities. But even in these cases, there's often more going on than meets the eye."

He turned to the whiteboard, erasing his previous diagrams with quick, excited motions. In large letters at the top, he wrote 'PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENT SPECIALISTS'. The squeak of the marker seemed to capture everyone's attention, even the usually disinterested students perking up a bit yet again.

"Let's take Manpower from New Wave as an example," Mr. Gladly continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone about to share a particularly juicy piece of gossip. "He's famously known for his super strength and durability, right?"

Several students nodded, and Greg found himself doing the same. New Wave was one of the most well-known hero teams in Brockton Bay, and Manpower was a powerhouse even among them. Greg had seen footage of Manpower in action, effortlessly lifting cars and shrugging off attacks that would have leveled whole buildings.

"Well, what many people don't realize," Mr. Gladly said, leaning in conspiratorially, "is that Manpower's powers are actually based around a personal electromagnetic shield." He began sketching a rough diagram on the board, a stick figure surrounded by wavy lines that Greg assumed represented the electromagnetic field he spoke of.

"This shield not only protects him, but also augments his strength and durability. It's not just that he's strong, the electromagnetic field allows him to manipulate forces around him, effectively multiplying his physical capabilities."

Greg leaned forward, fascinated. He'd never heard this level of detail about Manpower's abilities before. It made him wonder about his own powers, was there more to them than he initially thought?

Mr. Gladly continued, adding more details to his diagram. "However, even without the shield, he's still significantly stronger than an average person is. This is where we see the baseline physical enhancements we talked about earlier coming into play."

He paused, looking around the room to ensure everyone was following. "It's a common misconception that parahumans like Manpower simply have 'super strength' as their power. In reality, their powers often work by magnifying or enhancing their already above-average physical abilities in their own unique ways."

Madison raised her hand, a slight frown on her face. "So, like, he's not actually super strong? It's all just his weird force field thing?"

Mr. Gladly shook his head. "Not exactly, Madison. Think of it this way, Manpower has enhanced strength as a baseline, probably able to lift several hundred pounds without his shield. But with the electromagnetic field in play, he can manipulate forces to help lift objects weighing tons. It's a combination of his innate enhanced physique and the unique properties of his power."

Greg found his mind racing, trying to apply this new information to his own situation. His enhanced strength was it just a baseline increase, or was there more to it? Could he learn to augment it further, like Manpower did with his electromagnetic field?

A hand shot up from the back of the class. Greg recognized the student as Alex, one of the quieter kids who usually kept to himself. "But Mr. Gladly," Alex asked, his voice hesitant but also curious, "isn't Manpower also known for being able to punch out bolts of lightning? How does that fit with the electromagnetic shield thing?"

Mr. Gladly's eyes lit up at the question, his grin widening. "Another excellent point, Alex! You're absolutely right, Manpower can indeed generate and project electrical energy. But here's something interesting that wasn't always part of his powerset."

This caught Greg's attention even more. He'd never heard about parahumans developing new abilities before. He leaned forward, eager to hear more, his earlier reservations about participating in class momentarily forgotten.

"You see," Mr. Gladly explained, his voice taking on a tone of excitement, "Manpower's ability to generate and project electricity is actually a result of his power growing and evolving over time. When he first debuted as a hero, his powers were limited to the electromagnetic shield and the physical enhancements it provided. The ability to generate and project electricity came later, as he gained more experience with his powers."

Greg couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. His hand shot up before he could stop himself. Mr. Gladly nodded in his direction, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. "Yes, Greg? You have a question?"

"How does that work?" Greg asked, his voice tinged with excitement. "How do powers just… grow like that?"

Mr. Gladly smiled broadly, clearly just thrilled by the interest his students were showing. "That, Greg, is an excellent question. It leads us into our next topic, something called Growth Factors."

He turned back to the whiteboard, erasing it once again before writing 'GROWTH FACTORS' in large letters at the top. "Growth Factors are an official term used by the PRT to describe how a parahuman's powers develop over time. It's not widely known outside parahuman research circles, the term was actually leaked back in the early days of parahuman studies."

Greg felt a little thrill at learning something that wasn't common knowledge. He glanced around the room, noting that many of his classmates looked equally intrigued.

"Essentially," Mr. Gladly continued, "when a parahuman first manifests their powers, they typically fall into one of two categories. They either get a powerful ability that doesn't grow or change much over time, or they get a relatively weak power that has the potential to grow and expand rather quickly."

He drew a simple graph on the board, with 'Time' on the x-axis and 'Power' on the y-axis. "The Growth Factor is essentially a measure of how quickly and significantly a parahuman's powers can develop. It's typically rated on a scale from 1 to 10."

Mr. Gladly paused, looking around the room to ensure everyone was following. "A parahuman with a low Growth Factor, say a 1 or 2, might start out with a very powerful ability. However, that ability is unlikely to change or grow much over time. On the other hand, a parahuman with a high Growth Factor, like an 8 or 9, might start with a relatively weak power, but that power has the potential to develop in unexpected and often very potent ways."

Madison raised her hand, a slight frown on her face. "So, like, if you get a sucky power at first, you might end up being really strong later?"

Mr. Gladly nodded. "That's one way to look at it, Madison. Although I wouldn't say any power is 'sucky' every parahuman ability has its own unique potential. But yes, a seemingly weak power could indeed become incredibly formidable over time with a high Growth Factor in play."

Greg's mind was racing. He couldn't help but wonder where his own powers fell on this scale. His ability to create hard light constructs seemed pretty straightforward, but he'd already noticed it becoming easier and more versatile with practice. And his power mimicry… well, that seemed like it had a lot of potential for growth right from the very start.

Mr. Gladly's voice pulled him back to the present. "Now, it's important to note that a low Growth Factor doesn't necessarily mean a weak power overall. Some powers are so potent right from the start that they really don't need much room for growth."

Mr. Gladly turned back to the whiteboard, his marker squeaking as he erased the previous diagrams. In large, bold letters, he wrote 'EIDOLON' across the top.

"Now, let's talk about someone you've all heard of," Mr. Gladly said, his voice filled with excitement. "Take Eidolon, for example. He's widely regarded as one of the most powerful parahumans in the world. His ability to access and use a wide variety of powerful abilities is, in many ways, the pinnacle of what parahuman powers can even be."

Greg nodded along with several of his classmates. Everyone knew about Eidolon, one of the core members of the Triumvirate and arguably the most versatile hero in the world. Greg had spent countless hours on PHO forums discussing theories about Eidolon's powers and their limitations.

"Sir," piped up Julia, her hand half-raised, "isn't Eidolon's power basically that he can have any power he needs? How does that even work with the whole Growth Factor thing?"

Mr. Gladly smiled, clearly pleased with the question. "Excellent point, Julia. Eidolon's power is indeed unique and complex. But here's something that might surprise you all."

He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes scanning the room to ensure he had everyone's attention. "Interestingly, Eidolon is believed to have a Growth Factor of 0."

The class erupted into confused murmurs. Greg felt his jaw drop. A Growth Factor of 0? For one of the most powerful heroes in the world? It just didn't make sense.

"Wait, what?" Tyler exclaimed, not bothering to raise his hand. "How can Eidolon have no growth? Isn't he supposed to be, like, the strongest cape ever?"

Madison chimed in, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah, I don't get it. Doesn't a low Growth Factor mean nothing changes?"

Mr. Gladly held up his hands, trying to quiet the class. "I know it sounds rather counterintuitive, but bear with me. In Eidolon's case, a Growth Factor of 0 doesn't mean his powers are weak, quite the opposite. It means his powers were so incredibly potent right from the start that there's essentially no room for them to grow or evolve any further."

The class fell silent for a moment, processing this information. Greg's mind was racing. He'd always assumed that all powers grew over time, that heroes like Eidolon just kept getting stronger. This was completely changing his whole perspective.

Sarah, a quiet girl who rarely spoke up in class, raised her hand tentatively. "So… does that mean Eidolon was just as strong when he first got his powers as he is now?"

Mr. Gladly nodded approvingly. "That's a great question, Sarah. From what we understand, yes, Eidolon's core ability to manifest and use a variety of powerful abilities has remained consistent since his debut. What's changed is his skill and overall experience in using his power effectively."

Greg couldn't contain himself any longer. His hand shot up, and Mr. Gladly nodded for him to speak. "But sir, we've seen Eidolon do different things over the years. Doesn't that mean his power is growing or changing?"

"Another excellent point, Greg," Mr. Gladly said. "What we've observed with Eidolon isn't so much his power growing, but rather him discovering new applications and combinations of the abilities he can access. It's like having a toolbox with every tool imaginable. The toolbox itself doesn't change, but you can become more skilled and creative in how you use those tools over time."

The class buzzed with excited conversation. Greg could hear snippets of debate around him:

"Man, imagine having all that power right from the start…" "But wouldn't it be boring? Like, nowhere to go from there…" "I wonder if Eidolon ever wishes his power could grow…"

Jake, who had been quiet for most of the class, suddenly spoke up. "Mr. Gladly, if Eidolon's power is so complete that it can't grow, does that mean he's the most powerful cape there could ever be? Like, is that the peak of any parahuman ability?"

The question sent another ripple of excitement through the class. Greg found himself leaning forward, eager to hear the answer to the question.

Mr. Gladly's expression turned thoughtful. "That's a complex question, Jake. While Eidolon is undoubtedly one of the most powerful parahumans we know of, it's hard to say if he represents the absolute peak of parahuman potential. There's still so much we don't understand about how powers work and develop."

He paused, considering his words carefully before he spoke. "What we can say is that Eidolon represents a unique case in our understanding of parahuman abilities. His power is so versatile and potent that it defies many of our usual categorizations and theories about power growth and development."

Greg's mind was whirling with the implications. He thought about his own powers, how they seemed to be growing and developing. Was there a limit to how strong he could become? Or was he more like Eidolon, with a set potential that he was just learning to use more effectively?

He knew there was something more that he had, but what was it?

A hand rose slowly from the front of the class. Greg recognized the long, dark hair immediately, it was Taylor. His heart skipped a beat, surprised to see her participating, given how withdrawn she'd seemed earlier. It was a rare moment of engagement from her, and Greg found himself leaning forward, eager to hear what she had to say.

"Yes, Taylor?" Mr. Gladly acknowledged her, a note of encouragement in his voice. The class fell silent, many students equally surprised to hear anything from the usually quiet girl.

Taylor's voice was soft but clear as she asked, "Is it… is it always better to have a high Growth Factor, then? If it means your powers can keep getting stronger?" Her question hung in the air, and Greg could see several of his classmates nodding, clearly wondering the very same thing.

Mr. Gladly nodded thoughtfully, his expression serious. "That's a great question, Taylor. The answer to it isn't as straightforward as you might think. While a high Growth Factor does mean more potential for rapid power development, it's important to understand that all parahumans, regardless of their Growth Factor, have the potential to grow and evolve their abilities over time."

He paused, glancing around the room. "Remember what we just discussed about Eidolon? While the PRT speculates his Growth Factor might be very low, it doesn't make him weak, quite the opposite. His powers started incredibly potent and have remained consistently formidable."

Greg found himself nodding along, fascinated by the implications of it. He thought about his own powers, wondering where he fell on this spectrum.

Mr. Gladly moved back to the whiteboard, erasing his previous diagrams. With quick, decisive strokes, he drew two stick figures. "Let's use an example that might help illustrate this. Imagine we have two parahumans, both with the ability to create walls of hard light."

Greg felt a jolt of recognition, his heart rate picking up. This was hitting very close to home. He glanced around nervously, irrationally worried that someone might connect this example to his own secret identity.

"Parahuman A," Mr. Gladly continued, labeling one of the stick figures, "has a low Growth Factor, similar to what we discussed with Eidolon. Their power allows them to create a wall of hard light that's completely impenetrable. Nothing can pass through it, no matter how powerful. It's an incredibly strong ability right from the start."

He then labeled the other stick figure 'Parahuman B'. "Now, Parahuman B has a high Growth Factor. When they first get their powers, they can only create a small wall of hard light that's about as strong as steel. Not nearly as impressive as Parahuman A's ability, right?"

Several students nodded in agreement. Greg heard Madison whisper to Julia, "I'd totally rather be Parahuman A. Imagine running around with an unbreakable shield!"

"But here's where the Growth Factor comes into play," Mr. Gladly said, his voice taking on an excited tone. "Over time, Parahuman B might learn to create multiple walls at once. They might figure out how to shape their hard light into forms other than walls, maybe weapons, or tools, or even complex machines. Their power grows and adapts, becoming more versatile and potentially more powerful overall."

Greg's mind was reeling. This described his own experiences with his hard light power almost perfectly. He'd started out only able to create some simple shapes, but he was already finding it easier to make more complex forms. Just last night, he'd managed to create those handcuffs to restrain the robber. Was this evidence of a high Growth Factor?

Tyler raised his hand, not waiting to be called on before speaking. "But sir, couldn't Parahuman A also learn to do more stuff with their power? Like, maybe they could learn to make their wall bigger or move it around?"

Mr. Gladly nodded approvingly. "Excellent point, Tyler. Yes, even parahumans with low Growth Factors can learn to use their powers more effectively over time. The difference is in the fundamental nature of how their power itself changes."

He drew a simple graph on the board, with 'Time' on the x-axis and 'Power' on the y-axis. "For Parahuman A, their power's basic nature, the impenetrable wall, remains constant. They might get better at using it, but the core ability doesn't change that much. Their growth curve would be relatively flat, similar to what we speculate about Eidolon."

He then drew a steeper curve. "For Parahuman B, their power's fundamental nature can change and expand. They're not just getting better at using a static ability, but their power itself is evolving and growing too."

Greg's hand shot up before he could stop himself. "So, um, which one would be stronger in the long run?"

Mr. Gladly smiled. "That's the million-dollar question, Greg. The truth is, it's hard to predict. Parahuman A might always have the advantage in certain situations where an impenetrable defense is crucial, and can still expand it to be better. But Parahuman B might develop abilities that would take Parahuman A years to figure out."

Tyler raised his hand, not waiting to be called on before speaking. "But sir, how do we know who has a high or low Growth Factor? Can't it change?"

Mr. Gladly nodded approvingly. "Excellent question, Tyler. The truth is, we don't have a definitive way to measure Growth Factors. The PRT has its own classification system, but it's based on observations over time and can be quite subjective. A parahuman's growth can be influenced by many factors: their experiences, how often they use their powers, the situations they face, and even their mental state."

He turned back to the class. "This is why the PRT and other organizations are so interested in studying power growth and development. Understanding how powers evolve over time can be crucial in predicting future capabilities, but it's far from an exact science."

Sarah, the quiet girl from earlier, spoke up. "Is that why some villains seem to get stronger over time? Because their powers are growing, regardless of their initial Growth Factor?"

"Excellent connection, Sarah!" Mr. Gladly exclaimed. "Yes, this is often a factor in why some villains become more dangerous over time. It's not just that they're getting more experienced, but their powers themselves might be evolving and expanding, sometimes in very unexpected ways."

Greg couldn't help but think about the implications for his own heroic career. How might his powers grow and change over time, regardless of what his initial Growth Factor might be?

"So you see," Mr. Gladly concluded, "having a high or low Growth Factor isn't about better or worse. It's about different trajectories and greater timelines of development. Parahumans with high Growth Factors might see more rapid and dramatic changes, while those with lower Growth Factors might have a slower, more gradual evolution of their abilities. But in the end, with enough time and experience, both have the potential to become incredibly versatile and powerful."

The class burst into excited chatter, students turning to their neighbors to discuss the implications of what they'd just learned. Greg could hear snippets of conversation all around him:

"Man, imagine starting out weak but then becoming super powerful…" "Yeah, but what if you get taken out before your power grows? I'd still rather be strong from the start." "I wonder how the Protectorate deals with all these different growth rates when they're training heroes…"

Greg sat back in his chair, his mind buzzing with new understanding about his own powers. He thought about how quickly he'd been able to adapt and expand his hard light constructs. Was that a sign of a high Growth Factor, or was he just at the beginning of a longer journey of power development? And what about his power mimicry ability? How was that supposed to grow, was that the thing he kept feeling about his power? Was he feeling it's potential to grow?

The class burst into excited chatter, students turning to their neighbors to discuss the implications of what they'd just learned. Greg could hear snippets of conversation all around him:

As the excited discussions continued around him, Greg couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The potential for growth in his powers was exciting, but it also meant he still had a lot to learn and discover about his abilities. He glanced at Taylor, still sitting quietly in the front of the class, and wondered what she was thinking about all this. Had her question come from simple curiosity, or was there something more behind it? Maybe she was looking out for him in some way?

As the excited discussions about Growth Factors continued around the classroom, a voice suddenly cut through the chatter, silencing the room.

"Isn't that why we had The Battle of the Bay? Because of Growth Factors?"

The question, blunt and unexpected, came from Derek, a student known for his lack of social tact. His voice cut through the excited chatter like a knife, instantly transforming the lively classroom atmosphere into one of tense, uncomfortable silence.

The effect was immediate and palpable. Smiles faded, replaced by expressions of shock, anger, and discomfort as students exchanged uneasy glances. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, casting stark shadows across the room and highlighting the sudden pallor on many faces in the room.

Greg felt the shift like a physical weight, the air becoming heavy with unspoken emotions. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the reactions of his classmates.

In the front row, Sarah, a usually cheerful girl known for her bubbly personality and easy smile, visibly paled. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts as she struggled to maintain her composure. Beside her, her friend Lisa leaned in close, rubbing soothing circles on her back and whispering words of comfort. Greg remembered, with a pang of sorrow, that Sarah had lost an uncle in the Battle of the Bay.

Across the room, Michael, a tall, lanky boy with glasses, clenched his jaw tightly. His hands balled into fists on his desk, knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. Greg knew that Michael's family had been forced to relocate after their family's home was destroyed during the battle, a fact he rarely spoke about.

Jessica, a quiet girl who sat at the back of the class, looked down at her lap, her long hair falling forward to obscure her face. But Greg could see the glint of tears in her eyes, the way her shoulders shook with silent sobs. He wondered what personal connection she might have to the tragic events.

Even the usually stoic Chris, known for his unflappable demeanor, looked unsettled. He shifted in his seat, a frown etched deep into his brow as he stared at Derek with a mix of disbelief and disapproval.

Greg himself felt a twinge of sympathy for his classmates, his heart aching for the pain and grief that the mere mention of the battle had resurfaced. At the same time, a flicker of annoyance towards Derek grew in his chest.

'Geez, Derek,' Greg thought, cringing internally at the other boy's insensitivity. 'Way to bring up a sore subject out of nowhere. Read the room, man.'

It was a sentiment that seemed to be shared by many in the class. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the earlier excitement and curiosity replaced by a somber, weighted silence.

Mr. Gladly paused, his expression thoughtful as he surveyed the room. The tension was palpable, the mood having shifted dramatically with Derek's abrupt question. After a moment of consideration, Mr. Gladly nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting a mix of understanding and solemnity.

"You know what, Derek? While that was a bit… abrupt, you're not wrong to bring it up. This is a World Issues class, after all, and Brockton Bay is very much a part of that world."

He looked around the room, making eye contact with each student, his tone becoming more serious. "However, given how recent these events are, and how deeply they've affected many of us on a personal level, we need to approach this topic with the utmost respect and sensitivity. Is everyone okay with us discussing this?"

There were hesitant nods around the room, some more reluctant than others. Even Sarah, still pale and visibly shaken, managed to give a small, almost imperceptible nod. Her friend Lisa kept a comforting arm around her shoulders, a silent show of support.

Mr. Gladly took a deep breath, steeling himself before continuing. "The Battle of the Bay, as many of you know, began shortly after Dauntless joined the Protectorate. He was assessed by the PRT and found to have a Growth Factor of 10, the highest possible rating on the scale."

Greg leaned forward in his seat, his interest piqued despite the somber atmosphere in the classroom. He'd heard about Dauntless, of course everyone in Brockton Bay had. But he'd never known the full story behind the hero's powers and how they'd played a role in the devastating battle.

"Dauntless's power, at its core, allows him to slowly increase the power of objects he possesses," Mr. Gladly explained, his voice taking on a slightly lecturing tone. "He can imbue items such as his armor, his shield, his spear with a portion of his power. Over time, with repeated applications, these objects become extraordinarily powerful."

The class listened with rapt attention, even those who had seemed disengaged earlier. The story of Dauntless was one that had captured the imagination of many in Brockton Bay, the idea of a hero whose power seemed to have no real upper limit.

"However," Mr. Gladly continued, "in the time since the Battle of the Bay, Dauntless's abilities have reportedly evolved in some unexpected ways. Recent accounts suggest that he has discovered the ability to shoot off concentrated bursts of energy from his body, almost like a living battery. These energy bursts are said to be chaotic, difficult to control, but incredibly powerful."

Greg's eyes widened at this new revelation. He'd never heard this part of Dauntless's power before. The idea of a hero who could not only imbue objects with power but also project that power outwards in raw, chaotic bursts… it was both really awe-inspiring and completely terrifying.

"Perhaps most remarkably," Mr. Gladly added, "there are even rumors that Dauntless has begun to demonstrate the ability to transform one type of energy into another. Some say he can take the kinetic energy from an attack and convert it into light, or heat, or even some form of restorative energy that he can use to heal himself or others. The exact mechanics of this aspect of his power are not widely known, and these reports still remain unconfirmed."

The class was silent, processing this information. The implications were staggering. A hero whose power not only grew steadily over time but also evolved in scope and versatility… it was the power that changed the city, something Greg could only barely comprehend.

"The Protectorate tried to keep this information secret," Mr. Gladly continued, "but eventually, the files were leaked. Once that happened…" He shook his head. "Every gang in the city, even minor ones with a single cape or no capes at all, started making aggressive moves. They all wanted Dauntless dead, out of town, or under their control."

The class listened in rapt silence as Mr. Gladly described the chaos that ensued. His usually jovial demeanor was subdued, his eyes distant as he recounted the events of the lead up.

"Many parahumans died in the fighting. Even more civilians lost their lives. Entire city blocks were reduced to rubble." Mr. Gladly's voice was solemn, the weight of his words settling heavily on the room.

Greg felt a chill run down his spine. He'd seen the aftermath, of course everyone in Brockton Bay had. But hearing it laid out so starkly was sobering. He glanced around the room, noting the varied reactions of his classmates.

Madison Clements had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Even the usually boisterous Sparky was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on his desk. In the back, Greg noticed Emma Barnes and Sophia Hess exchanging whispers, their expressions unreadable and he couldn't help the frown that pulled across his face. 'They're really going to be gossiping about something like this? And Sophia too... I don't know if she was around to have worked with Armsmaster, but the PRT is still suffering from his loss to a degree, how could she just gossip like that?'

"In the final days of the battle, all the major factions clashed, except for the Empire Eighty-Eight, who stayed out of the worst of it," Mr. Gladly continued. "And then… well, then we had Armsmaster's last stand."

Greg's breath caught in his throat. He'd heard stories about this, whispered with a mix of awe and sorrow. His eyes darted to Taylor, curious about her reaction. To his surprise, she sat straight-backed, her expression a mix of awe and… was that determination? It was an intensity he rarely saw in her, and it made him wonder what she was thinking right now.

"Armsmaster took down eight parahumans, including The Butcher. He drove the Teeth out of the city." Mr. Gladly's voice was quiet now, filled with a mix of admiration and grief. "But the cost… he succumbed to his injuries shortly afterward."

The class was silent, processing the weight of this information. Then, hesitantly, a hand went up. It was Aliya, usually an outspoken barely hidden empire member, she didn't sound nearly as tough here as her voice trembling slightly while she spoke. "Mr. Gladly? I… I saw a video online. Of Armsmaster fighting. It was…" She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Mr. Gladly nodded solemnly. "Yes, there's footage out there. It's… intense. Reports from eyewitnesses and analysis of the video show Armsmaster using tactics we'd never seen before. He seemed to anticipate his opponents' moves, countering them all with pinpoint precision."

Another student, Greg thought his name was Andrew, spoke up. "I heard he took on Animos and Spree at the same time. How is that even possible?"

"It shouldn't have been," Mr. Gladly replied. "But Armsmaster was operating on a whole different level that day. Reports suggest he'd made some last-minute modifications to his armor and Halberd. He was moving faster, hitting harder than he had ever before."

Mr. Gladly paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "What's most remarkable, and tragic, is how it ended. Armsmaster… he waited. He made sure every hero and civilian who could leave the area had done so. And then, in a final act of heroism and sacrifice, he slammed his Halberd into the ground."

The teacher's voice grew hushed, almost reverent even. "The resulting explosion created the crater we now see. It ended the battle decisively, but at the cost of Armsmaster's own life."

Greg listened intently, torn between fascination and a gnawing feeling that he'd missed something important. He'd never seen these videos, had actively avoided them out of a mix of respect and fear. Now, he wondered if that had been a big mistake.

"The crater where he made his stand," Mr. Gladly continued, "has become a memorial. His Halberd still stands there, embedded in the ground where he left it. No one's dared to move it out of fear, respect, or both."

"I've been there," a quiet voice said. It was Taylor, speaking up for the first time since her question. All eyes turned to her, and she seemed to shrink slightly under the attention before continuing. "It's… it's powerful. You can almost feel the weight of what happened there."

Mr. Gladly nodded appreciatively. "Thank you for sharing that, Taylor. It is indeed a powerful place. A reminder of the cost of heroism, and the impact just one person can have."

As the discussion continued, Greg found his gaze drawn back to Taylor. There was something in her expression, a quiet intensity that he'd never noticed before. It stirred something in him, a mix of curiosity and… was that admiration?

The bell rang, startling Greg out of his thoughts. As students began to pack up, the usual chatter subdued, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd witnessed something important. Not just in the lesson, but in Taylor's reaction to it. It was a side of her he'd never seen before, and it left him with more questions than answers… it also left him a little jealous, an uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

As the class continued to discuss the aftermath of The Battle of the Bay, Greg felt a growing sense of frustration and determination now coursing through him. He clenched his fists under the desk, his knuckles turning white as his mind raced with thoughts of heroism and duty.

'I've been too cautious,' he berated himself silently, anger at his own perceived cowardice building up inside him. 'People like Armsmaster gave everything to protect this city. They put their lives on the line, faced down monsters and villains without hesitation. And what have I done? A few measly patrols, stopped a robbery or two. It's not enough. Not nearly enough.'

The teacher's voice faded into the background as Greg's inner monologue intensified. He thought about the devastation he'd seen around the city, the lingering scars from cape battles and Endbringer attacks. The faces of frightened civilians flashed through his mind, along with images of gang members swaggering through the streets as if they owned them.

'I have these powers for a reason,' Greg reasoned, his jaw clenching. 'I can't just sit back and play it safe while the city suffers. What's the point of being Void Cowboy if I'm not making a real difference?'

Greg's resolve hardened, crystallizing into a determined purpose. He knew what he had to do, even as a part of him quailed at the danger. It was time to step up, to truly embody the hero he aspired to be. The gangs were still out there, still hurting people, still tearing the city apart piece by piece. They needed to be stopped, and if the established heroes couldn't do it, then maybe it was time for some new blood to give it a try.

'No more playing it safe,' Greg decided, a mix of excitement and trepidation churning in his gut. 'It's time Void Cowboy took on one of the gangs for real. It's what a true hero would do. It's what Armsmaster would do.'

As the class continued to drone on about historical events, Greg's mind was already racing with new plans for his next patrol. This time, he wouldn't just react to random crimes or small-time crooks. He would take the fight directly to one of the gangs plaguing Brockton Bay. The ABB, the E88, the Merchants, they were all fair game now. It was time to make a real difference, to live up to the legacy of heroes like Armsmaster and prove to himself and the city that he was more than just a kid playing at being a hero.

'Maybe I'll start with some reconnaissance,' Greg mused, his imagination conjuring images of daring stealth missions. 'Figure out their operations, their hideouts. Then I can plan a big takedown, something that'll really make the news.'

The weight of his decision settled on him like a physical force, a heady mix of excitement and apprehension. Greg's heart raced at the thought of the danger he was willingly walking into, but he pushed the fear aside. This was what being a hero was all about, wasn't it? Facing your fears, putting yourself on the line for the greater good.

'I might get hurt,' Greg acknowledged to himself, a chill running down his spine. 'Hell, I might even…' He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. 'But that's the risk every hero takes. And if I can make even a small dent in the gang's operations, it'll be worth it.'

Greg straightened in his seat, feeling as if he'd aged years in the span of a single class period. He was no longer just Greg Veder, an awkward high school student. He was Void Cowboy, protector of Brockton Bay, and he had a mission.

'Watch out, Brockton Bay,' Greg thought, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'Void Cowboy is about to show you what a real hero looks like.'

As the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Greg gathered his things with a new sense of purpose. Brockton Bay needed heroes now more than ever, and he was determined to answer that call, whatever the cost may be. The churning in his gut was ignored, even as it spurred him on forwards.

Chapter Text

The final bell rang, signaling the end of World Issues class. Greg lingered at his desk, mind still churning with thoughts of heroism and responsibility after their discussion of The Battle of the Bay. Around him, students rushed to gather their things, eager to get to their next class. The usual cacophony of shuffling papers, zipping backpacks, and excited chatter quickly filled the air.

"Remember to read chapters seven and eight for tomorrow!" Mr. Gladly called out over the noise, his voice carrying that perpetually enthusiastic tone that Greg found both admirable and slightly irritating.

As Greg made his way to English class, he found himself caught in the flood of students filling the hallway. His heightened awareness since becoming a cape made him notice details he might have just missed before, the way certain students clustered together, the subtle gang colors some wore, the nervous glances of those trying to avoid any attention.

English class passed in a blur. Mr. Oaken droned on about symbolism in "The Great Gatsby," but Greg could barely focus on it. His mind kept drifting back to the morning's discussion about powers and heroism, to his confrontation with Sophia, to Taylor's unexpected behavior in the cafeteria. The restless energy that had been building all day seemed to buzz just beneath his skin.

When Mr. Oaken finally called for group work, Greg found himself paired with Kevin Chen, a quiet boy who usually sat in the back corner. Kevin was one of those kids who seemed to fade into the background on purpose, always wearing earth tones that matched the walls of the classrooms. His black-rimmed glasses perpetually smudged, and his posture curved inward like he was trying to occupy as little space as possible. He had the resigned look of someone who'd drawn the short straw in life.

"So," Greg started, unable to contain himself, his fingers drumming rapidly on his desk, "what do you think about all these new capes showing up in the Bay? The whole situation is crazy, right?"

Kevin glanced up from his textbook, his expression neutral behind those smudged glasses that Greg always wanted to just reach over and clean for him. "We're supposed to be discussing the symbolism of the green light, Greg. Mr. Oaken already gave us a warning about staying on topic last time."

"Yeah, but this is way more interesting! Did you see that post about Void Cowboy on PHO? Pretty cool, right? The way he stopped that robbery and everything?" Greg leaned forward, nearly knocking over Kevin's carefully arranged highlighters.

"I guess," Kevin shrugged, carefully straightening his supplies. He had one of those fancy pencil cases that Greg had always envied, the kind with special slots for each pen and marker. "The green light represents Gatsby's hopes and dreams, so for question one-"

"But don't you think it's weird how there are all these contradicting reports about gang activity?" Greg pressed on, lowering his voice and glancing around conspiratorially. "Like, some people say they're pulling back, others say they're more active than ever. What's up with that? I heard that the ABB is recruiting at Immaculata now, can you believe it?"

Kevin sighed, resigned to the fact that they weren't going to get any actual work done this period. His shoulders slumped further, if that was even possible. "Look, Greg, I try not to think too much about gang stuff. It's safer that way. My cousin got caught up in all that last year and… well, just trust me. Sometimes it's better to just not know."

From the next desk cluster over, Amanda Torres rolled her eyes. She was one of those students who wasn't exactly popular but managed to maintain a comfortable social position by being generally competent and inoffensive. Her perfectly maintained bob cut and coordinated outfits always made Greg think of those lifestyle influencers his mom followed online, not flashy enough to actually stand out, but put-together enough to never be a real target. "Are you still going on about cape stuff, Greg? Don't you ever even think about anything else? This is like, what, the fifth time today?"

"But it's important!" Greg protested, turning to face her, his knee bouncing so hard it was shaking both their desks now. "Like, what if all these new capes are a sign of something bigger happening? What if it's all connected? I've been mapping out the timeline and-"

"What if we actually did our classwork?" interrupted Sarah Chen (no relation to Kevin, interestingly enough), her tone making it clear this wasn't actually a suggestion. Sarah was the type who took schoolwork seriously, probably because her parents expected straight A's. Her pristine notebook was already filled with color-coded notes, and Greg had noticed she used a different highlighter for each major theme in the book.

The picture-perfect student, down to her perfectly pressed clothes and the way she aligned her pencils exactly parallel to her notebook edge. "Some of us actually want to pass this class. And since we're being graded as a group…"

Greg deflated slightly, but couldn't quite suppress his nervous energy. His leg bounced under the desk as he tried to focus on the worksheet in front of him. The words seemed to swim right before his eyes, meaningless symbols compared to the much more pressing matters on his mind. He noticed Kevin subtly sliding his desk a few inches away from Greg's vibrating furniture.

When the final bell rang, Greg practically bolted from his seat, nearly knocking over Sarah's perfectly arranged desk setup in his haste. He barely heard Mr. Oaken's homework assignment over the sudden rush of freedom. The halls were already filling with students eager to escape the confines of Winslow, and Greg found himself carried along with the human tide.

Near his locker, he spotted Charlotte Weber, a girl he sometimes talked to in Computer Science. She was gathering books from her own locker, her curly brown hair falling in her face as she dug through the organized chaos within.

Greg had always appreciated how she was one of the few people who actually seemed to listen when he talked about coding, even if her eyes glazed over when he got too technical about anything. She had this habit of twirling her hair around her finger when she was thinking hard about a problem, and she was doing it now as she sorted through her books.

"Hey, Charlotte! Did you hear about what happened downtown last night? There was this huge fight between some E88 guys and- are those the new Java textbooks? The ones with the updated chapters on object-oriented programming?"

"Sorry, Greg," Charlotte cut him off, not unkindly but rather firmly, untangling her finger from her hair. She had that same look she got when debugging particularly frustrating code. "I've got to get to work. Maybe another time? We can talk about it in Computer Science tomorrow?" She closed her locker and hurried off before he could even respond, her worn backpack covered in coding-related pins bouncing as she walked.

Greg's enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but he pressed on. He spotted Marcus Johnson, a fellow member of the Computer Club, walking past. Marcus was easy to spot with his bright red hair and the laptop bag that never left his side, the one covered in stickers from every tech conference he'd ever attended. Greg had always been a bit jealous of how Marcus could make even the most basic hoodie-and-jeans combo look somehow put together. He felt like the kind of guy that could wear a simple shirt and pants to a wedding and no one would bat an eye.

"Marcus! Hey, what did you think about- is that the new Raspberry Pi in your bag? The one with the upgraded processor?"

"Can't talk, man," Marcus called over his shoulder, barely slowing down, his laptop bag swinging wildly. "Got a dentist appointment! But, uh, send me that code you were working on for the club project? The optimization stuff?" He disappeared around the corner before Greg could even mention capes, let alone the recent gang activity.

By the time Greg finally made it out of the school building, his earlier excitement had morphed into a confused mix of frustration and resignation. The walk home felt longer than usual, his mind replaying each interaction, analyzing where he might have gone wrong in each.

The house was quiet when Greg arrived, the kind of heavy silence that seemed to press against his eardrums after the chaos of Winslow. His mother's blue Honda Civic sat in the driveway, slightly askew, in a way that suggested she'd been distracted when parking. That wasn't like her, she usually lined up perfectly with the white marking lines his dad had painted just last summer. Something twisted in Greg's gut at the sight.

'Maybe she just had a rough shift,' he thought, fishing his house key out of his backpack's front pocket where it had, as usual, worked its way under his emergency granola bar. 'Brockton General's always crazy these days, especially with all the gang violence.'

He tried to slip upstairs unnoticed, his footsteps carefully placed on the edges of the stairs where they were less likely to creak. He'd mapped out all the quiet spots over years of late-night computer sessions, but today his stealth skills failed him.

"Greg? Is that you, honey? Could you come here for a minute?"

Her voice cut through the silence like a physical thing, making him freeze mid-step. Greg's stomach did more than a little flip, it performed an entire gymnastics routine. There was something in his mother's tone that he recognized from years of "we need to talk" moments, but this was different. Deeper. More worried.

'She knows,' his mind immediately raced to the worst-case scenarios. 'Someone saw me in costume. Or Sophia told the school about our fight. Or-'

"Coming, Mom!" he called back, his voice cracking slightly despite his attempt to sound normal. His palms were already starting to sweat as he adjusted the straps of his backpack, the familiar weight of his costume hidden inside suddenly feeling like it was made of solid lead.

He found her sitting at the kitchen table, the one with all the little nicks and scratches from years of family meals. A half-empty cup of coffee sat in front of her, the surface still enough to reflect the afternoon light filtering through the kitchen window.

She was still in her nurse's scrubs, the ones with little cartoon bandages on them that she'd bought because they made the kids in pediatrics smile. Her hair was slightly mussed from what had probably been a long shift, stray strands escaping from her usually neat bun. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she should probably be sleeping by now, rather than waiting up for him.

"Hi, Mom," Greg said, trying to sound casual while his mind raced through every possible thing she might have discovered. He noticed the pile of mail next to her coffee cup, was that a letter from Winslow? "How was work?"

'Play it cool, Greg,' he told himself. 'You fight criminals now. You can handle a small conversation with your mom.'

"Sit down, sweetheart," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. The one that had been his designated spot at family dinners since he was old enough to sit at the table. "We need to talk."

Greg's heart rate picked up, the sound of blood rushing in his ears almost drowning out the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He could feel his power itching under his skin, wanting to create something, anything, a nervous habit he'd developed since his awakening. He forced his hands under the table to hide their slight glow as he slid into the chair.

'Does she know about the costume in my backpack? The hard light constructs I've been practicing with in my room? The PHO posts?' His mind spun through every possible security breach there might have been. 'What if she found the designs I've been working on for my next costume upgrade?'

"Greg," she began, her voice gentle but concerned in that way that always made him feel like he was eight years old again, trying to explain why he'd taken apart the microwave to see how it worked. "I've noticed some changes in you lately. You're getting up early, you're more withdrawn, and sometimes…" she paused, and Greg felt his heart skip a beat from the stress, "sometimes I hear you talking to yourself in your room."

'Shit, those were my practice hero speeches,' he realized, feeling his face heat up. 'I thought I was being quiet enough.'

She studied his face with the careful attention that made her such a good nurse, the same look she used when trying to determine if he was really sick or just trying to skip school. "Did something happen over winter break? Something you haven't told me about?"

Greg felt his throat tighten, the memory of that night flashing through his mind with a crystal clarity, the bitter cold air that had made his breath fog, the sounds of struggle echoing off brick walls, the moment everything changed. The fear, the adrenaline, the sudden surge of power that had changed his life forever. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to begin. How do you tell your mother about the night that turned you into a superhero without actually telling her about the superhero part?

"You can tell me anything, honey," his mother prompted, reaching across the table to take his hand. Her fingers were warm from holding her coffee cup, her grip gentle but firm. A nurse's hands, capable of both easy comfort and simple strength. "I'm worried about you."

The concern in her voice made something in Greg's chest ache. He'd been so caught up in his new life as Void Cowboy, he hadn't really thought about how his behavior must look to her. The secrecy, the changes, the late-night patrols he played off as early morning study sessions, of course she was worried about him.

Greg took a deep breath, the scent of his mom's coffee mixing with the lingering aroma of whatever she'd tried to cook for lunch, probably another failed attempt at that casserole recipe his dad liked. "Something… something did happen," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup's reflection of the ceiling light. "During break. I was walking home from the library one night, taking the shortcut through the alley behind Marshall's…"

His mother's hand tightened on his, but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"There was this guy," Greg went on, the words coming faster now, his hands moving restlessly under the table as he fought the urge to create something with his power. "He was… he was beating up this homeless person. I think maybe over money, or… I don't really remember exactly. But it was bad, Mom. Really bad. The sound of fists hitting flesh, the way the homeless man wasn't even fighting back anymore…" He trailed off, remembering how the wet sounds of violence had echoed off the alley walls.

"Oh, Greg," his mother breathed, her face paling beneath her usually rosy complexion. Her hands tightened around her coffee cup until her knuckles went white. "You should have called the police- you have that emergency alert app I installed on your phone, remember? The one that-"

"I wasn't thinking," Greg interrupted, the memories flooding back in harsh and vivid detail. The streetlight at the end of the alley casting everything in harsh shadows, the smell of wet cardboard and something metallic that might have been fresh blood. "I just… I ran up to him, tried to get him to stop. And when he looked up at me, his eyes got really wide, like he'd seen a ghost or something."

'Or like he recognized me,' Greg thought but didn't say. That had been one of the weirdest parts, the way the man's eyes had filled with a sort of recognition, then fury, then fear.

"He started muttering under his breath, I couldn't really hear what he was saying, but then-" Greg's hand unconsciously went to his throat, remembering the way his heart had hammered against his ribs at that moment.

"Then he just came at me. Like, completely crazy. I tried to defend myself, and I… I hit him. In the jaw." Greg flexed his hand under the table, remembering the heavy impact. "I didn't mean to hit him that hard, but when he fell back, he started spasming on the ground."

"A seizure?" his mother asked, her nurse's training evident in the way she leaned forward, eyes sharp and analytical. He could practically see her mentally reviewing the symptoms and treatments, the same look she got when he came home with a fever.

"No, not exactly. He was freaking out. He looked right at me and shouted, 'Of course, it had to be you!' Then he started having this massive panic attack. He was hyperventilating and everything." Greg paused, remembering the moment the man had triggered right in front of him the way reality had seemed to bend and twist, the sudden surge of power that had radiated from the fallen man. Even now, the memory made his own powers stir restlessly just under his skin. "He passed out right there. The police came and arrested him. I guess someone called them when they heard all the commotion."

His mother's face was a complex map of emotions, horror at what her son had experienced, relief that he was safe, and something deeper, more painful. The fluorescent kitchen light caught the tears welling in her eyes. "Greg, why didn't you tell me about all this sooner? This is serious! You should have come to me right away! I'm a nurse, honey, I deal with assault victims all the time. I could have helped you process this, gotten you some proper support-"

"I know, Mom. I just… I didn't want to worry you. And the guy was arrested, so…" Greg trailed off, fidgeting in his seat. 'And I got powers,' he added silently. 'And everything changed, and I couldn't tell you because then you'd be in danger now too.'

"Oh, honey," his mother's chair scraped against the linoleum as she stood up, coming around the table with that mixture of grace and urgency that only mothers seem to master. She wrapped him up in a tight hug, smelling of hospital antiseptic and the lavender lotion she always used. "You were so brave, standing up for someone like that. But you could have been seriously hurt! What if he'd had a weapon? What if-" her voice caught, and Greg felt a drop of moisture hit his shoulder. "Promise me you'll be more careful? I can't lose you too, not after-"

She didn't finish the thought, but Greg knew she was thinking about his cousin Michael, who'd died trying to be a hero during a gang shootout three years ago. He knew his mother was close with him and his mother, but he hadn't thought that she was worried about him in the same way. The thought made his stomach twist with heavy guilt.

Greg hugged her back, the guilt gnawing deeper into his insides. He hated lying to her, even if it was only by omission. Every patrol as Void Cowboy felt like another betrayal, another secret weighing down his conscience. "I'm okay, Mom, really. I've been… processing it. That's why I've been getting up early, trying to work through things."

His mother pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her mascara had smudged slightly, making her look more vulnerable than Greg was comfortable seeing. "Well, from now on, no more shortcuts through alleys, understood? And I still think you should talk to someone about this. The hospital has some excellent counselors. Dr. Martinez specializes in trauma cases, and she has experience with-"

"Mom, I don't need a counselor," Greg protested, panic fluttering in his chest at the thought of trying to talk to a professional while hiding his powers at the same time. "I'm dealing with it, really. I'm… I'm trying to be stronger, to make sure nothing like that happens again." To anyone, he added silently, thinking of his patrols, of the people he could help now. 'I'm not helpless anymore. I'm not just Greg Veder, the awkward kid who can't protect anyone.'

His mother gave him a long look, her eyes red-rimmed but sharp. Greg could see her weighing her options, drawing on years of experience dealing with both patients and her sometimes difficult son. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the sudden silence, marking each moment of their standoff. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "We'll talk more about this later. Right now, I need to make some calls, your father should know about this, and maybe we should look into some self-defense classes… There's a good dojo near the hospital that offers-"

'If only you knew, Mom,' Greg thought, watching her slip back into planning mode, trying to fix everything like she always did. 'I don't need self-defense classes anymore. I need to learn how to be a hero. I need to make sure what happened to Michael never happens to anyone else in this family.'

"Mom-" Greg started, but his mother's expression shifted into what he privately called her 'Nurse Mode' that immovable look she got when dealing with the particularly difficult patients.

"No arguments," she said firmly, straightening her scrubs as she stood. Her voice took on that particular tone that Greg had learned long ago meant the discussion was effectively over. "We're not ignoring this, Greg. You tried that, and clearly it's affecting you more than you want to really admit. I've seen the signs you're jumpy, you're distant, you're talking to yourself. These are classic trauma responses, honey. I see them every day at work."

She began pacing the kitchen, her comfortable nursing shoes squeaking slightly against the linoleum. "I'll call your father as soon as he's out of his meeting. He needs to know about this, no, don't give me that look, Greg. He's your father, and he deserves to know when his son is…" she paused, swallowing hard. "When his son is being brave but very foolish."

Greg slumped in his chair, watching her move around the kitchen with purposeful energy. She pulled out her phone, starting to make notes, probably already planning out everything from therapy appointments to self-defense class schedules.

"And you know what?" she continued, her fingers tapping rapidly on her phone screen, "I think we should tell Jason too. He's coming home next weekend anyway, and he might have some good advice. He took those martial arts classes in college, remember? Maybe he could-"

Greg felt something twist inside him at the mention of his perfect older brother. 'Of course,' he thought bitterly, 'bring in Jason. Because he always knows best, doesn't he?'

'How doth mine brother's very name vex me so,' flickered briefly through his mind before he pushed the thought away, focusing back on his mother, who was still making plans aloud.

"…and I know a few good therapists through the hospital. Dr. Rodriguez specializes in adolescent trauma, and Dr. Chen has experience with violence-related PTSD. We could start with weekly sessions, maybe twice-weekly if-"

"Okay," Greg interrupted, seeing that his mother was working herself up into a full planning frenzy. "But can we maybe not make a huge deal about it? I really am doing better now." He tried to project an air of calm confidence, though his leg was bouncing nervously under the table. "And maybe we could hold off on telling Jason? At least until after his visit?"

'At least until I've done something noteworthy as Void Cowboy,' he thought. 'Something to prove I'm not just the screw-up little brother anymore.'

His mother paused her pacing, studying him with that penetrating gaze that always made him feel like she could see right through him. After a moment, her expression softened slightly. "We'll tell your father tonight," she said, her tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable, "but we can wait on Jason. For now. But Greg?" She moved back to the table, placing her hands on his shoulders. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to your father, and certainly not to your brother. We just want you to be safe and healthy. Okay?"

The guilt twisted deeper in Greg's stomach. If only she knew what he was really trying to prove, what he was really becoming now. But he just nodded, managing a weak smile. "Okay, Mom. Thanks."

Greg nodded and headed upstairs, his heart feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time. As he closed his bedroom door behind him, he leaned against it, closing his eyes. The memory of that night played through his mind again, not just the parts he'd told his mother, but everything. The sudden surge of power, the terror, and exhilaration, the moment he realized nothing would ever be the same.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered to his empty room, careful to be quiet now. "But I can't tell you everything. And I can't do everything you want, not if I… not if I'm going to be a hero."

Greg sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling while his mother's footsteps echoed downstairs. The sound of cabinets opening and closing suggested she was stress-cooking again, probably another attempt at that casserole his dad liked. The thought of his father's imminent arrival made Greg's stomach churn.

With a groan, he rolled off the bed and retrieved his costume from its hiding place in the back of his closet. The homemade outfit still looked amateurish to his critical eye, but it would have to do for now. He'd reinforced some weaker seams after his last patrol, and the LED lights seemed to be working better after his latest tinkering on it.

"Alright, Void Cowboy," he muttered, checking each piece carefully. "Time to show the Empire what you're really made of."

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made Greg freeze. His father's Toyota Camry, the "sensible" car, as opposed to the restored '67 Mustang that lived in the garage under a dust cover. Greg quickly stuffed the costume into his backpack, his now heart racing.

"Greg!" his mother's voice called from downstairs. "Your father's home! Come down, please!"

Greg took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. 'You fight criminals now,' he reminded himself. 'You can handle a conversation with Dad.'

His father was already seated at the kitchen table when Greg came down, his tie loosened but fully not removed, his laptop bag still at his feet. Martin Veder had the look of someone who'd spent too many years in fluorescent-lit offices, slightly pale, with perpetually tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His brown hair was starting to thin at the temples, and his shirt had that peculiar wrinkled-yet-pressed look that came from sitting in an office chair all day.

"Son," Martin nodded, his expression serious. "Your mother's been telling me about what happened during winter break."

Greg slid into his usual chair, noting how his mother hovered anxiously by the counter, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand like a talisman. The smell of burning vegetables suggested her latest culinary attempt wasn't going all too well.

"Yeah," Greg mumbled, suddenly finding the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating. "But it's not really-"

"Not really a big deal?" his father finished, that familiar note of concern mixed with disappointment creeping into his voice. "Greg, you could have been seriously hurt. What even possessed you to confront someone like that?"

Greg shifted in his chair, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Someone needed help," he said quietly, not meeting his father's eyes. "I couldn't just… walk away."

Martin sighed, exchanging a look with Greg's mother. "There's being brave, and then there's being reckless. You should have called the police, or-"

"I know," Greg interrupted, then immediately ducked his head at his father's sharp look. "Sorry. I just… I did what I thought was right at the time."

His father leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, a gesture Greg had seen countless times when Martin was trying to solve a particularly difficult problem at work. "Look, son, I understand wanting to help people. But you have to be smart about these things. The city just isn't safe anymore, especially with all these gang wars brewing."

"Speaking of which," his mother chimed in, abandoning her latest culinary disaster to join them at the table, "we've been thinking about those self-defense classes I mentioned…"

Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Because that's going to help so much now,' he thought, but outwardly just nodded to her. "Sure, Mom. Whatever you think is best."

"And maybe," his father added, brightening slightly, "we could spend some time in the garage this weekend. I've been meaning to show you how to change the oil in the Mustang. Practical skills like that could come in handy-"

"Actually," Greg cut in, rising from his chair, "I should probably get started on my homework. Big test, coming up and everything." The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, but it was better than sitting through another awkward attempt at father-son bonding over some car maintenance.

His father's face fell slightly, but he nodded. "Right, of course. Studies come first. Just like your brother always-" he caught himself, but not before Greg felt that familiar twist in his gut.

"Yeah," Greg muttered, already heading for the stairs. "Just like Jason."

"Greg," his mother called after him, "dinner will be ready in an hour."

"Not hungry," Greg called back, taking the stairs two at a time. "I'll grab something later."

Back in his room, Greg waited until he heard his parents' muffled voices resume in the kitchen before quietly opening his window. The familiar route down the trellis was easy now, his enhanced strength and balance making what used to be a nerve-wracking climb feel almost trivial to him.

The cool evening air hit his face as he landed softly on the grass, carrying with it the familiar scents of the city. Exhaust fumes, distant cooking smells, and that indefinable urban decay that seemed to just permeate everything in Brockton Bay. He walked quickly, putting distance between himself and home, between Greg Veder and Void Cowboy.

Several blocks away, in an alley he'd scouted earlier that week, Greg changed into his costume. The familiar weight of the modified motorcycle helmet settled onto his head, and he felt his posture straightening, confidence now flowing through him. This was who he really was now, not the disappointment his father tried to fix with car maintenance lessons, not the problem child his mother worried about, but a hero.

'Now,' he thought, scanning the darkening streets, 'time to find some Empire capes to take down.'

Three hours later, Greg was beginning to understand why so many PHO posts complained about the difficulty of actually finding any capes to fight. His legs ached from walking, his costume was uncomfortably sweaty under the cooling night air, and he hadn't seen a single gang member, let alone a cape.

He'd started in what he thought was obvious Empire territory, the wealthier commercial areas where Nazi flags sometimes appeared in windows overnight. But after wandering past the same closed shops and empty streets multiple times, he had to admit his strategy just wasn't working.

'This is stupid,' Greg thought, leaning against a wall to rest. 'In the movies, heroes just… find the bad guys. They don't spend hours walking in circles.' His feet were developing blisters despite his enhanced durability, and his helmet was starting to feel claustrophobic on him.

He'd seen plenty of gang tags, the Empire's distinctive wolf heads and racist slogans marked territory on walls and dumpsters. But the actual gang members seemed to be frustratingly absent. A few times he'd spotted groups that might have been Empire white guys with shaved heads and combat boots. However they'd turned out to be ordinary civilians or, in one embarrassing case, a local punk band loading equipment after a new gig.

Greg had even tried following some suspicious-looking people, but his attempts at stealth were amateur at best. One woman had called the police on him, forcing him to duck into an alley and wait, heart pounding, while a patrol car cruised past.

'Maybe I should have done some more research,' he admitted to himself, pulling out his phone to check PHO again. The forums were full of speculation about Empire movements, but nothing concrete. Just the usual mix of wild theories and secondhand accounts.

A group of teenagers passed by, laughing and shoving each other. Greg tensed, ready for action, but they were just normal kids heading home from a movie or something. One of them pointed at his costume and snickered.

"Nice lights, dude," the kid called out. "Comic con's not for months!"

Greg felt his face burn under his helmet. He was supposed to be striking fear into the hearts of villains, not being mocked by some random teenagers. This wasn't how he'd imagined his night going at all.

Just as he was considering calling it quits, a sound caught his attention, the distinctive rumble of what had to be an expensive car, followed by the screech of tires. Greg perked up, remembering posts about Empire capes favoring luxury vehicles.

He followed the sound, trying to move quickly while staying quiet. The street opened onto a small plaza, one of those attempted urban renewal projects that had never quite taken off. A handful of businesses surrounded a central area with benches and a sad-looking fountain that hadn't worked in years.

That's when he saw them.

Rune and Alabaster stood near the fountain, their costumes immediately recognizable to Greg from countless hours studying PHO photos and discussion threads. 'Holy shit, actual Empire capes,' his mind raced, heart pounding hard against his ribs.

'No, stay calm. You've studied these guys.' In as much as looking up capes powers and looking at all the cool videos online of them fighting could be considered studying. 'You know their powers. You can handle this.'

Rune couldn't have been much older than Greg himself, maybe fifteen or sixteen based on her height and build. Her costume was a dark robe that seemed to absorb the surrounding streetlight, creating patches of deeper shadow where light should have fallen. The fabric was adorned with some actual runes, Norse symbols that Greg recognized from his late-night wiki dives, stitched in midnight blue thread that caught the light at certain angles.

'Those aren't just for show,' Greg reminded himself, remembering PHO discussions about how she used similar sorts of marks to track objects she'd affected with her power, at least in theory. 'She has to touch things to control them, but once she does…'

Her hood was pulled forward, casting most of her face in shadow, but Greg could make out the edge of a mask decorated with matching runic patterns. The whole ensemble made her look like some edgy dark fantasy character dropped into the modern world.

Though the effect was somewhat undermined by the clearly visible combat boots beneath the robes and the way she kept shifting her weight like any restless teenager. 'She's my age,' Greg realized with a jolt. 'Probably goes to school somewhere in the Bay. Maybe even Winslow. And here she is, working for the actual Nazis.'

Alabaster was something else entirely. Where Rune's costume absorbed light, Alabaster's entire being seemed to all but outright emit it. 'God, the pictures really don't do it justice,' Greg thought, fighting down a wave of revulsion. 'He's like something from the uncanny valley, but worse.' He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, dressed in an immaculate white suit that looked more appropriate for a high-end fashion show than a nighttime shakedown.

Everything about him was a study in unnatural perfection; his skin had the pure, unblemished quality of fresh snow or polished marble, completely devoid of any natural variation or texture. His hair, also pure white, was slicked back without a single strand out of place, looking more like it had been carved from ivory than grown from a human scalp.

But it was his eyes that really caught Greg's attention, pure white from corner to corner, like blank spaces in reality. No iris, no pupil, just an emptiness that somehow managed to focus on things. 'Those eyes are wrong,' Greg's mind insisted. 'Everything about him is just wrong.' He'd read descriptions on PHO describing Alabaster as "unnaturally perfect," but seeing him in person was something deeply unsettling.

He looked less like a person and more like someone's attempt to create the platonic ideal of a human being, with all the flaws and imperfections smoothed away until only this pristine, impossible form remained. The contrast between them was striking, the teenager trying to project mystical menace through her costume, and the living statue whose very existence seemed to deny the natural law.

Greg had seen plenty of cape costumes before, both online and during his recent patrols, but these two represented opposite ends of the spectrum, one embracing shadow and mystery. While the other displayed an impossible perfection that was somehow more frightening than any amount of deliberate intimidation could be.

He crept closer, ducking behind a planter full of dead shrubs. Their voices carried clearly in the night air.

"…just saying," Rune was explaining, her tone casual but carrying an edge, "accidents happen. Windows break, inventory goes missing. But our rates are very reasonable for the protection we offer."

"And with all these ABB pushers moving into the area," Alabaster added, his voice as unnaturally smooth as his skin, "you need someone looking out for your interests." Greg's fists clenched. This wasn't some dramatic villain plot or epic cape battle, it was just ordinary thuggery dressed up in costumes. Somehow that made it all the worse.

'I should do something,' he thought, watching one of the business owners, an older man with grey hair reluctantly hand over what looked like an envelope. 'But what? Rune can throw cars around with her mind, and Alabaster literally can't be hurt…'

His hand unconsciously went to his pocket, where he made the hardlight token, the thing he used to sort of pseudo interact with Sophia's power while it was in storage. He'd been saving her power, waiting for the right moment to use it because he'd only really get one shot with it. Was this it?

Greg watched as more money changed hands, his mind racing. Rune was dangerous, her telekinetic powers could turn anything into a weapon. Alabaster was virtually unkillable, resetting to pristine condition every few seconds. Together, they were way out of his league… unless…

'Sophia's power,' he thought, his hand closing around the token. 'Phase shifting. I could dodge Rune's attacks, maybe even get close enough to take her out before she can react to me.'

But what if he wasn't fast enough? What if he messed up the timing? Her power could easily kill him if he made a mistake. And there were the business owners to think about civilians who could get hurt in a cape fight.

Another envelope changed hands. The woman handing it over had tears in her eyes.

Greg activated Sophia's token, cold shadow state washing over him like smoke. His senses immediately sharpened, the distant traffic sounds becoming distinct vehicles, every shadow gaining new depth, the air currents around him becoming almost visible to him. Testing the power's limits, he phased his hand through a nearby dumpster, careful not to let it stall inside.

As he tested it he found something curious, he'd never actually used this power before, and while in their token form he could sort of tell what the power was. But when he actually copied the power it was like he got an overview of it, he understood what the power actually did, the mental trigger to use it. Hell, he knew a general overview of the weaknesses of this power too.

'No rookie mistakes,' he thought, watching his smoky form ripple in the dim light. 'Can't stall in solid objects. Have to maintain momentum. And electricity…' He eyed some power lines overhead warily.

Next, he created a hard light dagger, studying how the construct's blue-white glow interacted with his shadow form. When he shifted states, the dagger phased with him perfectly, just like any physical equipment would. He tested different shapes rapidly, although rapidly for him meant a full two minutes: spears, shields, caltrops. Each construct glowed with that same ethereal light, ready to solidify into temporary existence at his command.

The plaza ahead was eerily quiet. Rune and Alabaster worked the line of business owners with practiced efficiency. Greg managed to catch some specific details: Rune's precise movements as she touched objects one at a time, Alabaster's unnaturally fluid repositioning, the subtle tension in the shop owners' postures.

A bench floated at head height, Rune's first marked object. A newspaper stand split into razor-edged fragments, her second. A section of decorative wall became lighter than air, drifting like paper in her third. Each touch granted a single effect, her movements calculated and economical.

'She's limited,' Greg realized, his enhanced processing speed cataloging the pattern. 'Has to touch things directly. One effect per object, maybe? But which effect goes to which object? Have to figure that out.'

Alabaster stood watch, his pristine white form almost glowing under the streetlights. His enhanced reflexes showed in every micro-adjustment, each position perfectly calculated for maximum tactical advantage. Never still, never vulnerable, always ready to move in case one of the shopkeepers got any funny ideas all of a sudden.

Greg felt his own enhanced capabilities humming through his body, or maybe that was a trick? He had tested his enhanced capacities far more than even his main power, simply because he could use them without having to worry about running out of them. Strength that could bend steel. Speed that let him pluck balls thrown from baseball pitching machines even at the highest setting. Durability that meant those very same balls didn't even hurt when they hit his hand. But he knew they'd have the same advantages, in different ways sure, he was almost certain Alabaster barely had any additional durability after all, so this would come down to experience and tactics.

An elderly shop owner's stifled sob broke his analysis. The sound cut through him, making his hands clench. Blue-white light leaked between his fingers as hard light constructs formed and dissipated testing combinations, practicing transitions.

"That's enough," he called out, letting his shadow form add otherworldly menace to his voice. "Leave these people alone."

The business owners moved away with practiced efficiency, not running, but clearing the area with resigned familiarity. Rune and Alabaster turned, he wondered if it was experience that let them know he was there or if they somehow knew he was there all along somehow.

"Shadow state," Alabaster noted, his perfect white suit somehow pristine even in the grimy plaza. "With some kind of light generation, if the thing in his hands is. Interesting combination."

"Breaker-Shaker?" Rune mused, saying words Greg didn't quite understand, already touching another piece of debris from around her. "Or Breaker with a secondary Blaster rating?"

Greg didn't wait for more analysis. He charged forward in shadow form, hard light constructs forming around him in a defensive array. Rune touched the metal bench she'd marked earlier, and it burst into flames, harsh light meant to disrupt his shadow state's interaction with the darkness.

But Greg had anticipated this and knew that despite looking like a shadowy mist, his power didn't actually care about lighting, so he simply used the light to his advantage. His hard light constructs caught and reflected the light, creating a strobing effect that made his movements harder to track, even for the experienced capes. Each construct was positioned to cast conflicting shadows, turning his smoky form into a dozen possible targets.

"Clever," Rune admitted, touching the ground. The concrete rippled as she made it weightless before smashing into it with a beam of metal she was controlling, causing bits of concrete to rise from the ground in their sudden weightlessness. "But predictable."

She didn't throw her marked objects directly at him, that would be too obvious. Instead, she positioned them to limit his movement options. The floating concrete formed barriers, the burning bench cast disruptive light as she hung it in the air almost like a sun, the razor-sharp newspaper fragments created areas too dangerous for him to solidify in.

Greg was only lucky that these barriers also made it hard for Alabaster to get at him, was something happening between them? Because Alabaster appeared almost annoyed at being left out of the fight.

Greg phased through a barrier, counting seconds to avoid any stalling. As he emerged, he launched a spread of hard light daggers. Rune deflected them with her floating debris, but the constructs shattered on impact, exactly as he'd planned. The plaza filled with dazzling fragments, each one casting its own light and shadow.

'Can't track what you can't properly see,' Greg thought, using his enhanced speed he pumped his legs as quick as he could move them to circle around while Rune dealt with the sudden visual chaos.

She was good, better than him technically. Her movements showed real combat training, each stance perfectly balanced despite her enhanced strength. When she touched a piece of debris, it wasn't random. Every effect was chosen for the maximum tactical advantage.

But Greg had two powers to work with, and he was learning to combine them.

He phased through another barrier, timing it perfectly with his enhanced reflexes. Rune spotted him, touching his costume as he passed. Suddenly it weighed as much as a car, but Greg was ready. He phased, letting the weight transfer with him in the shadow state, then used the momentum to swing around. His solidifying fist caught Rune's shoulder, enhanced strength making the blow really count.

She staggered back, faster than any normal human, but not fast enough. Her hand brushed a nearby chunk of concrete, making it burst into flames, but Greg was already moving. He phased through the flames, the heat passing harmlessly through his shadow form.

"Stand still!" Rune snarled, touching another object. The newspaper stand fragments broke down further, becoming a cloud of razor-sharp metal confetti. "Let's see you phase through all of this!"

Greg created a dome of hard light above him as the fragments rained down. Each impact sent cracks through the construct, but it bought him time to think. His enhanced processing speed let him analyze the general pattern of Rune's attacks.

'Four effects,' he realized. 'Weight manipulation, state changes, splitting, and ignition. One at a time, one per object. And she has to maintain concentration on each effect.'

The metal confetti storm intensified, some pieces moving against the wind kinetic manipulation from her weight effect. Greg formed more of his hard light constructs, not as weapons but as platforms. Each one gave him a different angle of attack, different shadow patterns to work with.

Rune was good, but she was getting frustrated now. Her attacks became more aggressive, less tactical. She touched a larger piece of debris, making it weightless, then another to ignite it. A third touch split it into projectiles, while a fourth increased their mass mid-flight.

But using all four effects at once meant dividing her attention. Greg saw his chance.

He phased through the ground, emerging directly beneath her with a hard, light spear aimed at her legs. She leaped away with enhanced agility, exactly as he'd expected. In midair, she couldn't really touch anything new.

Greg solidified, his enhanced strength letting him tackle her before she could land. They hit the ground hard enough to crack pavement, his durability protecting them both from the impact.

"Got you," he growled, hard light restraints already forming around her wrists. One solid hit to knock her out. Just one good strike to secure a token-

A blindingly white fist slammed into his temple with surgical precision. Alabaster's enhanced strength sent him tumbling, though his own durability kept his skull intact. He rolled to his feet, head ringing, to face a very different kind of opponent.

Where Rune had been tactical, Alabaster was mechanical. Each movement flowed perfectly into the next, enhanced speed combining with his constant reversion to make him seem to flicker between positions. He was annoyed by how different his power actually was to how people said it was.

For one he didn't seem to revert everything, he reverted a lot though, and he seemed to be able to choose if he wanted to revert his position with his body or not. Then just when I thought he would be stopped by moving the flaming bench his way with a hard light chain, he reverts the bench to where it was a bit ago. Every two steps, any damage or positional disadvantage simply reverted away. The only thing that was notable was he didn't revert when the environment did.

"Better than expected," Alabaster said, voice still infuriatingly calm. "But still just an amateur."

Greg created hard light barriers, trying to box Alabaster in, but the Empire cape simply touched them. His power reverted them out of existence, stepping their creation back two stages until they just vanished.

'Can't pin him down,' Greg thought, shifting to shadow state to avoid a blindingly fast combination of strikes. 'Can't wear him down. Can't even slow him down.'

He needed distance. His shadow form let him phase backward through a wall, giving him space to think. But Alabaster simply touched the wall itself, reverting it to a previous state where a doorway had existed in the past.

The fight shifted into a deadly dance. Greg launched hard light constructs in complex patterns, trying to force Alabaster into a mistake. But the Empire cape's enhanced reflexes let him read each attack he made perfectly. When Greg attempted to phase through his guard, Alabaster would already be moving to the perfect counter-position for it.

Minutes stretched out like hours, enhanced processing speed letting both fighters analyze and adapt in microseconds. Greg's shadow state kept him alive against attacks that could shatter concrete, while Alabaster's reversion negated any damage that got through his near perfect defense.

Their enhanced physical abilities turned every exchange into a blur of violent motion. A punch that would normally take half a second became a complex series of feints and counters. Each fighter could see and react to the smallest tell, the slightest shift in weight or tension.

Greg tried everything he could think of. He created hard light weapons that shattered into razor-sharp fragments, but Alabaster reverted them away. He phased through walls to attack from unexpected angles, but Alabaster's enhanced senses let him track Greg's position perfectly. He even attempted to use his shadow state's hallucinogenic effect, but Alabaster simply reverted from any influenced state.

'It's like fighting a machine,' Greg realized, watching Alabaster reset another injury instantly. 'Every move calculated, every response perfect. No wasted motion, no true openings to exploit.'

He needed a new strategy. Something unexpected. Something that would let him capitalize on his victory over Rune before Alabaster could fight back, and Greg felt himself starting to choke.

The air suddenly got thick, heavy. Greg's shadow state flickered as breathing became difficult. His brain processed the new information quickly, his eyes seeking and locking onto the new figure among them. It let him register the new threat almost instantly, a figure in a Great War-era German military uniform, walking casually right toward them.

Krieg had arrived.

'Oh shit.'

Air turned to molasses in Void Cowboy's lungs. Each breath became a real struggle, like trying to inhale underwater. His shadow state flickered erratically as an invisible force pressed in from all sides, making even his intangibility feel heavy.

The Empire cape in the Great War uniform walked forward with casual confidence, each step intensifying the crushing pressure. "Impressive showing against Rune," Krieg said conversationally. "You have potential, boy. Raw, undisciplined, but some potential nonetheless."

Void Cowboy tried to phase through the effect, but whatever Krieg was doing followed him into his shadow state. The very process of shifting felt like pushing through sticky tar.

"Problems?" Krieg asked Alabaster, his voice carrying easily through the heavily distorted air.

"Minor ones," Alabaster replied, moving with that unsettling mechanical precision. "New cape. Shows promise."

"Indeed." Krieg's tone suggested some mild curiosity, but the air pressure doubled, then tripled. "The Empire is always looking for promising recruits. Especially those who understand the importance of… proper civilization."

'Like hell,' Void Cowboy thought, forcing himself to stay upright against the crushing force. Hard light constructs formed sluggishly around him, each one requiring more effort than the last.

"No response?" Krieg gestured almost lazily. A chunk of debris from the earlier fight rocketed toward Void Cowboy's head. The small piece of concrete moved with the force of a cannonball. "Perhaps a demonstration of what we can offer is in order, then?"

Void Cowboy barely phased in time, but even that cost him. The effort of shifting states against Krieg's resistance left him gasping. His shadow form wavered, edges blurring as he struggled to maintain coherence.

"Think about it," Krieg continued, sending more debris flying at lethal speeds. "Training. Resources. Purpose. All we ask is loyalty to a greater cause."

Void Cowboy created a hard light barrier, but it warped under the invisible pressure that filled the area. The usually sharp edges turned soft, barely holding together. Everything felt wrong, too heavy, too resistant.

Then Krieg did something worse: he scaled his power back slightly. Just enough that Void Cowboy could breathe almost normally, could almost move freely.

"Consider this an audition," Krieg said. "Show us what you can really do."

A car door suddenly accelerated past Void Cowboy's head fast enough to stagger him even if it was going to miss him. He phased instinctively, but the effort sent daggers of pain through his chest. Breathing in the shadow state was getting harder as Krieg's power affected the air itself.

"Your instincts are good," Krieg noted, almost professorial in tone. "But untrained. Raw. We could help with that."

Three more pieces of debris flew at different velocities. What looked like a slow lob would suddenly accelerate to full on bullet speed. What seemed like a killing shot would drift harmlessly past. Void Cowboy could track each projectile, but Krieg kept just changing their momentum mid-flight.

"The Empire rewards strength," Krieg continued, unleashing another barrage from multiple angles. "We could make you truly powerful. Give you a real place in the new world order."

Void Cowboy phased through the first wave, created a hard light shield against the second, and was forced to dive away from the third. Each movement was a struggle against the thickened air.

"Your choice, boy," Krieg said. "Join us willingly, or…" The air pressure intensified again. "Well, there are other ways to ensure your cooperation."

He took a single step forward, and the force of that simple movement multiplied a thousandfold. The pavement cracked in a spreading spiderweb pattern. Loose debris bounced like popcorn kernels. The very air seemed to ripple with raw power.

Void Cowboy tried to phase through the ground, but Krieg's power caught him mid-transition. The invisible force turned a simple phase shift into an agonizing crawl. He felt every molecule, every atom he passed through.

"Still trying to resist?" Alabaster's voice came from impossibly close behind him. "How very disappointing."

Void Cowboy spun, his hands pulling together as light coalesced around him, creating a hard light spear, but Alabaster was already inside his guard. Three precise strikes landed before he could even begin to hope to phase.

A newspaper box accelerated past him fast enough to leave a vacuum trail. A manhole cover became a lethal discus. Even individual pieces of gravel turned into hypervelocity projectiles under Krieg's influence.

"Last chance," Krieg called out. "Join us willingly, and all this stops. Refuse…" The air pressure suddenly reversed. Instead of being crushed down, Void Cowboy felt himself lifted as the invisible force manipulated everything around him. "And we do this the hard way."

The force slammed down with pile driver intensity, threatening to drive Void Cowboy straight through the pavement. But at that moment of desperate clarity, he saw his chance.

Just as the crushing force hit, Void Cowboy shifted into shadow state. Instead of being smashed into the ground, he phased right straight through it. Krieg's own power actually helped, the massive downward force pushing him deeper into the earth below.

He passed through layers of pavement, dirt, and concrete. The pressure was excruciating, but he forced himself to maintain the shadow state. Pipes ghosted past him and each moment he was going further down, held with it the possibility that he would hit an electric cable and that would be the end, until suddenly…

Open space.

Void Cowboy emerged into the sewer system, the momentum from Krieg's attack carrying him through several tunnel sections before he could actually stop. The stench was overwhelming, but down here, Krieg's power felt noticeably weaker now.

"Find him!" Krieg's muffled voice carried through the ground above as he heard the scraping metal of a sewer grate opening up. "Search the tunnels!"

But Void Cowboy was already moving, using his shadow state to pass through the walls and debris. Each phase shift got a little easier as he put more distance between himself and Krieg's wide influence.

He had no idea where he was even going, the sewer system was a maze of tunnels and junctions. But every step took him further from the crushing pressure above. Every phase brought him closer to freedom.

Behind him, explosions and crashes marked Krieg's pursuit. Cars and debris impacting the street sent vibrations through the tunnel walls. The very ground seemed to groan under the strain of his power.

Void Cowboy caught fragments of conversation echoing through maintenance grates:

"Check the drainage-" "Southeast exit-" "Seal off the-"

They were trying to trap him underground. Cut off his escape routes. But they didn't know these tunnels any better than he did, and down here, their powers were limited.

Even still, he had a chance now, a chance to get away, he had to strike while the iron was hot.

Chapter Text

The labyrinthine depths of Brockton Bay's sewer system stretched out before Greg, a nightmarish maze of crumbling concrete and rusted metal. Dim light filtered through the intermittent storm drains and maintenance hatches, casting eerie long shadows that seemed to writhe and dance with each flicker of the failing fluorescent tubes mounted at irregular intervals along the tunnel walls. The air was thick and oppressive, a miasma of decay and stagnation that clung to everything down here like an oily film.

Tunnels branched off in every direction, some barely large enough for a person to crawl through, others yawning wide enough to drive a full-on truck down. Water of indeterminate origin and questionable content trickled along gutters and pooled in depressions, its surface an iridescent sheen of unknown chemical runoff and organic waste. The walls themselves seemed to weep, moisture seeping through cracks and fissures, feeding colonies of mold and fungi that thrived in the perpetual darkness of the place.

The overwhelming assault on Greg's senses was nearly paralyzing. His hearing picked up every drip, every scurry of unseen vermin, every distant echo of rushing water. The stench was a physical presence, a nauseating cocktail of rot, sewage, and industrial chemicals that seemed to coat his throat and lungs with each labored breath he took. Even through his mask, the odor was inescapable, a constant reminder of the awful filth surrounding him.

As Greg phased through another slimy concrete barrier, the rippling of his shadow form briefly illuminated a section of graffiti faded gang tags and crude drawings that spoke to the desperation of those who had sought some refuge in this underworld. The graffiti was a silent testament to the layers of Brockton Bay's history, each scrawl and symbol a snapshot of the city's ongoing struggles.

Above, muffled by layers of concrete and earth, came the sounds of the Empire's methodical search. Boots stomped on pavement, engines rumbled as vehicles were repositioned to block off potential exits. Orders were barked in clipped, efficient tones that spoke of military-like discipline. The Empire wasn't just searching; they were orchestrating a full-scale operation to corner their prey.

Greg paused at an intersection, his ethereal form hovering just above the filthy water. After a moment, realizing he wasn't breathing in this form, he quickly dropped it, just because he had an expanded lung capacity didn't mean he needed to test it just now. Four identical passages stretched out before him, each one as uninviting as the last. The distant rumble of machinery, perhaps pumps or generators, provided a constant, ominous undertone to the dripping water and echoing voices. It was a reminder that even in this forgotten underworld, the machinations of the city above continued in their relentless grinding.

As he contemplated his next move, a sudden shift in the air currents brought a fresh wave of rot-laden air, nearly overwhelming in its intensity. Not to toot his own horn, but Greg believed that his senses were rather good, but those senses, usually an asset, now felt like a cruel joke played by his body. Every nuance of the sewer's foulness was crystal clear to him, from the sharp tang of industrial runoff to the sickly-sweet undertones of the organic decay.

Yet even as he fought the urge to gag, Greg knew that this putrid labyrinth was his best chance at evading Krieg's crushing force. The very nature of the sewers chaotic, unpredictable, and thoroughly unpleasant made them the perfect hiding place from the Empire's regimented search patterns. Here, in this dirty and dank underworld, he might just find a way to turn the tables on his pursuers.

With a renewed determination, Greg pushed forward, his shadow form rippling through the stagnant air. The tunnels blurred past as he phased through another concrete wall, each transition bringing him deeper into the city's fetid underbelly. The hunt was far from over, but in this maze of decay and forgotten spaces, Greg held onto the hope that he might just find a way to survive this and perhaps even emerge victorious.

The sound of Empire members echoed through the maintenance grates overhead, their voices distorted by both distance and the twisting passages. Greg's hearing caught fragments of conversations, orders being barked, positions being coordinated. The Empire wasn't just searching up above, they were conducting a methodical sweep of the underground network too.

Greg paused at a complex intersection where multiple tunnels converged, his ethereal form hovering uncertainly as he tried to orient himself in the underground maze. The passageways radiated outward like spokes on a wheel, each one a carbon copy of the others, featureless concrete tubes vanishing into the darkness. Weak, sickly light filtered down through storm drains and maintenance access points far above, casting wavering patterns on the slime-coated walls and creating more disorienting patches of shadow.

The monotonous drip of water echoed through the tunnels, a steady plink-plink-plink that seemed to mark the passing seconds. It created an eerily musical backdrop to the muffled chaos of the search above, like some twisted underground orchestra. Greg found himself unconsciously timing his movements to the rhythm, using it as a metronome to pace his thoughts as he considered his options.

'They're spreading out,' he realized, he was picking up the increasing dispersion of footsteps and voices above. 'If I can just find a way to circle back around…' But each tunnel looked identical to the last, offering no clues as to which might lead him back to safety or just deeper into the danger.

As he hovered there, weighing his choices, Greg became acutely aware of the strange weightlessness that had overtaken his shadow state. His feet no longer made contact with the grimy tunnel floor, instead floating just a hair's breadth above the stagnant puddles. The sensation was disconcerting, reminiscent of those vivid dreams where you're falling but never quite impact the ground itself. He felt suspended on the knife's edge between control and chaos, his form wanting to drift with every errant current in the stale sewer air.

Focusing his hearing upward with some difficulty, Greg caught fragments of conversation filtering down through the metal grates and access hatches. The voices of the Empire searchers came in bursts, clipped and efficient:

"Northwest junction's clear-" came a gruff voice, followed by the crackle of a radio.

"Check the drainage tunnels-" ordered another, the words echoing off concrete walls.

"He has to be down here somewhere-" insisted a third, frustration evident in the tone.

"Seal off the maintenance access points-" commanded a voice that carried more authority than the others.

Each snippet of dialogue painted a clearer picture of the methodical search pattern being implemented above. The net was tightening, options for escape dwindling with each passing moment. Greg's mind raced, trying to piece together a mental map of the sewer system from the fragmented information he could glean. Time was running out, and a wrong turn now could mean the difference between freedom and capture, rather than just ending up more lost.

The Empire was organizing with an almost military precision, methodically cutting off escape routes. Greg could hear the screech of metal from one of the manhole covers above, the sound reverberating through the tunnels like some mechanical beast's cry. It took him a moment to realize what that grinding noise actually meant. The harsh squeal of metal on metal, the acrid smell of burning that somehow cut through even the sewer's own overwhelming stench, the occasional shower of sparks falling through the grates...

'They're welding the manhole covers shut,' he realized with growing horror. 'For one that's absolutely illegal and not good for the regular person, what if the city needs access? What if there's a real emergency?' His mind raced as he considered the implications. 'But for two, did they just have that shit on standby or something? Who carries around welding equipment for a random cape fight?'

The thought was almost absurd enough to make him laugh, if the situation weren't so dire. 'What, does Kaiser just keep a team of welders on speed dial? "Hey guys, drop everything, we need some emergency manhole welding!" Though... given how organized they apparently are, maybe he actually does.'

Thankfully, not everything they did was so outlandish or permanent. As he moved through the sewers, his hearing picked up the telltale rumble of trucks and cars above him, their engines creating a constant background drone that helped mask his own movements. Heavy objects being dragged across pavement suggested they were positioning vehicles over most manholes rather than welding them all shut. Smart easier to move if they needed to adjust their perimeter.

The sound of boots on pavement grew more organized, more purposeful. Greg could track the steady rhythm of multiple search teams being deployed, their movements creating a complex percussion of footsteps that he could easily pinpoint. The pattern was clear: they were spreading out in a carefully coordinated search grid, each team taking responsibility for a specific section of the underground maze.

'They're not just looking for me,' he thought, pressing himself against a slimy wall as another ghost patrol passed nearby. 'They're hunting me. Like I'm some kind of animal they're trying to flush out.' The realization sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the sewers. 'And they're doing it with way too much practice. How many times have they done this sort of thing before? How many other people have they cornered down here?'

'Joke's on them,' he thought, allowing himself a grim smile beneath his mask as he phased through another wall. 'I can pass through anything they put in my way.' But even as the thought formed, he felt a twinge of doubt.

His shadow state felt different down here, more fluid as he got better practice shifting in and out. He realized the power was a bit odd to use, if Greg was to try to describe it. It was almost like trying to curl up into yourself and turn yourself inside out, it gave this constant almost claustrophobic sense of what was around him, everything squeezed together as he quite literally felt the wind that went right through him.

He mostly just phased when he wanted to quickly change which tunnel he was in, or when he hit a dead end, so he was almost certain that he was missing something about how he was using it.

The echo of splashing footsteps caught his attention. A lone Empire grunt was making his way down a side tunnel, trying to look tough in his bomber jacket despite the way he kept wrinkling his nose at the sewer stench. The skinhead carried a flashlight in one hand and what looked like a hand radio in the other, his boots splashing carelessly through the shallow water that covered the tunnel floor.

Greg's heart rate picked up as he assessed the situation. He picked up every detail with an unnatural ease. The way the grunt kept adjusting his jacket collar, the slight tremor in his hand as he swept the flashlight beam across the walls, the way he muttered complaints under his breath about being sent into the sewers. This wasn't the behavior of someone setting up an ambush.

'No way this is a trap,' Greg reasoned, watching the Empire member pause to check his radio again. 'He's too… authentic in his discomfort. Even the way he's splashing through the water instead of trying to stay quiet. A real trap would be more carefully staged.'

The radio crackled occasionally with updates from other searchers, suggesting it was even tuned to their coordination frequency. Greg's mind raced with the possibilities. Here was a chance to even the odds a little, to gather intelligence on the Empire's movements.

'One quick takedown,' Greg thought, shifting his weight to spring forward. His powers thrummed beneath his skin, eager to be used. He mentally rehearsed the sequence to phase in close to the guy. Hard light construct to disable the radio first by cutting a wire or even just cut the radio in half, then use the guy's own jacket to tie him up. Simple, clean, efficient. 'Get a better idea of their positions, maybe even grab his radio and listen in on their communications if he does it perfectly.'

In a way it could be likened to a simple stealth game, take out the minions in the outskirts so you can control the field and have fewer issues moving deeper in later.

But even as he prepared to move, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered cautions about overconfidence. Still, the opportunity seemed too perfect for him to pass up. The grunt was alone, separated from the main search parties, and clearly out of his element here in the sewers. If Greg was going to make a move, this was his best chance.

The spectral spear passed through his chest before he even registered the ghost's presence. The ethereal blade caught the dim sewer light, its translucent form glowing with an inner phosphorescence that cast sickly shadows on the dripping walls. For a fraction of a second, Greg could see the corroded pipes and crumbling concrete through the weapon protruding from his chest.

Pure instinct took over, faster than his conscious thought. Greg's body dissolved into the shadow state with unprecedented speed, his form becoming smoke and shadow before his brain could even fully process the danger he was in. The ethereal weapon passed harmlessly through his incorporeal form, trailing wisps of otherworldly energy that dissipated like early morning fog.

The transition was almost instantaneous where before there had been a fraction of a second delay, a brief moment of vulnerability, now his power responded with the speed of thought itself. It felt different, more fluid, as if his body had been waiting for just this kind of threat to come at him.

He spun to face his attacker, the movement carrying him several feet off the ground as his shadow state seemed to lift him into the air. The stagnant sewer water rippled beneath him, disturbed by some energy he couldn't quite understand. Water droplets hung suspended in the surrounding air, caught in the field of his power's influence. The sight that greeted him sent a chill down his spine: a translucent figure in full crusader armor, its hollow eyes fixed on him with unsettling intensity.

The ghost's medieval armor was a masterwork of ethereal craftsmanship, every rivet, every chain link, every ornate engraving perfectly rendered in spectral energy. Though washed out by its spectral nature, the armor retained hints of its original grandeur, the deep crimson of crusader tabards now a pale bloodstained pink, burnished gold trim reduced to a sickly yellow-grey, polished silver plate dulled to the color of old ashes. The effect was like looking at a faded photograph where all the vibrancy had been leached away, leaving only ghostly impressions of former glory.

Intricate engravings covered the breastplate crosses, eagles, and flowing script that might have been Latin, each detail preserved in spectral form but drained of substance, like a masterpiece painting that had been left in the sun too long. The articulated joints of the armor moved with unnatural smoothness, plates flowing around each other without the screech of metal on metal that should have accompanied such a motion. Through gaps in the armor, Greg could see what looked like a bodysuit that was similarly drained, yet it was also pulsing almost like a heartbeat that shouldn't exist, a rhythmic ripple of slightly darker energy that sent waves through the ghost's ethereal form.

Its helm was adorned with a great plume that might once have been vibrant crimson feathers, now reduced to translucent wisps that wavered in some nonexistent wind. The visor bore elaborate decorative flourishes around its edges, the metalwork suggesting the face of a snarling lion, though the spectral nature of the ghost rendered these fierce details more eerily beautiful than actually threatening. The entire form wavered slightly in the dim light, like heat waves rising from hot pavement, but its stance was rock-steady as it held its spectral spear at the ready.

'Crusader, has to be' Greg's mind raced as he backed away, noticing how his feet no longer touched the ground as his shadow state seemed to lift him slightly into the air. His thoughts tumbled over each other in panic. 'One of his ghosts. It was never confirmed but if he can see through their eyes…' A hundred PHO threads flashed through his memory, discussions about Crusader's powers, theories about how his ghosts worked, warnings about their known combat capabilities.

He'd read them all with academic interest, never thinking he'd face one himself. How many were there? Where were the others? He remembered something about a limit to the amount or something similar, but was that right? The narrow tunnel suddenly felt like a death trap, every wall potentially hiding another spectral warrior just on the other side.

He picked up on the subtle distortions in the air around the ghost temperature changes, tiny fluctuations in pressure, the way sound seemed to bend around its form. The ghost's hollow eyes tracked his every movement with mechanical precision, its empty gaze somehow conveying more menace than any human expression could. Even the moisture in the air behaved strangely around it, creating a halo of refracted light that made its edges seem to blur and shift.

The implications were odd but if he was correct about the whole tracking thing then they suddenly got dire. Every move he made, every trick he tried, would be reported directly back to the Empire cape. The ghost wasn't just an enemy, it was a mobile surveillance system, feeding everything it saw back to its master up above.

The ghost lunged again without warning, its spear moving faster than any normal human could react. The spectral weapon left trails of its ethereal light in the stale sewer air, like afterimages burned into Greg's vision, he grits his teeth as he barely keeps up. His body responded before his mind could catch up, shadow state kicking in as pure survival instinct drove him upwards.

He phased through layers of infrastructure, ancient brick, corroded pipes, tangled utility cables, and finally weather-worn asphalt. Each layer felt different in his shadow state, some offering more resistance than others, some humming with hidden energies he had instinctively avoided. The electrical lines were the worst, crackling with lethal potential that made his incorporeal form shudder as he passed just inches by them.

The sudden transition from sewer darkness to streetlight was disorienting, the glare painful even through his mask's visor. The night air hit him like a physical force after the enclosed tunnels below, crisp and clean compared to the fetid atmosphere he'd just left behind. For a split second, he hovered at street level, caught between worlds as he tried to process the abrupt change in environment. Cars passed through his ethereal form, their headlights creating strange refractions in his shadow state.

But he didn't pause to let his eyes adjust or to marvel at the sensation. Without waiting, he immediately plunged back down into a different section of the sewer system, angling his descent through layers of concrete and earth to emerge in what he hoped was a parallel tunnel. His power felt eager, almost hungry, as it carried him through solid matter, responding faster to his desperate need for more speed and maneuverability.

But the ghost followed, passing through solid matter as easily as he did, trailing that same sickly phosphorescence in its wake. Its movements were fluid, practiced, showing none of the hesitation that Greg felt in his own abilities. Where Greg's transitions between shadow and solid state felt jerky and unpredictable, the ghost's movements were unnaturally smooth, each phase through matter as natural as breathing to it. The replica's spear thrust forward in a series of lightning-fast attacks, each one forcing Greg to dodge or phase, each near-miss driving him further into the maze-like network of tunnels below the city.

The chase became a dizzying sequence of phases and dodges through Brockton Bay's underground infrastructure. Greg pushed his power to new limits, phasing through walls at angles he'd never attempted before, using the momentum of his transitions to propel himself in new unexpected directions.

'God, I hope I don't hit any power lines,' Greg thought as he burst into what must have been an old maintenance tunnel. 'One zap and I'm done for.' The thought brought him up short, how did he know that? He'd never tested his shadow state against electricity, had never even considered it as a weakness before this moment. Yet somehow he was absolutely certain that electricity would...

The ghost's spectral spear passed through the space his head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier. Greg's instincts took over, his body dissolving into his shadow state just in time to avoid being skewered. 'Focus, you idiot!' he berated himself as he phased through a nearby pipe cluster. 'Question the weird power knowledge later, survive now!'

But the thought nagged at him even as he fled. Was this part of how his power worked when copying others? Some kind of inherited knowledge that came along with the abilities? He found himself unconsciously veering away from exposed wiring and junction boxes, his body responding to dangers his mind hadn't even processed yet.

His momentary distraction cost him as the ghost suddenly changed direction, cutting through a support beam to intercept his planned escape route. Greg barely managed to alter his own trajectory, feeling the ethereal chill of the spectral spear as it passed through the space he'd just vacated. The near miss sent him tumbling through a maze of pipes, his shadow state flickering dangerously as his concentration wavered.

'This isn't the time for a power testing session!' he chided himself, forcing his focus back to the increasingly dire situation at hand. The massive maintenance tunnel stretched out before him, its twenty-foot ceiling crossed with rusting support beams and its walls lined with the very electrical hazards he was now inexplicably wary of. Water covered most of the floor, reflecting both the weak emergency lights and the ghost's phosphorescent glow in a disorienting dance of shadows and weak light.

The ghost pressed its advantage, its hollow eyes tracking his every move with mechanical precision. Each dodge and phase became more desperate as Greg tried to split his attention between evading his pursuer and understanding these new instincts that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

'This must be under the old industrial district,' he realized, recognizing the scale of the infrastructure. 'Dad mentioned these tunnels once, they used to service all the factories up north.' The walls were lined with thick bundles of cables and pipes, some still humming with power or throbbing with pressurized water, others long dead and rotting in their mountings.

Pools of stagnant water covered most of the floor, reflecting the weak emergency lights that still functioned after all these years. 'At least there's light down here. Better than the sewers. Though...' Each of his steps when he had to become solid sent ripples through the dark water, distorting the sickly orange glow. The ghost's own phosphorescence created strange patterns on the water's surface as it pursued him, like some otherworldly aurora dancing across the putrid pools.

'Maybe I can lose it in all this machinery,' Greg thought desperately as he phased through a massive valve assembly, its wheel larger than he was tall. 'Use the pipes for cover, maybe-' But the ghost followed with mechanical precision, its spear passing through the corroded metal as easily as air. 'Right. Ghost. Physical barriers mean nothing to it. Stupid, stupid!'

Decades of mineral deposits had transformed the valve housing into something that looked almost organic, like calcified bones in shades of rust-red and algae-green. 'This place looks like something out of a horror movie,' Greg thought, his mind racing as he searched for his options. 'And I'm the teenager making all the wrong moves.'

But no matter how he used the tunnel's industrial obstacles, whether slipping through the narrow gaps between pipe clusters or trying to lose his pursuer in the forest of support columns, the ghost kept pace with him. 'It's not even trying that hard,' Greg realized with growing dread. 'It's just... following. Like it knows something I don't.' Its hollow eyes remained fixed on him with that same empty, implacable focus, tracking every dodge and phase with inhuman persistence.

Each time Greg thought he'd found an advantage in the tunnel's layout, the ghost simply ignored the physical barriers, passing through solid steel and concrete with the same effortless grace. 'This isn't working,' he admitted to himself as another attempted evasion failed. 'I'm just letting it herd me deeper into their trap. But what other choice do I have?' The tunnel's impressive scale, which had initially seemed like an opportunity for escape, only served to highlight how thoroughly outmatched he was by an enemy that could ignore physical space entirely.

"Getting better at this, aren't you?" the ghost spoke with Crusader's voice, though its mouth didn't move. The words seemed to echo oddly in the enclosed space, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The effect was deeply unsettling, like hearing a voice in a dream. "But better isn't good enough."

Greg tried to counter-attack, his hard light constructs blazing to life in the cramped tunnel they were currently in. The blue-white glow turned the fetid sewer into an otherworldly arena as he crafted his defenses. Each construct required precious light energy, a resource he'd learned to carefully manage. But here in the tunnels, an idea struck him. The ghost's own phosphorescence, combined with his shadow state's strange interaction with light, might give him an edge here.

He created a series of small, simple mirrors, first tiny hard light surfaces barely larger than coins. The ghost's ethereal glow reflected off each one, creating a cascade of light that he could harvest for more constructs. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"Interesting approach," the ghost commented in Crusader's distant voice, its spear weaving lethal patterns through the air. "Using my own energy against me. But it won't be enough."

Greg positioned his mirrors strategically, bouncing the ghost's otherworldly luminescence back and forth, amplifying the available light. Each new reflection gave him more energy to work with, building up his reservoir of power. The sewer tunnel became a kaleidoscope of shifting lights and shadows thanks to him.

With this enhanced pool of energy, he launched his real counter-attack. A wall of shimmering spears erupted from his palms, followed by a cascade of glowing nets, each construct more intricate than the last. The ghost moved through these defenses as if they were smoke, its translucent form rippling like disturbed water. But that was all part of Greg's real plan.

As each construct passed through the ghost, it shattered into countless fragments, each one a tiny mirror catching and reflecting more light. The tunnel filled with a swirling cloud of luminescent shards, a miniature galaxy of hard light fragments that continued to bounce and amplify the available energy at hand.

"You're wasting your energy," the ghost taunted, launching another lightning-fast thrust that forced Greg to phase desperately. "Though, I must admire your creativity."

The ghost fought with reckless abandon, hurling itself at Greg with complete disregard for defense. Why not? It was invulnerable to anything Greg could throw at it. The spectral spear traced lethal geometric forms in the stagnant air triangular thrusts that flowed into circular sweeps, each motion setting up the next attack. The ghost wove figure-eight patterns that suddenly transformed into lightning-fast straight thrusts, creating an ever-shifting web of deadly angles.

Its attacks followed a mesmerizing rhythm: three quick jabs transitioning into a wide sweep, then a deceptive pause before launching into another complex sequence. The spear's ethereal glow left lingering afterimages that made the true attacks even harder to track, phantom traces of light that could mask the real killing blow. Each pattern seemed designed to either force Greg into a predictable dodge or catch him mid-phase, the ghost's centuries of martial knowledge expressed in its fluid, relentless assault.

When Greg tried to go on the offensive, throwing a punch enhanced by his superhuman strength, his fist passed harmlessly through the ghost's helmet. Yet the ghost's own counterstrike felt solid enough to shatter concrete, forcing Greg back into his shadow state to avoid being skewered by it.

The one-way intangibility was maddening, Greg could neither block nor effectively counter-attack directly. But each dodge, each phase through solid matter, gave him new ideas. He noticed how his shadow state seemed to distort the surrounding light, bending and warping it in strange ways.

He began creating smaller, more efficient constructs not weapons or barriers, but prismatic shapes designed to catch and redirect light. Each one required minimal energy but contributed to the growing illumination in the tunnel. The ghost's phosphorescence, combined with the ambient light from above and his own constructs, created an increasingly complex web of refracted energy up and down the tunnels.

Even when their intangible forms overlapped Greg's shadow state and the ghost's spectral body briefly occupying the same space, there was no direct interaction. They were like oil and water, two different types of incorporeality that refused to ever acknowledge each other. But the light… the light behaved differently when they overlapped with each other.

Greg exploited this phenomenon, timing his phases to maximize the strange distortions that occurred when shadow state met spectral form. Each overlap created new patterns of light, new energy he could harvest for his constructs. It wasn't much, but it was accumulating quickly.

The ghost pressed forward relentlessly, each thrust calculated to either impale Greg if he stayed solid or force him to move in a specific direction if he phased. The spectral warrior had no need to worry about its own position or defense, it simply attacked, again and again, with mechanical precision and inhuman persistence.

As the battle continued, the tunnel became a disorienting disco of reflected and refracted light. Greg's hard light fragments created a constantly shifting maze of illumination, making it harder for the ghost to fully track his movements. The specter's own glow worked against it, providing Greg with an endless supply of energy to convert into yet more constructs.

"Clever," the ghost acknowledged as another thrust missed its mark, Greg's shadow form barely visible among the kaleidoscope of odd lights. "Using the environment, adapting your powers… you're proving quite resourceful. But you're still just delaying the inevitable."

Greg knew the ghost was right about one thing, this was a delaying tactic. But as his network of light-catching constructs grew more complex, as his understanding of how his shadow state interacted with both natural and supernatural light deepened. As he felt less like prey and more like a student in the midst of an intensive practical exam.

Each near miss taught him something new about his powers. Each failed attack showed him better ways to conserve and redirect his energy. The ghost might be herding him, but it was also providing him with an invaluable combat lesson, one he intended to survive long enough to actually learn from.

As he dodged another lethal thrust, he realized with growing dread that this wasn't just a fight, it was a demonstration. The ghost was showing him the futility of resistance while simultaneously wearing him down and herding him exactly where Crusader wanted him to go. But in doing so, it was also teaching him more about his own abilities than any amount of solo practice could ever have.

The question was: could he learn fast enough to make a difference here?

Greg's intricate light-harvesting network had bought him time and taught him valuable lessons, but time was now running out. Each new construct required more concentration to maintain, and the ghost seemed to be learning too, its attacks growing more precise, leaving him fewer openings. As another spectral spear thrust passed millimeters from his throat, Greg made a split-second decision.

'Sometimes running is the smarter choice,' he thought, letting his elaborate array of hard light constructs all dissolve. Then, at that moment of release, Greg felt something change in his shadow state.

It was subtle at first, just a feeling of increased momentum, a weird sense of flow. But as he moved, driven by desperation and the ghost's relentless pursuit, the power began to shift and grow in ways he hadn't thought possible for it. Sophia's ability was supposed to be simple, just phasing through stuff. But under pressure, with his own power somehow supercharging it, it was becoming something else entirely, something his.

"How do you fight something that's only solid when it wants to be?" Greg wondered, narrowly avoiding another thrust that would have taken him in the throat. He was moving faster now, his shadow state responding to his desperate need for speed. The air seemed to flow through him differently, carrying him through turns and drops with an increasing velocity.

His power was changing, adapting to the constant movement. Where before his shadow state had been primarily about phasing through objects, now it felt more like… flying? Not quite flight, but something pretty close to it. The air itself seemed to want to carry him along, pushing him faster and faster through the tunnels.

'Take that, Sophia,' he thought with a surge of pride. 'Bet you never figured out how to do this with your power!' The ghost's attacks were becoming easier to dodge as his speed increased. Each near miss taught him something new, though he couldn't quite explain what he was learning anymore.

But that speed came at a price. Greg found himself overshooting corners, skidding through the air like a video game character on an ice level. Each movement required more concentration to control, more focus to maintain his direction. He phased through walls he meant to turn around, skidded half in and half out of other walls, barely maintaining his shadow state with deep breaths he managed in between the turning.

"Having trouble?" the ghost taunted as Greg careened through another wall, nearly losing his incorporeal form in the process. Its voice held that same ethereal quality, somehow managing to convey amusement despite its expressionless face. "It gets easier with practice. More practice than you'll get, though."

The mockery only fueled Greg's own determination. His power responded eagerly, almost hungrily, to his defiance. Each second brought new developments he couldn't quite understand but instinctively used. The shadow state felt more fluid, more responsive. He was no longer just phasing through things, he was flowing around them, through them, becoming something that existed between both solid and intangible.

'Is this what powers are supposed to feel like?' he wondered as he executed a particularly smooth phase through three consecutive walls. 'Just getting better and better until they're practically something brand new?' The ghost's pursuit was becoming less threatening and more like an impromptu training session for him.

His senses adapted too, senses he didn't even realize the shadow state had were giving him split-second warning of upcoming obstacles. He began anticipating turns before he saw them, feeling the flow of the tunnels in a way that seemed almost precognitive. The ghost's attacks, while still dangerous, became easier to both predict and avoid.

Pride swelled in his chest as he pulled off increasingly complex maneuvers. This wasn't just Sophia's power anymore, this was his own version of it, improved and enhanced by whatever his own ability was doing to it. Each new development felt like a personal victory, proof that he could take even a relatively simple power and push it to new limits.

For a brief, glorious moment, Greg felt invincible. The ghost's attacks were missing by wider margins, its pursuit struggling to keep up with his evolving movements. He was faster, more agile, more in tune with his power than ever before. The cramped sewer tunnels became his own playground as he phased and flowed through them with growing confidence.

'I could probably take on Sophia herself now,' he thought proudly as he executed another perfect phase-dodge. 'Show her what her power can really do in the right hands!' The ghost's attacks seemed almost sluggish now, its perfect precision no match for his own increasingly fluid movements.

He was winning now. Actually winning! Against a member of the Empire's elite, no less. The ghost's pursuit felt more desperate now, its attacks wider, less controlled. Greg's laughter echoed through the tunnels as he pulled off another impossible dodge, his shadow state flowing around the spectral spear like water around a stone.

"What's wrong?" he called back, drunk on his own success. "Having trouble keeping up? Guess your perfect precision isn't so perfect after all!"

His power thrummed with potential, each movement unlocking new possibilities. The ghost's frustrated attacks only proved how far he'd come in these few minutes of desperate flight. He wasn't just surviving anymore he was thriving, evolving, becoming something more than just a dumb kid with some borrowed powers.

Victory was within reach. He could feel it. Just a few more turns, a few more phases, and he'd be free. The ghost would lose him in the maze of tunnels, and he'd have one hell of a story to post on PHO later. Already, he was composing the thread in his head: "How I Turned Shadow Stalker's Power Up to Eleven and Escaped the Empire."

Greg was so caught up in his imagined triumph that he almost missed the ghost's sudden change in tactics. Almost missed the way it stopped pursuing directly and instead began to circle, herding him with careful thrusts and blocks. Almost missed the familiar white suit waiting at the end of the tunnel…

His exhilarating escape came to an abrupt, devastating halt as his lungs suddenly screamed for air. The realization hit him like a physical blow in his excitement over mastering the shadow state, he'd completely forgotten about the basic need to breathe. His quick thinking made the moment stretch out agonizingly, letting him fully appreciate the magnitude of his careless and stupid mistake. All that pride, all that confidence about mastering Sophia's power better than she ever had, and he'd failed to remember something as simple as taking a breath.

The irony was bitter and immediate. Just seconds ago, he'd been mentally composing his triumphant PHO post, imagining the admiration and respect he'd receive for evolving Shadow Stalker's power in new ways. Now his body betrayed him with its most basic needs, forcing him back to solid form in the worst possible moment for him. His lungs heaved desperately as he materialized, each gasping breath feeling like sandpaper in his throat.

Greg instinctively tried to phase again, but his power just sputtered and failed on him, still reeling from the forced transition. In that split second of total vulnerability, a flash of pristine white emerged from a side tunnel. He can't help this moment, Greg could only watch in horrified slow motion as Alabaster moved with an impossible grace, each step precise and deliberate yet blindingly fast, he couldn't move out of the way. The Empire cape's blank eyes seemed to mock him, a living reminder that all his newfound abilities meant nothing against true experience.

The perfect whiteness of Alabaster's suit stood out against the grimy tunnel walls like a spotlight, drawing Greg's attention to every detail of his imminent defeat. Each precise movement telegraphed the coming blow with mechanical perfection, yet Greg's body just refused to respond. All his earlier fluid dodges and graceful phases meant nothing now. He was just a kid playing at being a hero, caught in a trap of his own arrogance.

The punch connected before Greg could regain his shadow state, the impact precise and devastating. Every bit of Alabaster's enhanced strength transferred perfectly into Greg's jaw, sending shockwaves of pain through his skull despite his durability. Reality seemed to hiccup, the world blurring and shifting around him as Alabaster's power took effect. The disorientation was total and complete, leaving Greg utterly defenseless now.

Suddenly, Greg found himself back where he'd been moments ago, right in front of the waiting ghost. His incredible senses, usually such an advantage, now only served to make him acutely aware of every detail of his failure. The ghost's hollow eyes seemed to hold an impossible smugness as its spectral spear caught him mid-materialization, sending him spiraling into the concrete wall hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

The impact was devastating, both physically and mentally. All his earlier pride evaporated in an instant, replaced by the cold, hard reality of just how outclassed he truly was. The ghost's attack felt like judgment itself, punishing him for daring to think he could match these experienced villains after just a few weeks of having powers. His durability, which had let him shrug off so much in his previous fights, barely blunted the force of the blow to the chest.

Concrete cracked behind him as he slumped against the wall, his body aching in ways his enhanced durability couldn't fully protect him against. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and each breath sent daggers of pain through his ribs. But worse than the physical pain was the crushing weight of his own hubris. He'd let himself get cocky, drunk on his power's sudden evolution, and now he was paying the price in the most humiliating way possible.

"End of the line, boy," Alabaster said, his blank eyes somehow managing to convey smug satisfaction despite their lack of features. His suit remained immaculate even in the filthy sewer, as if dirt itself refused to touch him. Even the water seemed to flow around his shoes, unwilling to mar their perfect shine.

Greg struggled to his feet, shame, and frustration burning in his chest. All that progress, all those new developments in his power, and they'd neutralized him in just seconds. His shadow state flickered uncertainly as he looked for an escape route, but the ghost had positioned itself perfectly to cut off his retreat.

"And before you get any clever ideas about running again," Alabaster's voice echoed through the tunnel with unnatural clarity, each word precisely enunciated despite the acoustics that should have distorted them. He took another step forward, his pristine white suit somehow remaining immaculate even in the filth of the sewer. His movements were unsettlingly fluid, like a CGI character that had been animated just a bit too perfectly.

'How does he do that?' Greg wondered to himself, watching as Alabaster navigated the debris-strewn floor without so much as a single misstep. 'It's like he's not even really here, just some perfect simulation of a person.'

"Krieg is waiting topside," Alabaster continued, his blank white eyes fixed unblinkingly on Greg. "One word from me, and he'll make sure you don't make it three steps without your bones turning to jelly. Though personally, I think that would be rather… messy."

The way he said "messy" made Greg's skin crawl. There was no emotion in it, no real disgust or distaste, just a clinical observation of a fact. Like a computer noting an inefficiency in its own programming.

The tunnel seemed to shrink around them, the concrete walls pressing closer with each passing moment. The distant shouts and footsteps of other Empire members searching nearby tunnels faded into background noise, leaving only the steady drip of water and Alabaster's unnaturally smooth voice. Greg's earlier confidence evaporated like morning dew, replaced by the cold realization of just how thoroughly they'd played him here.

'They herded me down here,' Greg realized, his heart pounding. 'This whole chase was just to get me exactly where they wanted me.'

"The thing about running," Alabaster mused, adjusting his already perfect tie with mechanical precision, "is that it only delays the inevitable. It's inefficient. Wasteful." His head tilted exactly 15 degrees to the side, the movement too precise to be natural. "And if there's one thing I truly despise, it's waste."

The way he moved as he spoke was hypnotic, each gesture flowing into the next with inhuman smoothness. No hesitation, no natural awkwardness or uncertainty. Just perfect, precise motion.

'It's like watching a robot trying to act human,' Greg thought, fighting down a wave of nausea. 'And failing in the most subtle, horrible way.'

"You're good, I'll give you that," Alabaster continued, his voice maintaining that same emotionless clarity. "Adaptable. Quick to learn. That little display with Shadow Stalker's power?" His perfect white lips curved into what might have been meant as a smile, but looked more like something from the uncanny valley. "Impressive. But you're still just playing at being a hero."

He took another step forward, and Greg noticed something that made his blood run cold. Alabaster's footsteps made no sound. Not a splash, not a crunch of debris. It was as if the very physics of the tunnel bent around him, refusing to acknowledge his unnatural presence.

"You see," Alabaster went on, spreading his hands in a gesture that should have been welcoming but somehow came across as deeply threatening, "the difference between playing hero and being a true force for change is understanding the natural order of things. And you, my young friend, have potential to be part of that true order."

'Don't listen to him,' Greg told himself, trying to ignore how reasonable Alabaster's words sounded despite their content. 'He's a Nazi. An actual, literal Nazi. Just because he speaks like some kind of philosophy professor doesn't make him any less evil.'

"I can see you thinking," Alabaster noted, his blank eyes somehow managing to convey amusement despite their lack of pupils or iris. "Weighing your options. Calculating angles of escape. Considering how to use your borrowed powers." His perfect head tilted to the other side, exactly 15 degrees again. "But let me save you some time: there are exactly twenty-seven Empire members in these tunnels. Krieg has mapped out the air pressure variations to detect any movement above ground. And I…" he gestured to himself with mechanical grace, "I cannot be stopped. Cannot be harmed. Cannot be delayed."

Each "cannot" fell like a hammer blow, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. Greg felt his powers respond to his quickly rising panic, hard light constructs flickering at his fingertips while shadow state rippled just beneath his skin.

"Your powers are fascinating," Alabaster continued, his voice taking on an almost lecture-like quality. "The ability to copy others' abilities, combined with that interesting hard light manipulation. So much potential, but so… unfocused. Like a knife that hasn't been properly honed." His perfect white teeth gleamed in the dim tunnel lighting.

"We could help you, focus that edge." He says with that same smile, that patronly, blank smile, like a statue carved that was, as he extends his hand, offering a handshake, offering partnership.

The offer hung in the air between them, poisonous in its seeming reasonableness. Greg felt a moment of terrible understanding of how someone might be tempted by the Empire's promises, how their facade of order and purpose might appeal to someone desperate for some direction.

'But that's all it is,' he reminded himself. 'A facade. Perfect and pristine on the outside, just like Alabaster, but deeply twisted and wrong underneath.'

His shadow state stabilized as his resolve hardened, the wild energy of his power settling into something more controlled, more focused. Hard light began to gather around his hands, not the desperate constructs from before, but something much more deliberate.

"You're right about one thing," Greg said, his voice steady despite the fear and shame still churning deep in his gut. It was something that honestly surprised him, that surprise was sweeter than victory could ever be. "I am adaptable."

The dripping water echoed in the sudden silence, marking the moments before everything exploded into action. The ghost's spear seemed to glow brighter in the darkness, while Alabaster's perfect stillness took on a predatory quality.

Greg could feel his powers responding to his determination, both the shadow state and his hard light abilities humming with potential. Even trapped, even outmaneuvered, even with his newfound abilities turned against him, he wasn't going to just let them win. Whatever happened next, he wasn't going down without a real fight.

Chapter Text

Greg's heart hammered against his ribs as he launched into action, desperation lending more speed to his movements. Hard light blazed from his hands, not in his usual precise constructs but in a wild spray that filled the tunnel with mirrors and prisms. The ghost's ethereal glow reflected and refracted, turning the dank sewer into a wild dizzying light show.

'Just like Priest Borne,' Greg thought with nearly hysterical amusement, remembering countless hours of dodge-rolling through the boss fights. 'Except I can't respawn when I die. And these guys are actual Nazis. And oh god, that ghost's spear looks really sharp.'

"Theatrics won't save you," Alabaster said, his perfect voice carrying that same mechanical smoothness that made Greg's skin crawl. The Empire cape moved with inhuman precision through the kaleidoscope of lights, each step measured down to the millimeter. His pristine white suit somehow remained immaculate even in the filthy sewer, as if reality itself refused to mar his flawless perfection. "We've already seen this trick."

The ghost's spear thrust forward with lethal intent, its spectral blade passing through Greg's hastily created barrier like it wasn't even there. Greg yelped and phased instinctively, only to realize his mistake in shadow state, he couldn't affect the ghost at all, but it could still hurt him if it connected with him. His heart nearly stopped as the ethereal weapon passed through the space where his head had been just moments ago.

"Shit shit shit," Greg muttered, rematerializing just in time to dodge another thrust. His chest burned from holding his breath in shadow state, sweat already soaking through his costume. 'Note to self: if I survive this, design some better costume ventilation.'

"Your movements are unrefined," Alabaster observed clinically, closing in with that same relentless precision. "Instinctive rather than practiced. You rely too heavily on your shadow state as a crutch."

Greg tried to prove him wrong by weaving between their attacks, but their coordination was frustratingly perfect. When he phased through walls to avoid Alabaster, the ghost simply followed him, gliding through concrete and steel with ethereal grace. When he turned solid to try hitting the ghost, Alabaster was there with those precisely aimed strikes that felt like being hit by a car.

"Stop ow critiquing fuck my technique!" Greg panted between dodges. His ribs screamed from Alabaster's latest hit. Even with his enhanced durability, those perfectly placed strikes HURT.

"Someone must," Alabaster replied, casually brushing sewer grime off his sleeve. It vanished instantly, his power erasing even that minor of an imperfection. "Your potential is wasted on such amateur tactics."

Greg created another series of hard light barriers, trying to at least limit Alabaster's movement options. The ghost passed through them like they were mist, its hollow eyes fixed on him with predatory focus. Alabaster simply worked his way around methodically, each movement a study in efficiency.

'Think, idiot, think!' Greg berated himself as he narrowly avoided another synchronized attack. 'There has to be a way out of this!' His powers felt like they were thrumming under his skin, eager to be used but frustratingly limited by his own clear inexperience.

He tried everything he could imagine. He attempted to trap Alabaster with hard light constructs while dealing with the ghost, but Alabaster's perfect timing and constant resets made him impossible to really pin down. Each time Greg thought he'd landed a solid hit, the Empire cape would simply reset to pristine condition, not a hair out of place.
"Your creativity is admirable," Alabaster noted after Greg's latest failed gambit involving a complex series of light redirections. "But ultimately futile. You lack the fundamental understanding of how to properly engage in parahuman combat."

The ghost's spear thrust forward again, forcing Greg to phase through a wall. He emerged into a parallel tunnel, lungs burning as he rematerialized. "Yeah?" he gasped out between breaths. "At least I'm not taking combat pointers from literal Nazis!"

"Such juvenile retorts," Alabaster sighed, his perfect face showing just a hint of disappointment. "This is why you need proper guidance. Structure. Discipline."
Greg's response was to grab a piece of broken pipe, desperately infusing it with his hard light to strengthen it. When the ghost attacked next, he swung at its spectral weapon. The spear passed right through his improvised defense like it wasn't even there, nearly skewering him before he could phase again.

"Did you really think that would work?" Alabaster asked, and somehow his mild amusement was worse than true mockery would have been. "You cannot affect a ghost's weapons any more than you can affect the ghost itself while incorporeal. This is basic combat knowledge."

"Well excuse me for not attending Supervillain Combat 101!" Greg snapped back, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how out of breath he was. His costume was thoroughly soaked with sweat now, and his muscles trembled from the constant exertion of switching between states so much.

'This isn't working,' he thought frantically as he phased through another wall. 'Can't hurt Alabaster permanently, can't touch the ghost while phased, can't stay solid long enough to actually fight without getting skewered...' His mind raced through options, each one seeming less viable than the last.

The ghost's hollow eyes tracked his every movement with mechanical precision, its perfect crusader armor gleaming with that unsettling ethereal light. Even its footsteps were wrong not touching the ground as it moved, passing through solid matter like it wasn't there while still posing a deadly threat to living targets.

Alabaster's movements were even worse in their own way, each step precisely measured, not a single motion wasted. His blank white eyes followed Greg with the same attention one might give to a mildly interesting insect. Everything about him radiated absolute confidence, the certainty that this was simply a matter of waiting for Greg to exhaust himself.
Wait.

Greg blinked as something finally clicked in his head. The ghost could affect him when he was solid which meant he could affect it too. He just needed enough time to land a solid hit on it, time that Alabaster wasn't giving him. But what if that was the point? What if all his attempts at clever strategies were just making things harder for him?

'All this time trying to be smart about it,' he thought, a slightly manic grin spreading under his mask. 'When maybe I just need to be stupid REALLY WELL.'

"Getting tired?" Alabaster called out as Greg phased through another wall, his perfect voice carrying that same lecturing tone. "Your technique is growing increasingly sloppy. Perhaps now you'll listen to reas-"

Greg cut him off by doing something completely straightforward and probably suicidal. He turned solid and charged straight at the ghost, roaring out a battle cry that was equal parts terror and determination. Alabaster's fist crashed into his back with mechanical precision, but Greg's enhanced durability let him power through the pain as he swung with everything he had.

The ghost's perfect crusader armor buckled under Greg's desperate punch, cracks spreading across its spectral surface like frost on a window. But it wasn't enough; the ghost was already drawing back for another lethal thrust at him.

'Well that went exactly as well as every other brilliant plan tonight,' Greg thought bitterly. 'Maybe if I hit it harder? No, that's literally what I just tried. God, I must look like such an amateur.'

"Unrefined," Alabaster commented, his pristine form gliding through the sewer muck without a single stain. "All that power, and you rely on simple naked brutality."

Greg phased through a wall as the ghost's spear nearly took his head off. 'Pretty sure "not getting stabbed" counts as refined self-defense!' He emerged coughing, the extended time in shadow state leaving him gasping. His mind raced there had to be a way out of this that didn't end with him getting skewered or captured by them. 'Sophia makes this look so easy. Though I guess she's had way more practice not getting stabbed by Nazis. That's... actually kind of a depressing thought.'

"On the contrary." Alabaster's perfect voice carried that same lecturing tone that made Greg's skin crawl. "Effectiveness without elegance is merely savagery. You could be so much more with just some proper guidance."

'Yeah, because nothing says "elegance" like hanging out in sewers trying to murder teenagers,' Greg thought as he dodged another synchronized attack. Then something clicked. 'Wait. Alabaster can only rewind inorganic objects that aren't connected to people. And the ghost...'

His mind raced through possibilities. 'His resets are predictable like clockwork. Almost like... almost like those rhythm games where you have to time everything perfectly. Except instead of hitting little arrows, I'm trying not to die. Fun.'

An idea formed, probably stupid but maybe just crazy enough to work. He needed a distraction first though. "You know what your problem is?" Greg called out, immediately cringing at how much he sounded like a bad action movie. 'God, I really need to work on my hero banter. Do they offer classes for this? PHO should have a subforum for cape one-liners or something.'

Alabaster's blank white eyes fixed on him with mechanical precision. "Do enlighten me."

'Okay, okay, you can do this Greg. Just like physics class, it's all about momentum and timing. Except if you mess up the math here, you don't just fail a test, you die horribly instead. No pressure!' Greg materialized long enough to grab a chunk of broken concrete, quickly coating it in hard light that bonded it to his costume. 'Please don't let this be as stupid as it feels.'

When Alabaster's next perfect punch connected, Greg let the momentum carry both him and his improvised anchor through the air. His enhanced durability barely took the edge off the impact of it. 'Ow ow ow why do all my plans always involve getting hit really hard?'

"Your predictability," Greg managed through gritted teeth, trying not to sound as terrified as he felt. "Everything has to be so perfect, so precise-" 'Which I'm really really hoping works in my favor here or this is going to be embarrassing AND painful.'

"Flailing about will not save you," Alabaster sighed, resetting to his pristine state with his practiced ease. "Though I suppose I should expect such amateur tactics from-"

His words cut off as Greg's plan snapped into action. The concrete chunk reversed position with Greg still firmly attached by his hard light construct. 'Physics, don't fail me now!' The sudden reversal of momentum combined with his own enhanced strength as he broke the construct's connection, turning him into a human projectile aimed straight at the ghost on the other side of Alabaster.

'Please work please work please work,' Greg thought frantically as he rocketed forward. He opened his mouth to say something cool but all that came out was a strangled "YEET!" that made him want to die from embarrassment even as he flew through the air. 'Did I seriously just yell "yeet" at a Nazi? If I survive this, I'm never telling anyone about that part of this.'

"Impossible," Alabaster breathed, showing the first crack in his perfect composure. "You couldn't have-"

Greg's fist connected with the spectral armor at precisely the right moment, all that borrowed momentum channeling through his enhanced strength. The ghost shattered like a stained-glass window struck by a cannonball, its ethereal essence dispersing into wisps of pale light that quickly faded to nothingness. 'Holy shit that actually worked! I mean, I totally meant to do that. Totally. Definitely not just randomly hoping physics would save my ass there.'

Trying to hide how much that maneuver had taken out of him, Greg turned to face Alabaster. He wanted to say something dramatic, but settled for just trying to catch his breath. His shoulder was screaming in pain, and he was pretty sure he'd just pulled something with that stunt. 'Can't let him see how much that hurt. Gotta look professional. Like a real hero. A real hero who definitely didn't just scream "yeet" in the middle of a fight.'

Alabaster studied him for a long moment, head tilted at that precise mechanical angle. "Using my own power's limitations against me. Creative. Unorthodox." His blank eyes narrowed slightly. "Though your execution remains... unrefined."

"Yeah, well," Greg wheezed, hands on his knees. "Not all of us can be perfect." He straightened up with effort, settling into what he hoped was a proper fighting stance and not just him swaying from his exhaustion. 'Don't say anything dumb, don't say anything dumb... you've filled your quota of embarrassing yourself for one fight.'

"Such potential," Alabaster sighed, brushing an imaginary speck from his immaculate sleeve. "Wasted on someone who refuses to acknowledge the natural order."

Greg wanted to make some witty retort about Nazis and natural order, but his brain was too tired to come up with anything that wouldn't sound completely lame. 'Pretty sure the natural order doesn't involve perfectly pressed suits in sewers anyway.'

Instead, he just focused on staying upright and trying to figure out how the hell he was going to deal with an opponent who could reset himself every few seconds. 'One ghost down. One perfectly annoying Nazi to go. Really hope I've got another brilliant stupid plan in me somewhere.'

The tunnel seemed to spin around him as he tried to focus on Alabaster's approaching form. The Empire cape's pristine white suit was starting to blur at the edges of Greg's vision, which was probably not a great sign for him.

'Right,' Greg thought as he settled into a shaky fighting stance. 'Time for phase two of Operation Really Bad Ideas. Let's see if I can punch REALITY hard enough next...'

"No more playing nice," Alabaster said, his mechanical voice carrying an edge Greg hadn't heard before. "No more holding back for the sake of... coordination." His blank eyes seemed to bore deep into Greg. "You've seen how I operate. Now, let me show you what happens when I don't have to worry about allies getting in the way."

Greg barely had time to brace himself before Alabaster launched forward, his perfect form moving with cold precision. A right hook came aimed at Greg's temple, a probing strike, testing at his defenses. Greg swayed back, feeling the air displacement from how close it came. Alabaster followed through with a perfectly executed combination jab, cross, uppercut, each strike flowing into the next with inhuman mechanical grace.

'He's fast,' Greg thought as he desperately blocked what he could, his enhanced durability absorbing the impacts that got through. His arms already ached from where he'd intercepted the punches. 'But not as fast as before. He's putting more power into each hit instead of just trying to overwhelm me with speed.'

Greg managed to counter with a quick jab of his own, catching Alabaster square in the jaw. A normal person's neck would have snapped from the force of Greg's enhanced strength. Alabaster's perfect head simply rocked back slightly, then his entire form flickered as he rewound himself right back to pristine condition. No bruise, no sign of impact, not even a single white hair out of place.

'Great, now I have to wait for another rewind before I know what he'll do next,' Greg thought frantically. He tried creating a hard light barrier between them, but Alabaster simply walked through it with cold confidence. The Empire cape's fist crashed into Greg's solar plexus with surgical precision, driving the air from his lungs despite all of his durability.
Greg phased through a wall on instinct, trying to create some distance. Big mistake. He emerged a ways down the hall, ready to try and throw a light construct. Only to find that Alabaster was there, kicking him towards the area he entered the wall, before rewinding to catch him on the backswing. A devastating knee strike caught Greg in the ribs before he could phase again. The impact lifted him off his feet, enhanced durability barely keeping his bones intact from just that combo alone.

"Predictable," Alabaster commented as Greg stumbled back. "You default to your shadow state whenever pressured. A useful ability, but..." He deliberately left himself open, inviting a counter-attack. Greg took the bait, throwing a hard right cross enhanced by his supernatural strength. The blow connected solidly with Alabaster's perfect face.

But instead of rewinding himself back to pristine condition as Greg expected, Alabaster had rewound a section of the tunnel ceiling. Chunks of concrete and rebar rained down, forcing Greg to phase again or be crushed under it. The moment he rematerialized, Alabaster's fist was there waiting. Another precisely aimed strike to the liver that had Greg doubling over in pain.

'He's not even using combinations anymore,' Greg realized through the haze of pain. 'Just single, perfectly placed hits right where they'll do the most damage.' His ribs screamed in protest as he tried to straighten up. 'And he knows exactly how much force to use against my durability, just enough to hurt without quite breaking anything.'

"You see," Alabaster continued, his mechanical voice never showing strain, "when I don't have to worry about allies, I can focus entirely on my personal efficiency." He demonstrated by launching another brutally precise attack. Greg managed to block the initial strike, but Alabaster had already rewound his position. The follow-up blow came from an impossible angle, catching Greg in the kidney.

Greg's counter-attack was born of desperation, a wild haymaker empowered by his enhanced strength. But Alabaster simply took the hit, his perfect form absorbing the impact. Then instead of resetting himself as Greg expected, he chose to rewind the tunnel floor beneath them. Greg's foot suddenly found empty air where solid ground had been, throwing off his balance completely.

The follow-up was devastating. As Greg stumbled, Alabaster's elbow crashed into his temple with mechanical precision. Stars exploded across his vision as his enhanced durability was pushed to its very limits. He tried to phase away again, but his concentration was shot from the impact. The shadow state flickered and failed on him.

"Amateur," Alabaster commented, pressing his advantage with cold calculation. "Relying on the same tricks, falling into predictable patterns." Another rewind came, but this time Alabaster had reset a nearby pipe in the wall. Pressurized sewage burst forth, forcing Greg to dodge right directly into a waiting knee strike that drove what little air remained from his lungs.

Greg created more hard light barriers, trying desperately to control the battlefield. One there, another there, a third overhead trying to limit Alabaster's movement options. The Empire cape simply continued his relentless advance, each step measured with inhuman precision. When Greg thought he had him boxed in, Alabaster rewound his position again, appearing inside of Greg's defenses.

The punch that followed was something out of a martial arts manual, perfect form, perfect angle, perfect power. It caught Greg right in the solar plexus again, somehow finding the exact same spot he'd hit before. Greg's enhanced durability meant the blow didn't rupture anything, but the pain still doubled him over yet again.

'Can't keep taking hits like this,' Greg thought desperately as he tried to recover. 'He's not trying to knock me out, he's systematically wearing down my durability one precise strike at a time.' His whole torso felt like one giant bruise, each breath sending spikes of pain through his ribs.

Alabaster pressed forward with mechanical inevitability. When Greg tried to create distance, another rewind would put the Empire cape right where he needed to be. When Greg attempted to counter-attack, Alabaster would either reset himself or manipulate the environment to punish any aggression. Each reset was chosen with cold calculation, systematically dismantling Greg's defenses.

"See, that's the difference experience makes," Alabaster continued, his perfect voice cutting through the chaos of combat. "You think you're being clever, trying to track my rewinds. But you're still thinking like an amateur." He proved his point by taking another solid hit from Greg but when the next rewind came, he chose to collapse another section of the tunnel instead of healing himself.

The impact knocked Greg off-balance again, and Alabaster's follow-up was devastating. A perfectly aimed elbow caught him right where the neck met the shoulder, sending lightning bolts of pain down his arm. His enhanced durability kept the collarbone from shattering, but the limb still went numb on him.

'He's picking his rewinds based on maximum impact now,' Greg realized as he desperately tried to maintain distance. 'Not just physically, he's trying to break my concentration, make me doubt every move.' Each reset brought a new threat, each choice calculated to keep Greg off-balance both mentally and physically.

The tunnel had become a nightmare of shifting architecture as Alabaster continued his calculated assault. A wall would suddenly rewind when Greg tried to use it for cover. The floor would change configuration mid-step. Every piece of debris became a potential weapon, as Alabaster demonstrated just how much practice he had at weaponizing his environment regardless of what it was.

Greg's shadow state was becoming harder to maintain as exhaustion and pain took their toll. Each phase drained more energy, each transition between solid and incorporeal requiring more concentration. His hard light constructs flickered weakly, the barriers becoming more transparent with each passing moment.

Alabaster pressed his advantage with cold efficiency. A punch would land with surgical precision, targeting already bruised areas. Before Greg could properly recover, another rewind would create a new threat: shifted terrain, falling debris, or Alabaster himself appearing at the perfect angle for another strike.

The fight devolved into a brutal lesson in the difference between power and experience. Greg's enhanced strength and durability counted for little against an opponent who had mastered the art of precision strikes. His shadow state became almost a liability for him, as Alabaster deliberately baited him into using it, then punished him when he rematerialized.

In this nightmarish dance of calculated rewinds, two figures continued their deadly combat, one pristine and perfect, choosing each reset with cold precision, the other rapidly running out of options as his own powers were systematically turned against him. The sewer tunnel echoed with the sounds of combat, each impact marking another step in Greg's methodical dismantling at the hands of an opponent who had turned his very limitations into oppressive strengths.

As Greg staggered back from another brutally precise strike, something clicked in his exhausted mind. His hard light wasn't just for making barriers or simple weapons, it was pure energy he could shape however he wanted. And right now, he wanted to survive.

"Getting tired?" Alabaster asked, his perfect voice carrying that mechanical certainty. "Your form is deteriorating. Perhaps now you'll see reason-"

Greg cut him off by creating a burst of hard light constructs, not solid barriers this time, but paper-thin sheets that shattered on impact, filling the air with a cloud of luminescent fragments. Each shard caught and amplified the dim tunnel lighting, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope effect.

'Can't blind him if he just resets,' Greg thought frantically, 'but maybe I can mess with his depth perception!'

The strategy seemed to work, at least briefly. Alabaster's next punch came slightly off-target, missing Greg's liver by millimeters. The Empire cape's blank eyes narrowed slightly the first sign of annoyance he'd shown this whole time.

"Interesting adaptation," Alabaster noted, resetting himself to pristine condition. "Though ultimately futile."

But Greg was already moving, creating more constructs as he went. Not just light fragments now, but curved surfaces that reflected and refracted in unpredictable ways. The sewer tunnel became a fun-house mirror maze of shifting illumination.

'He fights like a machine,' Greg realized as he narrowly avoided another precise combination. 'Perfect form, perfect timing... but maybe that's a weakness too?'

His next series of constructs came faster, more instinctive. Overlapping planes of hard light that created false edges and misleading depths. When Alabaster struck, Greg let the constructs shatter, using the cascade of fragments to mask his own movements whenever he could.

"Your creativity is admirable," Alabaster commented, though there was an edge to his mechanical voice now. "But you're still thinking like an amateur." He demonstrated by rewinding a section of tunnel ceiling, sending debris raining down onto him.

Greg phased through the falling concrete, but instead of emerging somewhere else, he created a dense network of hard light strings as he passed through the debris. When he rematerialized, he pulled the construct tight, turning the chunks of concrete into improvised projectiles.

Alabaster simply reset himself out of the way, but Greg had anticipated that. More constructs were already forming, not to hit Alabaster directly, but to limit where he could reset to without walking into a face full of shattered hard light fragments.

"Better," Alabaster acknowledged, methodically working his way through Greg's web of constructs. "But still unrefined. Your technique lacks-"

His critique cut off as one of Greg's fragments caught the tunnel lighting at just the right angle, creating a momentary flash that disrupted Alabaster's perfect rhythm. The Empire cape's next strike came a fraction of a second too late, allowing Greg to counter with a solid hit to the jaw.

That's when Greg noticed something crucial Alabaster immediately rewound a section of wall instead of himself, but the bruise from Greg's punch was still visible on his perfect white face. The realization hit harder than any of Alabaster's strikes: when the Empire cape rewound the environment or his position, the damage stayed with him until he specifically reset his own body instead of anything else.

Of course, Alabaster reset himself to pristine condition a moment later. But Greg had learned he wasn't trying to just hurt Alabaster anymore. Each exchange became a calculated effort to force choices: would Alabaster reset himself to heal, or rewind something else to maintain tactical advantage? The damage might not last long, but those split-second windows of vulnerability were chances Greg couldn't afford to waste.

The battle shifted into something stranger, more abstract. Greg's constructs became increasingly complex, turning the tunnel into a crystalline labyrinth of refracted light and false perspectives. Alabaster's devastating combinations were met with cascading waves of shattering fragments, each one carefully calculated to disrupt his rhythm and force difficult decisions about what to reset and when.

The rhythm of battle shifted as Greg felt something change in his hard light ability. The familiar process of gathering light still worked the same way, but now he found he could collect it faster, more efficiently. Where before he'd needed to really focus to pull in ambient light, now it came more naturally, responding to his movements with a newfound ease.

'This is different,' Greg realized as he wove between Alabaster's attacks. 'Not completely different, but... smoother? Like when you finally figure out the timing in a video game and everything just clicks.' Each gesture gathered light more quickly than before, letting him create constructs with less setup time. His heart raced with excitement, even as his bruised ribs protested each and every movement.

"Your desperation grows tedious," Alabaster commented, his perfect face showing no reaction to Greg's improving technique. "These light shows may be elaborate, but they change nothing." His mechanical precision remained unchanged as he pressed forward with another devastatingly accurate combination jab, cross, uppercut, each strike flowing into the next with inhuman grace.

Greg managed to get a hard light barrier up just in time to deflect the jab, though the follow-up cross still caught him in the shoulder. But where before he would have needed precious extra seconds to gather enough light for another construct, now he found himself able to form a second barrier almost immediately. The uppercut crashed into it instead of his jaw this time.

'Okay, that's definitely faster,' he thought as he countered with a quick combination of his own. Create barrier, push off it for momentum, gather light during the spin, release the construct at the apex of movement. The sequence flowed more naturally than ever before, though Alabaster still easily evaded the attack by resetting his position.

"You're not paying attention," Alabaster chided as he appeared behind Greg, launching another precise strike at his kidney. "Still thinking like an amateur, letting yourself get distracted by-"

But Greg was already moving, his improved gathering speed letting him create a series of small stepping stones in the air. He bounded off them, each construct forming just as he needed it, carrying him away from Alabaster's attack. 'Not completely different moves,' he noted as he landed. 'Just... better execution. Like my power finally figured out what I'm trying to do with it.'

Alabaster pressed his advantage, each step measured and perfect as he closed the distance. His fists became a blur of mechanical precision, targeting every weakness in Greg's guard. But Greg found himself able to keep up better now, his constructs forming just fast enough to deflect the worst of the assault from finding their intended marks.

"Your theatrics merely delay the inevitable," Alabaster stated as he reset himself back to pristine condition, erasing a lucky hit Greg had landed. His blank eyes showed no recognition of how the dynamic had shifted. "Though I suppose I should expect such-"

Greg cut him off with a new combination hard light shield to block the expected counter-attack, followed by a quick platform to change elevation, then a barrage of small constructs to control space. None of the techniques were new, but the improved speed of formation made them far more effective in actual combat.

"You talk too much," Greg panted out, though internally he was jubilant. 'This is like when you finally get good enough at a fighting game to start pulling off actual combos instead of just button mashing!' The thought almost made him laugh, despite his bruised ribs and aching muscles.

Alabaster's response was another devastatingly precise assault. Left hook that Greg barely deflected with a hasty construct. Right straight that caught him in the shoulder when he was a fraction too slow. Knee strike that he managed to avoid by creating a quick platform to push off of. Each exchange was still dangerous, but it was no longer completely one-sided.

"Your resistance grows tiresome," Alabaster noted as he reset himself again, mechanically healing yet another bruise from where Greg's improved timing had let him land a solid counter. "These elaborate distractions serve no purpose beyond prolonging your defeat."

But Greg noticed something crucial, Alabaster was resetting himself more frequently now. 'He has to,' Greg realized as he created another series of constructs to control the space between them. 'Because I'm actually landing hits more often. Not because I'm stronger or faster, just... more efficient.'

The battle transformed into something almost like a dance, though neither participant would ever admit it. Alabaster's perfect strikes met increasingly coordinated defense. Greg's constructs, while still not fundamentally different, came fast enough to matter in actual combat. The sewer tunnel filled with the sounds of combat, the impact of fists against hard light barriers, the rush of movement, the occasional grunt of pain when a strike got through on either side.

Greg's mind raced as he fought, analyzing each exchange with newfound clarity. 'He's still stronger, still more experienced. But he's fighting like I'm the same opponent from five minutes ago. Not adapting to the small improvements.' It wasn't much of an advantage, but in a fight this intense, even tiny edges mattered.

Alabaster launched another picture-perfect combination, each strike aimed to systematically dismantle Greg's defenses. But where before such an assault would have inevitably broken through, now Greg found himself able to match the rhythm of it. Hard light barrier to absorb the first hit. Quick platform to change elevation during the second. Small construct to deflect the third.

"Your form remains unrefined," Alabaster commented as he reset his position, appearing behind Greg. "Though I suppose I should commend your persistence in-"

Greg cut him off again, this time with a move he couldn't have pulled off five minutes ago. Gather light during the spin to face Alabaster, form it into a quick barrier, then immediately gather more light from the barrier's reflection to create a second construct. The one-two combination caught Alabaster by surprise, actually forcing him to take a step back from him.

'Still not enough to really hurt him,' Greg thought as Alabaster simply reset himself back to pristine condition. 'But making him reset defensively instead of offensively... that's new.' His improved efficiency meant each exchange cost him less energy, letting him maintain pressure he couldn't have sustained before.

The fight continued, transforming from a one-sided beatdown into something more complex. Alabaster's mechanical precision met increasingly coordinated defense. Greg's constructs, while still not fundamentally different, came just fast enough to matter now. Each reset, each perfect combination, each precisely aimed strike now had to account for defenses that formed just a little bit faster than expected.

"Your technique is still amateur," Alabaster noted after another exchange left him actually having to reset himself rather than simply continuing his assault like before. "But perhaps..." He trailed off as Greg's next construct formed faster than he'd anticipated, forcing another defensive reset.

Greg didn't waste energy responding, too focused on maintaining this new rhythm he'd found. Gather light, shape construct, gather reflection, shape next construct. The sequence flowed more naturally now, letting him actually pressure Alabaster instead of just desperately defending.

The battle had become something neither combatant had expected. Alabaster's perfect resets and precise strikes still controlled much of the fight, but they no longer guaranteed his dominance. Greg's hard light constructs, while not dramatically different, came just fast enough to matter in actual combat. Each exchange became less about overwhelming force and more about the subtle timing of resets and counters.

'He still doesn't see it,' Greg realized as he continued fighting. 'Doesn't understand that small improvements can add up to real changes. Every reset, every precise movement, he's fighting the opponent I was five minutes ago, not accounting for even tiny evolutions.'

The sewer tunnel had become their arena, the dim lighting more than enough for Greg's improved gathering speed to work with. Each exchange left afterimages in the stale air the blur of Alabaster's perfect movements, the crystalline shimmer of hard light constructs forming just fast enough to matter. Neither combatant was willing to acknowledge how the dynamic had shifted, but the evidence was there in every reset, every construct, every precisely aimed strike that met with unexpected resistance.

And through it all, Greg felt something he hadn't expected, not just improvement, but understanding. Each construct taught him something new about his power, each exchange showed him better ways to gather and shape light. Nothing dramatic, nothing game-changing, but the small improvements added up to something significant. In the dance of reset and counter, perfect precision versus growing efficiency, he found himself actually learning now rather than just surviving.

The battle continued, its rhythm subtly but meaningfully changed. Where before Greg had been purely defensive, now he found himself able to actually pressure Alabaster in return. Each exchange became less one-sided as that small, but crucial, improvement in efficiency let him match mechanical perfection with increasingly coordinated resistance. Neither fighter had transformed dramatically, but the accumulation of small changes had shifted the dynamic in ways only the two of them would likely be able to recognize.

Greg's mind raced as he dodged another of Alabaster's perfect combinations. A quick barrier caught most of the impact, but his mind wasn't on the defense; his thoughts were spinning through possibilities, desperate for something that could turn this fight around.

'Wait,' he thought as a construct shattered, the fragments catching light in a strange way before disappearing. 'Maybe I could use the fragments themselves? Like that thing with the mirrors earlier, but more...' He tried gathering the shards before they faded, attempting to form them into a swirling cloud of razor-sharp light. But the pieces dissipated too quickly, refusing to hold their form long enough to be useful.

"Your technique grows erratic," Alabaster noted, his perfect fist finding Greg's ribs again. "Though I suppose desperation often leads to... experimentation."

Another perfect strike forced him to abandon that idea. His next thought came as he phased through a wall to avoid a follow-up hit. 'The shadow state interacts weirdly with light. Maybe I could combine them somehow?'

But when he tried gathering light while partially phased, the energies rejected each other violently, nearly making him lose his concentration entirely. The backlash sent him stumbling, barely managing to phase through Alabaster's follow-up strike.

"Attempting to combine incompatible states?" Alabaster's mechanical voice carried a hint of what might have been amusement. "An interesting theory, if fundamentally flawed. Perhaps you should focus on mastering one technique before attempting such... ambitious combinations."

Greg grit his teeth, frustration mounting as another attempt failed. 'Okay, bad idea. Really bad idea. Note to self: light and shadow states don't play nice together.' His head was spinning from the feedback, making it even harder to dodge Alabaster's relentless assault.

Then something about the way the light bent around his constructs caught his attention. Not the solid barriers he usually made, but the raw energy itself before he hardened it. The way it flowed like liquid for that split second before he forced it to take shape...

'What if,' he thought frantically as he created another quick barrier to block a strike, 'I just... don't make it solid?'

The first attempt failed spectacularly, the light scattered the moment he tried to hold it in its raw state, like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands. 'Come on, come on, there has to be a way!' The energy slipped through his mental grasp, dissipating into the air before he could properly contain it.

"Your concentration wavers," Alabaster observed, landing another precisely aimed strike. "Each failed experiment leaves you more vulnerable. Is this really the best time for power testing?"

The second try lasted barely a second longer. Greg managed to get the light to pool briefly in his palm before it winked out like a candle in a strong wind. 'Almost had it that time! It's like... like trying to hold water without a cup. Maybe if I...'

"These distractions will be your undoing," Alabaster lectured as he pressed his advantage. His perfect combinations forced Greg to focus more on defense, each failed attempt at his new technique leaving openings for devastating counters. "Though I must admire your commitment to learning, even in such... inappropriate circumstances."

Greg's ribs screamed as another hit landed, his enhanced durability barely keeping them intact. 'Shut up shut up SHUT UP! I almost had it that time!' Each failure cost him, Alabaster's relentless assault punishing every moment of lost concentration. But something was happening with each attempt, the light stayed coherent a fraction of a second longer, responding a tiny bit better to his will.

The third try dispersed almost immediately, but Greg felt how the energy wanted to move. The fourth attempt actually managed to form a small globe of liquid light before falling apart. By the fifth, he was starting to understand what he'd been doing wrong trying to force the light to stay, instead of letting it just flow naturally.

"Your persistence is admirable," Alabaster noted, resetting himself after landing a particularly solid combination. "If misguided. These fumbling attempts at innovation would be better suited for training, rather than combat."

The sixth attempt was closer; the light actually stayed in a liquid state for almost two seconds before dissolving. Greg felt how it wanted to move, like trying to cup water in his hands but made of pure luminescence. 'It's not about holding it,' he realized as he narrowly avoided another of Alabaster's perfect strikes. 'It's about letting it flow where it wants to go!'

"Still distracted by your little experiments?" Alabaster's mechanical voice carried that same lecturing tone as his fist found Greg's already bruised ribs again. "Though I suppose I should commend your dedication to improvement, even if your timing is... questionable."

The seventh try was the real breakthrough. Instead of trying to force the light to stay in one place, Greg let it flow around his hands like a liquid. The energy swirled and pulsed, wanting to either dissipate or solidify, but responding to his gentle guidance rather than rigid control.

"Interesting approach," Alabaster commented, his perfect face showing the first hint of genuine curiosity. "Attempting to maintain energy in its raw state? Unorthodox, though I fail to see the tactical advantage. Perhaps if you focused on reinforcing your strikes instead..."

'That's it!' Greg's heart raced as he finally understood. Each movement of his hands left trails of liquid light in the air, flowing and shifting like underwater currents. 'It wants to move, I just need to give it somewhere to go!' He began gathering more energy and this time he started to store the liquid light around his hands, flowing in a loose vaguely yellowish blue pool around the fist, pulling it from the ambient light from around them.

The liquid light continued to pool around his hands, but Greg noticed his existing barriers starting to dissolve, breaking apart into shimmering flakes that drifted toward his growing collection of energy. The crystalline fragments that had filled the tunnel began to fade and disperse, drawn inexorably into the pair of swirling vortexes around his fists.
"Ah," Alabaster observed, his mechanical voice carrying a note of analytical interest. "Your power has limits; you can only maintain so much light at once. The existing constructs break down to fuel new ones. An inefficient system, but one that makes a certain logical sense."

The Empire cape's perfect face showed no emotion as he watched Greg's elaborate network of barriers and mirrors crumble into glowing dust. "Though I wonder if you realize what you've sacrificed, all that carefully constructed battlefield control, dissolving to power whatever desperate gambit you're attempting now."

The observation stung because it was true, Greg's hard-won defensive setup was literally falling apart as he gathered more power. But he forced himself to stay focused on containing the growing pool of liquid light, even as his last remaining barriers flaked away into nothingness.

To add to that, the effort was immense. Sweat poured down his face under his mask as he maintained the delicate balance needed to keep the light in its liquid state. His barriers started to flicker and fade as he drew their energy into the growing pool of luminescence around his hands.

"Your technique grows sloppier by the moment," Alabaster noted, exploiting every opening Greg's divided attention created. "Though this light show is impressive, you're leaving yourself vulnerable to even basic attacks. Perhaps we should review the fundamentals of combat before attempting such... elaborate innovations."

But Greg barely heard him, too focused on gathering more light. The tunnel began to dim as he pulled in energy from every source he could reach. Even his earlier fragments dissolved, drawn into the swirling vortex of power he was building. His arms trembled with the effort of containing so much raw energy, fighting against its constant attempts to either scatter or solidify.

'Just a little more,' he thought desperately as another of Alabaster's strikes slipped through his weakened defense. 'Need enough to make this count!' The liquid light pulsed and writhed around his hands, growing brighter and more unstable with each passing second. Every instinct screamed at him to either release it or form it into solid constructs, but he forced himself to maintain that precarious middle state for just a little longer.

"If you're attempting to gather enough power for some dramatic final attack," Alabaster said as he methodically closed the distance, "I should remind you that I can simply reset myself to avoid it. Though the scale of energy you're attempting to control shows ambition, if misguided. Your form deteriorates with each passing second, leaving obvious vulnerabilities that any experienced combatant would exploit."

The critique struck Greg as surreal, even as he struggled to maintain his concentration on the swirling energy. Here was a literal Nazi trying to kill him, yet he kept offering combat advice like some twisted martial arts instructor. Each devastating strike came with a lesson attached, every reset accompanied by calm analysis of Greg's own mistakes.

'Why does he care?' Greg wondered as another precise hit slipped through his weakening defense. 'Is this some kind of weird Empire recruitment technique? Beat someone half to death while teaching them proper form?' The thought was almost funny, in a horrifying sort of way. 'Or maybe he just really likes hearing himself talk.'

"Your stance has improved marginally since we began," Alabaster continued, landing another brutally precise combination that sent Greg staggering. "Though your tendency to telegraph your intentions remains problematic. Consider how much more effective your attacks would be with proper guidance and discipline."

Greg forced the questions from his mind whether Alabaster's constant instruction came from genuine interest in "improving" him or just a compulsive need to demonstrate his superiority didn't matter right now. All that mattered was gathering enough power to make his next move count. Still, he couldn't help wondering if this was how all Empire recruitment went, brutalizing someone while critiquing their technique, as if the violence was just another teaching moment.

A full two minutes had passed, an eternity in close combat. Greg's arms trembled from the effort of containing so much raw energy. The liquid light writhed and pulsed, trying to either dissipate or solidify. Holding it in this in-between state took everything he had in him.

Finally, Greg brought his hands together, the swirling vortex of liquid light coalescing between his palms. The energy pulsed and writhed, trying to either scatter or solidify, but he held it in that precarious middle state through sheer force of will. Sweat poured down his face beneath his mask from the effort of containing so much raw power.

Alabaster's blank white eyes tracked the movement with mechanical precision, his pristine form already beginning to shift into position for a reset. Every detail of his perfect suit remained immaculate even in the filthy sewer, a stark contrast to Greg's battered and grimy costume.

"Predictable," Alabaster sighed, his mechanical voice carrying that same lecturing tone that made Greg's skin crawl to just hear. "Though I suppose I should expect-"

'You want predictable?' Greg thought fiercely. 'Let's see you predict THIS!'

The Empire cape's reset, which would have perfectly avoided the explosive burst of energy he had anticipated, instead placed him directly in the path of Greg's actual attack. In that split second before impact, Greg saw something he never expected uncertainty in those blank eyes, as if Alabaster's perfect mechanical mind was rapidly recalculating its baseline assumptions.

But instead of the devastating explosion of light Alabaster had positioned himself to avoid, Greg channeled all that gathered energy into a single point. The liquid light condensed and hardened with crystalline precision, forming a spear of pure luminescence that punched through Alabaster's pristine white suit. The hardened shaft drove deep into the Empire cape's lung with surgical accuracy, the perfect point of impact Greg had visualized during those long seconds of gathering power.

For the first time since their battle began, Alabaster's perfect face showed real emotion, shock as the spear pierced his immaculate form, confusion as his power failed to immediately reset the damage, and something that looked almost like respect as he realized how thoroughly Greg had outmaneuvered him. Blood bloomed across his white suit like roses on fresh snow, marring his pristine appearance for the first time in their fight.

He tried to reset himself, attempting to heal the wound, but instead he found neither him nor the blade was moved. He showed surprise at this, although Greg had no frame of reference as to why. Another reset attempted to break the construct itself, but Greg had poured too much gathered power into it, all that carefully contained energy crystallized into something that even Alabaster's reality-warping abilities couldn't easily dismiss like all the past ones.

"Huh," Greg heard himself say, his voice shaky with exhaustion and adrenaline. "Guess you were right about me being unpredictable."

The construct thrummed with power between them, casting strange shadows on the tunnel walls as Alabaster's blood dripped steadily onto the filthy sewer floor. The perfect white of his suit was ruined now, stained with spreading crimson that no amount of resetting seemed able to fully erase. For the first time, the Empire cape looked almost... human.

"Clever," Alabaster managed, blood staining his perfect white suit for the first time in their fight. "Using my own... predictability... against me." His next reset failed to dislodge the spear. "Though, I must ask... what's your next move? You don't... seem the type... to finish this properly."

Greg's stomach churned as he realized the truth in Alabaster's words. His spear of hardened light still protruded from the Empire cape's chest, blood staining that pristine white suit, yet somehow Alabaster maintained his mechanical composure. Even wounded, even failing to reset properly, he was still breaking down Greg's moves, still pointing out his fundamental weakness.

The worst part was that he wasn't wrong either.

'He's a Nazi,' Greg reminded himself desperately. 'An actual, literal Nazi who was just trying to kidnap me. Who probably would have forced me to join their racist murder club or something.' But the thought felt hollow against the reality before him. Throughout their entire fight, even while systematically dismantling Greg's defenses, Alabaster had been like some kind of messed-up tutorial boss, the kind that beats you down while teaching you the game mechanics.

Every strike had come with commentary. Every reset had demonstrated some principle of cape combat that Greg couldn't help but internalize. Even now, bleeding and impaled, he was giving Greg one final achievement unlock, about the harsh realities of cape fights. The sewer tunnel seemed to spin around them as Greg wrestled with the bizarre truth he had gained more experience points in this one single battle than in all his previous grinding sessions combined.

'What does it say about me,' Greg wondered, his hands trembling slightly, 'that my best power-leveling session came from someone who literally thinks some people aren't human?' The thought made him want to throw up.

Here was someone who had shown him more about actually being a cape than any amount of solo farming would have, who had pushed him to discover new skill trees he never would have found alone... and he was everything Greg was supposed to stand against.

The blood dripping steadily onto the filthy sewer floor seemed to mark the seconds as Greg struggled with his choices. He could end it here. One more surge of power through the spear, one moment of genuine killing intent, and even Alabaster's resets wouldn't be able to save him. It would be justified, he was a villain, a Nazi, someone who hurt people for their race or religion. In any game, this would be the moment where you finish off the boss.

But Greg knew he couldn't do it. Not like this. Not to someone who, despite everything, had treated him more like a weirdly dedicated PvP mentor than an enemy. The realization felt like acid in his throat, was he letting his own need to 'git gud' override what he knew was right?

"That's what I thought," Alabaster said, his mechanical voice wet with blood but still carrying that same tutorial tone that had narrated Greg's progression through their entire fight. "Still an amateur... when it counts."

The words hit harder than any critical strike. Because again, he wasn't wrong. Greg was still a noob, still learning the basic mechanics, still desperate enough for power-leveling tips that he'd take them even from someone like this. The shame of that realization burned worse than any status effect.

'But maybe,' Greg thought as he gathered what energy he had left, preparing to run, 'that's the real hidden achievement here. That sometimes the hardest part of being a hero isn't winning the boss fight, it's deciding what to do after.' Alabaster's blank eyes tracked his movement, and Greg saw understanding in their empty depths. The Empire cape recognized this moment for what it was, not just a tactical choice, but a moral one.

"We'll meet again," Alabaster promised as he began another reset, his perfect voice carrying absolute certainty despite the blood staining his words. "And next time... no more tutorials."

Greg felt those words settle into his bones as he prepared to flee. They weren't just a threat, they were a notification that he'd completed the tutorial section. A recognition that their roles had shifted from grinding partner to final boss. The next time they met, there would be no tips, no explanations, just the raw PvP combat between two opposed players.

As he turned to run, Greg couldn't help wondering if that was Alabaster's final achievement unlock that sometimes getting stronger meant leaving behind your favorite farming spot, no matter how efficient it had been. The thought followed him as he fled into the darkness, along with the lingering shame of knowing that somewhere in this city, a Nazi had helped him level up his hero skills.

Greg gathered what remained of his strength, focusing on his newly evolved shadow state. The power thrummed beneath his skin, eager to be used in ways he was only beginning to understand. With a deep breath, he launched himself upward through layers of concrete and earth, moving faster than he'd ever dared to before.

The crushing weight of Krieg's power field loomed above him, an invisible wall of force that had thoroughly dominated their earlier encounter. But as Greg rocketed upward at his newfound speed, he managed to slip past just ahead of the effect's expansion either he'd moved fast enough to outrun it, or Krieg hadn't been able to adjust his power's range quickly enough to catch him with it. Greg had a split second to marvel at his narrow escape before he burst into open air, the night sky stretching above him.

For a moment, suspended at the absolute pinnacle of his ascent, Greg existed between worlds. Brockton Bay unfurled beneath him like a tapestry woven from light and shadow, each building a thread in an urban constellation. The city breathed beneath him a living, trembling thing of concrete and glass, of hope and decay.

His shadow state transformed the world into something both familiar and alien. Perception shifted radically, colors became sound, sounds became texture. The ambient light of streetlamps and windows didn't just illuminate; they sang a silent symphony of photons and possibility. Blues hummed with cool precision, amber tones whispered like warm breath, the white-hot sodium lights of industrial zones screamed with electric intensity.

Gravity became a suggestion rather than a law. Where a normal body would plummet, Greg's shadow form danced with atmospheric currents invisible to ordinary eyes. Each air current was a living thing, some thick and languid like honey, others sharp and quick as a razor's edge. He could taste them, feel them, map their intricate pathways with a sensitivity that transcended any physical sensation.

The city's skin revealed itself in layers. Closest were the windows, each a miniature universe. Some blazed with television light, others showed silent domestic dramas: a family eating dinner, an elderly person reading, a couple arguing.

Further out, the architectural bones emerged art deco facades wearing decades of grime, brutalist concrete structures squatting like industrial dinosaurs, glass towers reflecting a fractured sky.
Midway through his descent, Greg briefly solidified just long enough to kick off a building's wall. The moment of contact was a symphony of sensation, the rough texture of weathered brick, the microscopic vibrations of the structure, the momentary resistance before his enhanced strength transformed potential energy into violent motion. He shot sideways like a living projectile, a streak of potential barely contained by human form.

Back in shadow state, he threaded between buildings with a grace that felt almost like flight, but wasn't quite. More like falling with style, like being a living current of darkness that just happened to move through a three-dimensional space. Streetlights blurred into light streams, buildings became living corridors that parted before him.

The beauty was terrible. The horror was magnificent.

Brockton Bay wasn't just a city from up here, it was an organism. Veins of streets pulsed with traffic, buildings breathed with internal light, shadows moved with their own dark intelligence. And Greg was something between, not quite part of the city, not quite separate from it. A ghost. A possibility. A moment of transition.

His shadow state caught every nuance of the warmth of a pizza shop's exhaust, the cold electric buzz of a transformer station, the organic pulse of human movement below. Each sensation was a story, each current a whispered secret about the living city beneath him.

Somewhere between buildings, between moments, between states of being, Greg realized something profound: this wasn't just movement. This was transformation. This was becoming something new.

The city's windows became a kaleidoscope of human life, bright squares of warmth punctuating the urban darkness. Amber kitchen lights, blue-white television glows, the occasional flash of movement behind curtains. Each window was a story, a moment frozen in time as Greg rocketed past, his shadow state blurring the boundaries between both solid and ethereal.

Halfway down, he deliberately destabilized his shadow form. The moment of transition was like breaking through a membrane of reality suddenly tactile, suddenly solid. His foot connected with the brick wall of an office building, and the impact sang through his body. Not just a physical sensation, but a moment of pure physics potential energy transforming, momentum redirecting with a surgical precision.

'Did I just DO that?' The thought burst through his mind as he shot sideways, a living projectile defying gravity's usual rules. The building's surface blurred beneath him, decades of grime and accumulated urban history passing in a microsecond.

Back in shadow state, movement became something transcendent. He wasn't just moving through the city he was becoming the city. Banking around corners with a grace that felt almost sentient, threading between buildings like a living current of darkness. His power responded to his desperation, each movement more fluid than the last. Streetlights became motion trails, buildings compressed into living corridors that bent around his trajectory.

'They can't follow me,' he realized with a surge of something between terror and exhilaration. Behind him, the Empire's pursuit was reduced to distant engine sounds, frustrated mechanical growls that couldn't match his impossible route. Each turn, each phase, was a middle finger to their perfectly planned pursuit.
'I'm actually doing this. I'm actually ESCAPING.'

The familiar streets of his neighborhood emerged from the urban blur. Landmarks he'd known his entire life now became waypoints in his impossible journey, the corner store where he bought snacks, the fire hydrant where neighborhood dogs all always stopped, the ancient oak tree that had watched generations of Brockton Bay kids grow up.
His shadow state began to falter. Not a clean dissolution, but a ragged flickering like an old film running out of projector frames. Exhaustion clawed at him, each moment of phasing requiring more concentration, more energy. The city's ambient light seemed to drag at him, gravity reasserting its fundamental claim on him.

'Just a little further,' he promised himself. 'Just make it home.'

The final approach was a study in desperation. His bedroom wall approached not as a solid barrier, but as a momentary suggestion of matter. He phased through, the molecular boundaries parting like water, his shadow form momentarily interpenetrating brick and plaster and wood.

Then solidity. Carpet. Gravity.

Greg collapsed, transforming from living impossibility to broken teenager in a single moment. Hands and knees hit the carpet, the familiar weave of his bedroom floor suddenly the most real thing in the world. Each breath was a victory, each moment of stillness a hard-won respite from the battle that had consumed him.

The room spun slightly, the familiar posters of capes and sci-fi characters blurring at the edges. Outside his window, Brockton Bay continued its endless night, unaware of the impossible journey that had just traversed its landscape.

The pain arrived like a franchise tutorial level designed by a sadistic game developer. 'Okay, wow, pretty sure this is not how leveling up is supposed to work,' Greg's internal voice complained, his ribs sending sharp reminders of every single precise strike Alabaster had landed on him.

'I mean, seriously? Who designs a learning curve this steep? Nazi tutorial bosses should not be this effective at teaching combat mechanics!' His muscles continued their trembling rebellion, each fiber feeling like it had been through a blender set to "maximum existential crisis."

The headache deserved its own character arc. 'Great, so now my brain is basically a PTSD playback machine. Fantastic. Ten out of ten, would not recommend this career path to aspiring heroes.' Random synapses fired memories, a spectral spear here, a perfect white suit there, interspersed with panicked internal screaming.

Looking in the mirror, Greg's internal commentary went into overdrive. 'Holy crap, I look like I lost a fight with a blender... filled with fists... operated by a Nazi... while riding a roller coaster of terrible decisions!' The bruises weren't just bruises, they were participation trophies in the worst cape combat workshop ever.

Cleaning his wounds became a stand-up comedy routine performed exclusively for his own traumatized brain. 'Antiseptic? More like liquid regret! Wash away the physical wounds, but the emotional scarring? Lifetime warranty baby!' Each dab felt like applying band-aids to his shattered superhero ego.

Hiding the costume was an elaborate performance of plausible deniability. 'Nothing to see here, Mom! Just a completely normal teenage boy who definitely did not just escape from Nazi cape combat training in the sewers of Brockton Bay!' His internal voice had developed a pitch-perfect sarcasm that would make even the most jaded stand-up comedian proud.

The boundary between waking and sleeping blurred like watercolors bleeding into each other. Greg's mind flickered between states, sometimes sharp with remembered pain, sometimes dissolving into fragments of sensation. Alabaster's perfect white suit melted and reformed, spectral spears drifted through impossible geometries of memory.

Memories played out of order. The precise impact of a punch. The liquid light gathering around his hands. In the moment of suspension high above Brockton Bay, the city spread out beneath him like a living circuit board. Each recollection arrived with crystalline clarity, then dissolved into something else.

The thought lingered, a quiet poison spreading through his mind. ‘I didn't even do anything right.’ Greg's fingers twitched involuntarily, recreating the motion of forming a hard light construct, a muscle memory of desperation.

Survival. The word felt hollow, inadequate. Heroes in the comics, the posters surrounding him Alexandria soaring through the sky, Eidolon with his impossible powers, they didn't just survive. They rescued people. They stopped threats. They made a real difference.

‘What did I actually do?’ The internal dialogue gained momentum. ‘I ran. I dodged. I barely held my own against Alabaster, and only because he was... what? Teaching me? Treating me like some kind of training dummy?’

His leg spasmed, remembering the precise strikes that had systematically broken down his defenses. The memory of Alabaster's mechanical voice critiquing his every move burned worse than any physical injury.

‘I learned more from a Nazi about being a cape than I've learned from anywhere else,’ Greg realized with a sickening clarity. ‘That's messed up. That's so messed up.’ His hand clenched, fingernails digging into his palm. ‘I'm supposed to be a hero. I'm supposed to be better than that. But I'm just... what? A kid playing dress-up? Running away?’

‘I had a chance to actually do something,’ the thought continued, gaining intensity. ‘I could have stood my ground. I could have fought harder. But I ran. I literally ran away from Nazis. What kind of hero does that?’

His breath caught, a sharp intake that was half sob, half frustrated growl. The heroes on the walls watched silently, witnesses to his moment of self-revelation.

‘But I survived,’ another part of him argued. ‘And I learned something. I pushed my powers further than I ever have before. I discovered something about myself.’ It wasn't much of a consolation. But it was something. The room remained still, but the battle continued, this one entirely internal, far more brutal than the physical fight that had preceded it.
As he laid there, sleep slowly creeping to him, something new came to mind, namely the choice he had to kill Alabaster. The ethical dilemma burned even harder than the physical pain he felt. 'I had him. I literally had Alabaster impaled. I could have ended him right there. A Nazi. Someone who literally wants to destroy entire groups of people just for existing.' His hand clenched, the remembered moment of decision replaying with brutal clarity.

'But I didn't kill him. Was that... weakness? Or was that being better than him?' The question tormented him more than any physical injury could. 'A real hero would have stopped him permanently, right? Prevented him from hurting more people? But then... am I any better if I just execute someone?'

The posters of heroes seemed to offer no comfort, no clear answer. Alexandria's confident gaze offered no moral guidance, Eidolon's powerful stance no ethical resolution.
'Armsmaster would have made the tactical choice he was always about, swift and effective good,' Greg thought, a bitter edge creeping into his internal voice, he looked up to the dead hero after all. It was the light from his Halberd that pushed him to go out tonight with the goal of making a difference. 'He would have neutralized the threat permanently. But Taylor... Taylor would want me to be better than that. Wouldn't she?'

This brought entirely new thoughts, thoughts about how much or little he knew about his crush, thoughts he just couldn’t handle.

Greg's thoughts circled the moral quandary like a vulture, picking at the ethical bones of his decision. 'Where exactly is the line between justice and murder?' The question hung there, heavy and uncomfortable.

For a moment, he let the weight of it settle. The complexity of the choice pressed against him - the Nazi who had tried to recruit him, the precise strikes that had been both a beating and a lesson, the moment of potential execution he'd chosen to just walk away from.

Then, with a mental shrug that was equal parts teenage dismissiveness and genuine self-preservation, he decided: 'Nope. Not dealing with this right now.'

It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't even a good choice. But it was a choice nonetheless. Some problems were too big for a single night's contemplation, especially after getting your ass comprehensively kicked by a Nazi in the sewers of Brockton Bay.

'Future Greg's problem,' he thought, with the kind of cavalier attitude that suggested future Greg was going to have a lot of uncomfortable conversations with himself. 'Current Greg needs sleep.'

The moral complexity retreated, not defeated, but temporarily shelved for now. A bookmark placed in an ongoing ethical debate, to be continued at a more convenient time.
The room settled. Greg's breathing deepened. Outside, Brockton Bay continued its endless night, unaware of the miniature moral universe that had just been temporarily paused in a teenager's bedroom.