Robin groaned. "Wait—Starfire, don't—"
Too late. Starfire's starbolts screamed through the air.
Down below, the armored man looked up, tilted his head, and sighed audibly through his helmet. "Oh, for the love of—" He casually sidestepped, letting the bolts detonate behind him. "Can't I beat up one greasy nerd without a reunion tour of puberty in spandex showing up?"
Robin's grapnel fired, swinging him down just as Raven's dark energy flared. She muttered an incantation, tendrils of shadow lashing around the armored stranger's arms.
He didn't even flinch.
He just blinked, then ripped them apart like loose streamers.
"Cool trick," he said. "You kids ever think of a career in not attacking the good guy?"
"'Good guy,'" Raven repeated flatly. "You're standing on a wanted criminal."
"Correction," he said, pointing the hilt of a blue lightsaber toward Control Freak, "I'm standing on a walking Twinkie with Wi-Fi who just tried to turn the multiverse into a cinematic scrapbook. You're welcome."
Robin landed in a crouch, bo-staff extended. "So you're saying you're not with him?"
"I'm saying stop shooting at me, you hormone-addled orphans!" the man snapped, deflecting a tiger-shaped Beast Boy with one arm and catching Starfire mid-swing with the other. "Can't you see I'm beating up the actual criminal here?"
Control Freak whimpered beneath his boot. "You're all against me! The studio system! The critics!"
"Yeah, you uploaded your manifesto to Letterboxd," King deadpanned. "No one's the villain in their own head, but you're doing a pretty solid job auditioning."
"Enough!" Robin barked, rushing forward. He jabbed, fast and precise—only for King to parry the staff with the lightsaber. The blue blade hissed against the bo, sparks flying… along with the center of his staff, he noted, as he held the two severed pieces of it in his hands.
Robin blinked.
Was that—?
King twirled the saber, smirking under the mirrored visor. "Oh, yeah. It's real. Picked it up in a galaxy far, far away. Long story… actually, it's pretty short, I just don't feel like explaining it."
He cut Robin's staff in half. With a lightsaber. How the hell is he going to explain this one to Bruce?
"Lightsabers aren't real!" Cyborg yelled, but his voice cracked halfway through, somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
"They are when you steal them from the right universe," King said. "You see, my young, mechanical friend. The multiverse is a pathway to many abilities that some consider to be unnatural—"
Starfire lunged again. He casually sidestepped her, flicking her in the forehead with a metallic ping. She spun midair, dazed.
"Rude. I was having a conversation. Also, you fight like you learned choreography from a YouTube tutorial," he muttered. "Do better."
Beast Boy growled, lunging as a tiger. King just lifted him by the scruff and held him at arm's length.
"Really? The tiger? Again? Because that worked so well for you, last time. What's next—turn into a piranha? Bite my kneecap?"
Beast Boy snarled, half embarrassed, half growling. "Maybe!"
"Yeah, sure," King said, setting him down. "Or you know, here's a thought: Maybe you could turn into something actually fucking useful."
Cyborg fired a plasma shot, but King turned his head just enough that it streaked past him, slamming into a lamppost. "Hey, watch the armor!" King shouted. "The platinum's been through enough, today!"
"Wait—platinum?" Cyborg's offense vanished in an instant, replaced by sheer awe. "Bro, that's real platinum?"
King straightened up, crossing his arms proudly. "It's called commitment to the bit, kid. I call myself King, and I wear a crown. What should my super-suit be made out of? Steel? Aluminum? I'm going for iconic, here."
Beast Boy, still nursing his pride, muttered, "Why not gold?"
King turned toward him slowly. "Gold's tacky."
Even Raven snorted under her breath.
For a moment, the air went still. The Titans exchanged glances, then slowly lowered their weapons.
Robin stepped forward cautiously. "So you're… not evil?"
King cocked his helmeted head. "Probably not? I don't know, how do you define evil? Can you use it in a sentence?"
Raven took that one. "Mass murder, global domination, questionable interior design."
"Then no," King said, deadpan. "I mostly just punch people who deserve it and make everyone else question their life choices. And I have excellent taste in interior design… display cases not withstanding."
Robin wasn't sure he wanted to know.
King turned back to Control Freak, who was still whining about narrative injustice. "As for you, Spielberg the Lesser—you're going to jail. Again."
Robin frowned. "You'll… hand him over to us?"
King held up a finger. "Correction: I'll hand him over, and get his gross, disgusting body off of my hands. You'll take the credit for bringing him in. Everyone wins, except my PR team."
Cyborg frowned. "Wait, you have a PR team?"
"Of course… I mean, it's mostly me. You know, a lot of Word-of-Mouth stuff. But I have to start somewhere, right? I'm not Superman. That guy's got to be drowning in sponsorships."
"Superman's not—" Robin began, then stopped. He looked King up and down—the build, the stance, the absurd confidence—and connected a few dots he didn't see before. The strength, the speed, the reflexes, the flight?
He's seen approximately three superheroes with that kind of power class: Superman, Super Wonder Woman, and Omni-Man. He hasn't seen any lasers, so that rules out any relation to the first one. No prayers to to any panthenons, which took out Wonder Woman.
Which left… Omni-Man.
King noticed the look. "Um… hi? Did you… want to finish what you were going to say or… okay. More awkward staring. Cool."
Robin didn't feel awkward at all.
King sheathed the lightsaber, then glanced toward the approaching police sirens. "Well, it looks like you guys have this in hand, so I'm just going to go. I need to find somewhere in my place to mount this lightsaber."
Before Robin could ask, King shot upward in a silver streak, cutting through the smog like a comet. The shockwave sent dust swirling across the cratered street.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Cyborg was the first to speak. "So… we're sure he's not evil?"
Raven crossed her arms. "Debatable."
Beast Boy nodded. "But definitely hot."
Robin just sighed, lowering his staff. "I'm adding 'platinum narcissist with flight' to the watchlist."
Cyborg squinted at the smoke trail. "Think he'd join the team?"
"I think he's a bit too old for us," Raven rolled her eyes.
The sound of sirens grew louder. Robin turned away from the sky, trying not to imagine that smug, mirrored visor smirking back. "Let's get Control Freak to containment," he said. "And set up a search for someone buying platinum in bulk."
...
Robin zoomed in on the holographic map, eyes narrowing as a web of data points shimmered above the Titans Tower's central console. Each bright dot represented a King sighting: a high-speed chase, a mugging, a car theft stopped in the middle of downtown. All erratic. All seemingly random.
Except they weren't.
Every time King appeared, Luke Grayson had a public absence on record. Cancelled interviews. Missed rehearsals. "Unforeseen schedule changes." Robin had checked—twice. The overlap was impossible to ignore.
It didn't make sense.
King was a superhero. Luke Grayson was an actor.
Those two categories did not usually intersect—unless you counted all the times Batman ended up in a comic book. And the actor wouldn't have been on his radar if it wasn't for that stunt at the Academy Awards.
He tapped a screen, pulling up archived security footage from the Clayface incident. Luke standing in the center of a cracked stage, about a quarter-drenched in goo, casually cracking a joke while security dragged Clayface offstage. The guy looked mildly inconvenienced, not traumatized.
Most people didn't treat a seven-foot sentient mud monster like a late-night talk show heckler.
Robin frowned.
"Either that's Oscar-worthy improv," he muttered, "or from his point of view, he didn't have much to worry about."
And if he King's strength, flight, and speed were any indication, Luke Grayson wouldn't have a reason to worry.
Still… correlation wasn't causation. Robin knew that better than anyone. It could be that his lack of concern involved some connection of his to Omni-Man. The mustached Superman certainly came to rescue in a hurry. Ultimately, there were too many unknowns to make a verdict.
But it was the kind of coincidence that kept detectives up at night.
He swiped open another window. The most recent incident: downtown movie theater, wrecked by Control Freak. The film playing when it all went down? Iron Man.
The same movie that won Luke his Oscar.
Robin leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "It's never easy, is it?"
He'd run facial recognition already—zero hits. King's helmet was completely sealed, the visor reflective. No digital signature, no lip movement data, not even a breathing pattern. Whoever this guy was, he was careful.
But Robin hated feeling one step behind.
He could almost see it. The pattern. The edges of the puzzle taking shape. All the missing pieces hovering around the same name.
Luke Grayson.
Robin's eyes flicked to the display photo—press shot, perfect smile, black hair, bright blue eyes.
"Wait," he said aloud, frowning. "Grayson?"
He froze.
The holographic map flickered blue against his mask as he slowly turned his chair toward the window, like maybe staring into the city would help him make sense of this cosmic joke.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
No. No way. He refused to believe the universe was cruel enough to give him a cousin who was that much of an egomaniac. His family drama was complicated enough—he didn't need to find out his long-lost relative was a superpowered Oscar winner with commitment issues and a personal brand.
They even had the same hair color. The same eye color. Hell, if you squinted at Luke's jawline—
"Nope," Robin muttered firmly. "We are not related. Absolutely not." He pointed at the hologram. "Delete that thought."
He turned back to the screen, refocusing.
Okay. Work the angles. If King really was Luke, then that meant—
The door to the command room slid open. Why? He put ins do-not-disturb sign.
"Robin!"
He didn't look up. "Busy."
"Robin!" Starfire's voice grew louder, brighter, and unmistakably earnest. "I am ready to mate now!"
Robin froze mid-keystroke.
There was a long pause.
Very slowly, he turned his head. "You're what."
Starfire beamed, floating just off the ground, eyes sparkling. "You instructed that we should wait until the timing was appropriate! It is now the weekend! And I have finished my combat drills!"
Robin stared at her. Then back at the screen. Then at her again.
A single, existential sigh escaped him.
"…Computer," he said weakly, "delete investigation file."
"Confirmed," the AI chirped. "File deleted."
He slumped in his chair, staring blankly into the middle distance.
"…What was I doing again?"
Starfire's smile widened. "Preparing for mating!"
Robin just groaned, facepalming. "Right. That."
...
Don't you just love a last minute distraction?
No?
Chapter 4: The PR Apocalypse
Last time on My Life Is a Series of Bad Decisions—
I went on "vacation." Which is a nice way of saying I got suspended from work because my agent couldn't spin Clayface attacking me at the Oscars into good PR. Apparently, "I didn't start it" isn't a compelling defense when the Academy stage still smells like burnt Play-Doh.
So I decided to make the best of it. Went on patrol as King, the platinum-plated paragon of Los Angeles. Stopped a car chase by picking the whole damn thing up. Got a kid his balloon back. Kept the rest I found, because those kid's parents refused to pay my protection fee. You know, the usual.
Then I fought a… man, named Control Freak—yes, really—who can literally jump through movies.
Which led to me joyriding Vin Diesel's car, surviving a bite from a T-Rex (still need to get that platinum gauntlet repaired), and interrupting Luke Skywalker's daddy issues long enough to give him his hand back. In exchange, I got a genuine lightsaber. Oh, and I might've kissed a sleeping princess. Look, it was Snow White, not a felony. Calm down.
Then the Teen Titans jumped me. Classic misunderstanding. Happens to the best of us.
Anyway, that brings us to now.
Standing in my kitchen, alone, shirtless, bruised, and holding a real, honest-to-God lightsaber.
Not a prop. Not a replica. Not a limited-edition Disney exclusive that costs more than a small country's GDP. A real one. Straight from Cloud City. Still faintly smells like Luke's hand—don't ask.
I click it on.
Schwmmmm.
It hums with the kind of energy that could slice through titanium and my security deposit at the same time. The blade's blue light paints the room like some kind of cosmic rave. The sound alone could make a grown nerd cry.
"Behold," I say dramatically to no one, "the weapon of a true Jedi Knight."
Pause. Sip of coffee.
"And now, the galaxy's most dangerous kitchen appliance."
I spin it once—okay, twice. Then grab a banana from the counter and slice it perfectly in half.
"Boom. Nailed it."
I add an apple to the pile. Slice. Then an orange. Slice. Then a headshot poster of an actor who once called me "overrated" on Twitter. Slice.
"I'm sorry, Jeremy Renner, but the world only needs one Hawkeye—and he's not even in the top five Avengers." Slice.
Bits of fruit and ego rain across my marble floor. It's a beautiful mess.
I toss a grape in the air and try to slice that too.
The grape survives.
I do not take this well.
"Alright, Yoda," I mutter, "let's see you deflect this." I rear back for another swing, way too cocky for someone who just lost a duel to produce.
And then it happens.
The lightsaber slips from my hand.
Slow motion.
It twirls gracefully, almost mockingly, blade down.
Perfectly. Fucking. Vertical.
Time freezes. The world goes quiet except for my brain screaming at me in surround sound.
"No, no, no—"
SHRRRRNK!
It hits the floor. Sparks fly. The blade cuts clean through the tile, the subfloor, and keeps going.
And keeps going.
I just stare.
There's a perfectly circular hole in my penthouse floor. Thin smoke curling upward. I can see faint light from the apartment below.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
I dive after it.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Headfirst.
Super-speed and poor impulse control—two of my strongest character traits. I smashed through the hole, which was only a few inches wide, so as you can imagine, it was less looney tunes, and more drywall exploding around me, descending like a meteor of regret.
"Maintenance is included in the lease, right?" I asked as I plummet past the second floor.
There's a shriek from a woman in a robe clutching a Pomeranian. My downstairs neighbor. Or her upstairs neighbor, depending on which direction you count "falling through your ceiling."
"Oh my god!" she screams. "What are you doing!?"
"Ceiling inspection!" I yell back. "Everything looks great so far!"
She just stares, horrified. The dog starts barking.
She's old. Like mid-century-modern old. Thankfully, senility is the best kind of secrecy clause.
If she remembers this at all, she'll probably just tell her knitting club she saw Superman naked.
Which, to be fair, isn't entirely inaccurate.
I spot the glowing blue blade tumbling another two floors down. "Mine!" I yell, and rocket downward.
The air pressure around me cracks. Plaster dust bursts outward like a miniature hurricane. I extend a hand, fingers stretching toward that humming death stick of childhood wish fulfillment—
Got it!
I clutch the hilt triumphantly, the blade still active and—
CRUNCH.
…Oh.
Right.
Viltrumite strength.
The hilt collapses in my grip like a soda can. Sparks spit out, and the hum sputters to silence.
There's a smell of ozone and burned circuitry.
I look down at the crushed remains in my palm.
"This," I sigh, landing amid the wreckage of someone's breakfast nook, "is why I can't have nice things."
I glance around. There's a gaping hole above me, a smaller one below, and an apartment that looks like a bomb hit Bed Bath & Beyond.
Some guy in a bathrobe is staring at me from his couch, frozen halfway through a spoonful of cereal.
We make eye contact.
I look at the crushed lightsaber in my hand.
He looks at the hole I just came through.
"…Uh," I offer, "Jedi business?"
He blinks. "You just crashed through my—"
"Right, yeah, gonna pay for that," I interrupt, pointing vaguely upward. "Add it to my tab." On the bright side, the dude did look kinda high. Chances are, he'll chock this up to a bad trip… I might need to think of an explanation for the damages, though.
Later.
I take off again, punching through the ceiling back to my floor. Bits of drywall trail behind me like confetti. My penthouse now has what architects might politely call enhanced ventilation.
...
Back in my living room, I toss the broken lightsaber onto the coffee table and flop onto the couch. My entire place smells faintly of ozone and neighbor complaints.
I grab the remote and turn on the TV.
News anchor: "…damage in downtown Los Angeles still being assessed after last night's attack by the self-proclaimed 'Influencer of Evil,' Control Freak. Authorities confirm the incident involved multiple—"
I switch channels. Too soon.
I end up on a cooking show. Ironically.
A chunk of banana slides off my counter and hits the floor with a wet plop.
"Awesome," I mutter. "The Force really is strong with me."
The doorbell rings.
I groan.
"Unless you're here to offer me therapy or a new toy," I call out, "I'm not interested!"
The door opens anyway.
It's my agent, Jessica Roberts—tall, redheaded, dressed like she's about to sue a Fortune 500 company. She has that kind of presence that makes you instantly aware of all your past mistakes—like a walking, talking audit.
She doesn't yell. She doesn't even glare. She just looks at you with that quiet, simmering disappointment that says "I expected nothing, and you still managed to underperform."
I hate it.
Mostly because I'm pretty sure I've made her a millionaire by accident.
She's standing in my doorway, framed like a corporate angel of death, clutching a clipboard, an iced latte, and about six pounds of exasperation.
"Morning, Jessica," I say, grinning. "You look… terrifyingly efficient today. Who died?"
Her eyebrow twitches. That's never good. "You have fifteen minutes to pack. We're going to the airport."
"Airport?" I blink. "Why? Did I win another award I wasn't invited to?"
"For the last time, Luke—" she sets her clipboard down on the counter with surgical precision, "—you are appearing on The Tonight Show tonight. For PR rehab. For the Oscar incident. For you. Try to sound grateful."
"Oh, I am," I say. "Truly. Nothing screams 'career redemption' like being interviewed by a man who laughs at his own punchlines."
Jessica sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Luke, work with me. Please. You're trending again. Not in a good way. Again."
I shrug and plop a slice of banana in my mouth. "Any publicity is good publicity."
"That's something people say before they lose sponsors."
She's got me there.
I make a vague "fine, fine" gesture and disappear into the bedroom. "Gimme two minutes to pack my emotional baggage—so, like, one small carry-on."
Jessica calls after me, "You mean the one with the bottle of Glenfiddich in it?"
"Therapeutic Glenfiddich!" I yell back. "Completely different!"
I reemerge a few minutes later wearing sunglasses, a jacket that probably cost more than some cars, and the emotional maturity of a manchild in a billion-dollar industry. Jessica's expression suggests she's already calculating how much therapy this job entitles her to.
"Alright," I say, slinging my duffel over my shoulder. "Let's hit the road, Red."
Her lips thin into a line. "Don't call me that."
I grin. "Would you prefer 'Jessica Rabbit'? People do say it—"
Her eyes cut toward me like twin sniper scopes.
"—not me!" I add quickly. "Obviously not me. I respect women. And copyright law."
Jessica sighs again, grabs her clipboard, and heads for the elevator.
...
The ride down is pure, oppressive silence. The kind of silence you can only get from someone who's rehearsing homicide in their head while you hum the Indiana Jones theme song.
At the lobby, the limo's waiting. She ushers me in like a daycare teacher dealing with the world's oldest child.
"Alright," she says, sliding in beside me and snapping open her tablet. "Let's go over talking points—"
"Let's not."
"Luke."
"Jessica."
"You're not winging this."
"Of course not. I'm soaring this."
Her stare could melt lead. "Do you even remember what this interview is about?"
"Damage control. Image repair. PR spin," I say, counting off on my fingers. "You know, the same things politicians do, but with more honesty and integrity."
Jessica doesn't even blink. "If you say anything about aliens, explosions, or 'the voices in your head,' I swear I will replace you with a CGI hologram and no one will notice."
"Rude. Also, kinda hot."
She doesn't dignify that with a response.
I slump back in the seat, resting my head against the leather. "I still don't get why I have to take a plane to New York. You realize I could be there in like, five minutes?"
Jessica looks up. "You don't even own a car, Luke. I highly doubt you have a teleporter hidden in your penthouse."
"I mean, technically I could just—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," she cuts in.
She's right, of course. I could just fly there by myself, no plane needed. But not without outing myself a Viltrumite, and I have this whole 'secret identity' thing going on. Not that she'd believe me if I told her. Jessica once made a man cry in an elevator with nothing but a frown—she doesn't do superheroes.
Which was actually pretty impressive given all the hard evidence right in her face.
Don't turn that into an innuendo.
So instead, I shrug. "Fine… and for the record, I can afford a car. You know my salary. I just… care very deeply about our environment."
"I'm sure." Her tone indicated that she didn't believe me. She was right not to. In truth? I don't own a car, because it's cheaper to fly than it is to pay for gas.
...
At some point between sarcasm #37 and Jessica's third "please stop talking," we pull up to the airport. My driver—poor guy—visibly relaxes as soon as I get out. I tip him anyway. Trauma pay.
Jessica's still scrolling through her notes like she's trying to mentally prepare for battle. "Remember: Fallon's people are expecting humility. You are apologetic, contrite, and—"
"Devastatingly handsome?"
"—sorry," she says flatly.
"Got it. So I'll lead with the face, not the truth."
She exhales. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
This woman had no faith in me.
Good instincts.
Inside the terminal, I'm the definition of low-profile. Sunglasses. Hoodie. Baseball cap. The works. Which would be more convincing if the hoodie didn't have my own face printed on it with "#GrayArea" underneath.
Jessica groans. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm on brand."
She mutters something about quitting to become a park ranger. I grab my bag—just one hand, effortlessly—and she notices. Not much, but enough. Her eyes flicker, curious.
"Have you been… working out?"
"Yes," I say quickly. "I take care of my body, thank you very much. And you thought all I did when I wasn't working was sit home and play video games."
"Guilty." She shrugged.
Jessica would have even been right, once. But ever since I got my powers, I've dedicated a lot of my free time to saving lives. And the whole, lifting cars, stopping falling debris, mining asteroids, it's actually got me in a pretty decent shape, too.
So, from a certain point of view, I did tell her the truth.
Obi-Wan Kenobi-Wan would be proud.
...
First class is quieter than usual, which is great because I plan to spend the flight pretending to sleep and ignoring Jessica's every attempt at professionalism.
As soon as we sit down, she pulls out her notes again. "Alright. Key points: no jokes about the Oscars, the explosion, or that time you called Ryan Reynolds 'a poor man's me.'"
"I stand by that one."
"Do not say that on-air."
I nod solemnly. "Got it. Replace 'poor man's me' with 'less emotionally available me.'"
Her sigh could fuel wind turbines.
While she tries to coach me through the "acceptable" answers to softball questions, I pull out a pair of sleek black Raycon noise-canceling headphones.
"You're going to ignore me when I'm trying to help you?" Jessica asks, side-eyeing me. "With sponsor bait headphones?"
"Yep! This YouTuber I watch swears by them."
I put them on. The world should go silent. Should. Instead, my super-hearing picks up everything.
The baby crying three rows back. The guy snoring like a dying Tauntaun. Someone two cabins away whispering about joining the mile-high club.
"Oh, for the love of—" I rip the headphones off. "They don't cancel anything! They amplify!"
Jessica doesn't even look up. "That's because you bought the cheap ones."
"I bought the sponsored ones! That's supposed to mean they're good!"
"You're shouting, Luke."
"I know!"
Half the cabin is staring now. Jessica gives them an apologetic smile that somehow says 'I am not responsible for him, legally or emotionally.'
I slump back into my seat and groan. "I swear, babies shouldn't be allowed on planes. If you've got a baby, then whoever you're supposed to see should come to you." Unless you're sight-seeing, which is even dumber to me.
A baby is not going to remember seeing the Statue of Liberty, but everyone will remember how terrible a parent you were for bringing a baby onto a plane.
Jessica doesn't respond. She's in full "ignore the chaos" mode now, which is fair.
"Are you even listening to me?" I ask.
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Good. Then tell the pilot to turn around. I forgot my dignity back at the penthouse."
Two hours and three complimentary bourbons later, we're halfway through the flight. Jessica's still outlining PR contingencies like she's planning a Normandy invasion. I'm pretending to take notes on a napkin but really just drawing little stick figures of Fallon with devil horns.
She glances over. "Are you even capable of sincerity, Luke?"
"Of course I am," I say, frowning in mock offense. "I just prefer to outsource it."
She shakes her head. "Sometimes I wonder how you've survived this long."
"Charm. Looks. A healthy disregard for gravity."
Her eyes flicker again—something between suspicion and curiosity—but she lets it go.
...
By the time we're descending, I'm starting to feel the weight of it all. The lights, the cameras, the constant balancing act between celebrity and secret identity.
But then I remember: I'm Luke Grayson. World's favorite disaster.
And tonight, I get to do it all live.
Jessica's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Remember, we go straight from the airport to the studio. No detours, no distractions, no—"
"—holes in the floor?" I interject, smirking.
She blinks. "What?"
"Oh! Right. Before I forget—could you, uh, call a maintenance guy for my penthouse? No questions asked."
Jessica narrows her eyes. "Why?"
"There's, uh… a pretty big hole in my floor."
She stares. "…why is there a hole in your floor—"
"I said no questions!" I throw my hands up. "That's the opposite of what I just said!"
Jessica just closes her eyes and mutters, "I need a raise."
And with that, the world's most dysfunctional duo touches down—ready for live television, trending hashtags, and at least three new PR crises before breakfast.
...
If hell had a green room, it would look exactly like this one. Too cold. Too bright. Too many PR people smiling through clenched teeth.
Jessica's pacing like a general awaiting the end of civilization. I'm reclined on the couch, spinning a Tonight Show coffee mug like it's a stress toy.
"Alright," she says, voice tight. "Remember—humble, sincere, human."
"Three things I'm famously bad at," I remind her.
She levels a look at me. "Please don't get canceled on live television."
"Jessica, come on," I say, hand over heart. "I would never do something so reckless."
A stagehand pokes his head in. "Mr. Grayson? Two minutes."
Jessica exhales like she's sending a prayer to whatever deity manages celebrity disasters. "Try not to insult Fallon's hair."
"I'll behave," I promise, then grin. "Probably." And I promise that I may definitely, possibly keep my word.
Fallon's theme music hits. The crowd screams. The curtain parts.
And out walks yours truly—Luke Grayson, Hollywood's most lovable public hazard.
The lights hit me like a firing squad. I plaster on my best "please forget the Oscar thing" smile and strut to the chair.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jimmy says, voice chipper as ever, "Luke Grayson!"
I sit, cross my legs, and wave like I've done nothing wrong in my entire life.
"So," Jimmy says, "what's it like being the most talked-about man in Hollywood right now?"
I lean in, deadpan. "Honestly? Loud."
The audience laughs. We're off to the races.
Fallon grins. "You've had quite the year—award nominations, that, uh, incident on stage—"
I raise a finger. "In my defense, the teleprompter said 'make a dramatic entrance.' I simply followed instructions."
More laughter. Jessica's probably dying inside backstage, but the crowd eats it up.
Jimmy chuckles. "And then there was your… sabbatical? You disappeared for a while."
"Ah, yes," I say. "I took some time off to reconnect with nature. You know—forest fires, dinosaurs, cross-franchise copyright violations."
He blinks. "…Dinosaurs?"
"Don't ask."
Laughter again. I sip my water like it's bourbon. It's not. Pity.
...
Fallon shuffles his cards. "So, what's next for Luke Grayson?"
"Probably therapy," I say. "Method acting really gets to you when you're method acting yourself into emotional ruin."
The crowd laughs; Fallon wheezes that trademark "heh-heh-heh" that makes me want to check if he's okay.
Then he gestures off-screen. "We actually have a clip from your new movie—"
That's when the lights flicker.
Music cuts.
A piercing digital ding! echoes across the studio. A smoke machine bursts from the wings—cheap, theatrical, and way too enthusiastic.
"What the hell?" Jimmy mutters.
Then they come in.
Four of them. Matching neon jackets, LED face masks, selfie sticks armed with GoPros. "Don't forget to like and subscribe!" one shouts, striking a pose as the others flood the stage.
The audience applauds. They think it's a sketch.
I recognize them instantly. The Influenzers. A D-list supervillain collective whose entire schtick is livestreaming crimes for exposure. I hate my generation.
"Oh, great," I mutter. "The Wi-Fi Taliban."
Fallon's frozen, smile faltering. His cue cards flutter to the floor. "Is this—uh—is this part of the show?"
One of the Influenzers laughs. "It is now!"
Jessica's voice hisses faintly through my earpiece. "Luke, remain calm. I've already contacted the police. Just sit tight, and don't do anything stupid."
"Relax," I whisper, "I'm a professional."
"Your entire life contradicts that sentence!"
Fair.
I stand, turning to the masked idiots. "Alright, fellas. Let's keep this short and non-felony, yeah?"
The leader—Vlogzilla, if I remember right—points a glowing mic at me. "We're hijacking live TV, baby! Content is king!"
No. I'm King.
One of them whips a drone into the air. Another brandishes what looks suspiciously like a paintball gun modded with RGB lights.
The crowd cheers. Phones everywhere.
"Okay," I mutter. "Guess this is happening… again."
Same rules as last time. No flight, no super punches, just take them down. You know. Normally.
I sidestep as a neon paintball whizzes past my face and splatters across Fallon's desk.
The host yelps. "Hey! That's vintage mahogany!"
I grab a cue card from the floor, flick it at the gunman, and it smacks him right in the visor. He stumbles back into a lighting rig. Sparks shower down.
The audience roars.
They still think it's staged. Are people just generally idiots?
Vlogzilla lunges. I duck, sweep his legs, and send him sprawling across the floor.
"Ouch," I say. "That's gonna look great on replay."
Another one charges, selfie stick spinning like a bo staff. I catch it, yank hard, and send him spinning into Fallon's chair.
The band starts improvising action music. Because of course they do.
I grab one of Jimmy's decorative mugs and wing it at a third Influenzers' drone. Direct hit. Sparks.
"Who's trending now?!" I shout.
The crowd loses its mind. Fallon's crouched behind his desk, muttering prayers to NBC. "This isn't real, right? This is a bit, right?"
"Why does everyone always think that?" I ask, dodging another projectile.
One Influenzers grabs a mic stand and swings. I duck, grab the cable, and pull—his own momentum sends him face-first into the stage.
Another round of applause. Someone actually chants my name.
I bow. "Thank you! Please, hold your hashtags."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jessica at the stage entrance, mouthing DON'T! as I grab a prop guitar from The Roots' setup.
I grin, swing it like a baseball bat, and connect squarely with Vlogzilla's drone pack. It sparks, spins, and slams into a camera rig.
Explosion. Smoke. The audience screams.
Then cheers again.
Fallon peeks out from behind his desk. "We're… still on air, right?"
The stage manager yells, "Ratings are through the roof!"
I flash a grin. "You're welcome, America."
...
The Influenzers regroup, huddled together amid the chaos. "We're still live!" one shouts, holding up a cracked phone.
"Hi, chat!" I say, waving. "Remember to report this stream for assault with stupidity."
They charge again.
I slide across the desk, grab a bundle of loose mic cords, and whip them around like makeshift nunchucks. One goes down. Another trips over a toppled stool.
Fallon's band has fully committed. They're playing a funk remix of the Imperial March.
I was getting ready for a grand, cinematic fight. But tha was around the time security finally burst in, storming the stage. The Influenzers scatter, still trying to keep their cameras upright.
One last guy lunges at me with a prop boom mic. I sidestep, grab him by the collar, and send him sprawling into Fallon's couch.
He groans. "You'll regret this, man! We're viral!"
"Yeah," I say, dusting off my jacket. "So's the flu. Doesn't mean anyone wants to see it. Just means it's been spreading around."
The lights flicker again, then steady. The smoke clears. The audience stands, clapping, screaming, filming everything.
Fallon rises slowly from behind his desk, dazed. "Uh… we'll be right back after this commercial break?"
The crowd goes wild.
If I had a nickel for every time I got attacked on live television, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
Jessica's voice in my earpiece is equal parts fury and awe. "You just hijacked a hostage situation for ratings."
"Hey," I whisper back, grinning. "Good TV."
By the time security hauls the Influenzers offstage, Fallon's trying to regain control of the show.
"So," he says shakily, "Luke Grayson, everybody! You… uh, you really brought the energy tonight!"
I sit back down, straighten my jacket, and smile at the camera.
"What can I say, Jimmy? I'm a giver."
The band hits a triumphant sting. The crowd cheers.
And somewhere backstage, I can practically feel Jessica's blood pressure achieving new records.
If there was one universal constant in the Grayson household, it was this: when something on TV exploded, everyone looked at Nolan first.
Right now, the living room looked like a command center in crisis. Debbie sat cross-legged on the couch, remote in hand, eyes locked on the screen. Nolan stood behind her, arms crossed, jaw set. And Mark—Mark was wedged between them, staring at the live broadcast like it was the most important thing in the world.
Because, apparently, it kind of was.
The Tonight Show was chaos incarnate. Cameras flickered, drones crashed, smoke poured across the stage. And right in the middle of it—his brother. Luke Grayson. Wearing that same half-smirk that meant he was either about to say something brilliant or catastrophic.
He looked like he was having the time of his life.
"…And we're still live!" one of the masked guys shouted through a haze of confetti smoke.
Then Luke caught him mid-charge, disarmed him with a coffee mug, and threw out a casual one-liner so smooth the audience screamed like it was part of the script.
Debbie blinked. "You're not flying over there?"
Nolan didn't take his eyes off the screen. "Why would I?"
"Because that's our son getting attacked on live television," she said, gesturing with the remote. "You didn't hesitate when Clayface showed up at the Academy Awards."
"That was different," Nolan said. "Clayface is an actual threat. These guys—" he nodded at the screen as Luke ducked under a glowing selfie stick and countered with a chair leg— "these guys are clowns with Wi-Fi."
Debbie's brow arched. "So was Clayface."
"That's not the point."
"It's a little bit the point."
"Look, Clayface had powers. Do these people have powers?"
Mark barely heard them. His eyes were glued to the screen as Luke flipped one of the attackers onto Fallon's desk and bowed to the cheering audience.
It was… weirdly mesmerizing.
Luke wasn't flying. Wasn't lifting cars or throwing punches that broke the sound barrier. He was just—moving. Fast, confident, precise. Like every stunt reel and training session he'd ever faked for a movie had suddenly become real.
And he looked cool doing it.
Really cool.
Nolan frowned, tilting his head. "He's dropping his left shoulder too early."
Debbie groaned softly. "He telegraphed the joke, too."
Nolan gave a thoughtful nod. "He does that."
The scene on TV reached its crescendo: Luke, grinning ear to ear, swung a guitar into a drone rig. It exploded in a shower of sparks. Fallon's band hit a triumphant sting, and the crowd went wild.
Mark tried to laugh, but his throat caught halfway. "He… he looked awesome."
Debbie smiled faintly. "He always does."
"'Awesome' isn't the word I'd use," Nolan muttered, rubbing his chin. "Sloppy. Reckless. But… he handled himself well enough. Those martial arts classes finally paid off."
Debbie gave him a look. "Don't make it sound like you suffered through those."
"I did suffer," Nolan said, indignant. "Do you know how much traffic there is in downtown Chicago at rush hour?"
"You flew him there, Nolan. You don't get to complain about gas mileage when you're the gas."
"It's the principle," Nolan said. Then, after a pause to gather his thoughts, he shared his opinion on another matter, "Honestly? A little disappointing."
Debbie blinked. "Disappointing?"
"He had the advantage," Nolan said. "He could've ended it faster if he'd—" He stopped himself. "—if he'd been more decisive."
Debbie sighed. "Or if he were an actual superhero."
Nolan said nothing.
...
By the time Fallon stammered through his closing line—"Luke Grayson, everybody!"—Mark could practically hear the world's collective social media meltdown already forming. The camera cut to Luke's easy grin, all charm and chaos, and then to commercial.
Debbie muted the TV, the sudden silence pressing in around them.
"Well," she said finally, "that was… something."
Mark sank back into the couch. "He's gonna be everywhere tomorrow."
"He's always everywhere," Nolan said. "That's part of the problem."
Debbie shot him a look. "Problem?"
"He's reckless," Nolan said flatly. "You can't treat a fight like it's a late-night bit. It sends the wrong message."
"To who?" Debbie asked. "The goons with the selfie sticks?"
"To everyone watching," he said. "People expect heroes to be—responsible. Measured."
Mark frowned. "He's not a hero, though. He's just… Luke."
Nolan's silence said more than words could.
Mark noticed it—just barely, the way his dad's shoulders stiffened, the way his jaw clenched when Luke's name came up. It was subtle, but there. Something between pride and frustration.
Mark couldn't quite tell which one was winning.
He looked down at his hands, flexing them absently. Nothing. Still nothing. He'd been waiting for months—years—for something to happen. Strength, speed, flight, anything. He was almost seventeen, and every time his dad said "maybe soon," it sounded less like reassurance and more like a countdown to disappointment.
Luke didn't have powers either. At least, as far as anyone knew. He'd built a career without them—charisma, skill, luck. He didn't need to fly or punch through walls to own a room.
And yet… Mark still couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else there. Something Luke wasn't saying. Wasn't showing.
The thought twisted in his chest.
"Do you think he ever wanted powers?" Mark asked quietly.
Debbie smiled faintly. "I think he's happy the way he is."
"Maybe," Nolan said, though it didn't sound like agreement. "He's learned how to make do without them. But it's not the same thing."
Debbie turned to him. "You mean, without being like you."
Nolan met her gaze, then looked back at the blank TV screen. "Without being prepared."
Mark shifted. "He didn't look unprepared."
Nolan raised an eyebrow. "He got attacked on a talk show."
Mark shrugged. "Yeah, but he won."
That, at least, seemed to give Nolan pause.
Debbie smiled faintly, a hand brushing Mark's shoulder. "See? Maybe we should all stop worrying so much."
"About Luke?" Nolan asked.
"About any of you," she said. "You'll be fine."
Mark wasn't so sure.
He looked back at the frozen image on the TV—Luke mid-smile, surrounded by wreckage and applause. To everyone else, he looked untouchable. Untouchable, unstoppable, unshakable.
To Mark, he just looked like someone who'd figured out how to fake it better than anyone else.
He wished he could do the same.
...
Chapter 5: The Best Bad Idea
Downtown L.A., 10:47 p.m.
The Tech Expo. A temple of overpriced prototypes and broken NDAs.
And tonight's sermon? Theft, stupidity, and chaos — courtesy of the H.I.V.E. Five.
Five teens in matching black-and-yellow outfits are currently making a mess of the most secure building on the West Coast. It's like watching a bad group project where everyone got assigned "presentation design" and nobody did the slides.
From my perch on the skylight, I watch them bicker while robbing a display of gold-plated hoverboards.
Gold. Plated. Hoverboards.
Somewhere, Tony Stark just died again.
"Yo, Mammoth!" shouts the tiny gremlin in goggles—Gizmo, a walking warranty violation. "Quit throwin' stuff and grab the payload!"
"I am grabbin' it!" Mammoth bellows, hoisting an entire rack of hoverboards like he's auditioning for World's Dumbest Strongman Competition.
"Guys," says Terra, the blonde with the actual brain cell count above one. "We could just take the cases. They're lighter."
Nobody listens.
I sigh through my helmet. "And people call me reckless."
Time to crash the party.
I drop through the skylight, cape flaring, landing hard enough to send a shockwave that rattles the glass displays.
Cue the screaming.
"Evening, children," I greeted. "This an official field trip or are we just doing felonies for fun now?"
They all turn. The collective intelligence of the group dips another five points.
"King!" Gizmo squawks. "Aw, crud!"
"Oh, relax," I said, raising my hands like I'm calming zoo animals. "I'm not mad. Just… profoundly disappointed."
"You ain't stoppin' us!" Mammoth roars, swinging a forklift like it's a baseball bat.
I tilt my head. "You sure about that? Because the insurance forms alone are gonna kill your momentum."
He charges. I don't move. I was once hit by a train—don't ask—even if it landed, it wouldn't hurt me. And it won't land. When the forklift comes down, I catch it — one-handed — and set it neatly back on its wheels.
What? You were expecting me to throw it? Think about the property damage, people.
"Buddy," I sighed, slightly annoyed. "We use these to lift things. Not to express our feelings. Those are meant to be suppressed."
Before he can answer, Jinx flicks her wrist and mutters something under her breath. Her eyes glow pink.
The forklift beeps, shudders, then starts driving backward on its own, spinning wildly like it's possessed by the spirit of slapstick comedy. It smashes through a display of smart fridges… causing massive amounts of property damage—fuck!
Maybe I should have thrown it.
Jinx blinks. "…I meant to do that."
"Sure you did."
Gizmo pulls a gadget from his belt — something that looks like a leaf blower with commitment issues. "Eat laser, fancy boy!"
He fires. The beam ricochets off a wall, vaporizes a promotional banner, and sets off the sprinkler system.
I glance up at the ceiling, then back at him. "Nice shot, Picasso."
The rain starts pouring. So now, in addition to teenage criminals, I've got wet teenage criminals. Fantastic. At least I'm still dry. One of the few benefits of being in a full body, platinum suit is that I'm completely water proof.
That's when Billy Numerous multiplies.
One Billy becomes two. Two becomes ten. Ten becomes a math problem I don't have the patience to solve.
The entire floor floods with identical redheaded idiots, all yelling over each other.
"Yo, which one's got the hoverboards?"
"You said you had 'em!"
"No, I said he said—wait, which me said that?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose under my mask… Or, I at least rub the spot where it would be. The helmet kinda prevents me from touching my nose, actually. Makes it really uncomfortable when I have an itch up there.
And yet, even with all those extra steps, I did it anyways. Because they needed to know how much they sucked.
"I've seen better coordination at a toddler's soccer game."
I dart forward, flicking a couple pressure points just to thin the crowd. Half the Billies poof in bursts of light, leaving the survivors tripping over the fallen ones.
Across the room, Terra's trying — trying — to keep them together. She's not fighting, not running either. Just standing amid the chaos with this look that says, How did my life get here?
I almost feel bad for her. Almost.
Then Gizmo accidentally zaps her hair with another misfire.
She glares at him, raises her hand, and the entire floor cracks. The hoverboards shoot up like landmines.
I dodge one midair, grab it, and spin it into a makeshift shield.
It explodes against another drone.
"Cool trick," I tell her. "Maybe try sucking less next time."
"Shut up!" she snaps.
"Ah, teenage rebellion. Brings me back."
Mammoth lunges again. I sidestep, grab his arm, and pivot — using his own weight to flip him into a display of robotic vacuums. The vacuums immediately start cleaning him.
He roars. I can't help it. I laugh.
"Oh, come on," I said. "They're just doing their jobs. You could learn something from them." Honestly, he should be grateful I was just using his weight. If I threw mine into it too, he'd probably be missing an arm.
Or two… possibly some legs as well.
Jinx hurls another hex; this time, the floor itself turns slick as ice. Everyone — including her — wipes out. Not me, though. I can fly.
Billy clones slide in every direction. Gizmo eats floor. Mammoth crashes into a wall and knocks himself half-out.
It's… almost impressive, really. A full team takedown by their own incompetence.
I float there, dripping under the sprinklers, looking down at five would-be villains sprawled in a puddle of failure.
"Kids," I said finally, "you're embarrassing me in front of the civilians."
"What civilians?"
I helpfully pointed to the crowd of onlookers, with their phones at the ready.
"… motherfucker!"
...
Los Angeles Meta Containment Unit.
One of the few places in town where the coffee's burnt, the walls are bulletproof, and sarcasm counts as a second language.
I touch down outside the precinct, armor still dripping from the sprinklers at the Expo. A few patrol cars are parked out front, lights off but engines running — that classic "we've been here all night and we hate it" look.
Behind me, a convoy of armored vans unloads the H.I.V.E. Five, cuffed and cranky.
"Careful with the big guy," one officer grunts as Mammoth steps out, chains clinking like bad movie sound effects.
The man's built like a dump truck and pouts like a toddler. "These cuffs itch."
"No shit," I rolled my eyes. "They're cuffs. They shouldn't be comfortable to wear. It's supposed to be a deterrent against getting put into them."
Inside, the station smells like cheap disinfectant and cold pizza — the universal perfume of public service. I follow as they lead the Five down a hallway lined with tired cops and flickering fluorescent lights. Every few steps, someone gives me that mix of gratitude and exhaustion people reserve for plumbers fixing a pipe explosion at 2 a.m.
A detective with gray stubble and a "World's Okayest Dad" mug approaches, holding a clipboard. He looks me up and down, unimpressed.
"You know," he said, "most heroes drop 'em off unconscious and bail."
"Yeah," I reply, resting my gauntlets on the counter. "I don't ghost my problems. I just relocate them."
He snorts. "That'll make a great slogan for your statue someday."
"Cool. Maybe they can put it outside the IRS building — y'know, really capture the essence of public service."
We share a mutual nod of "we're both too tired for this," then he gestures for the booking officers to take over.
The kids get lined up for processing, each with their own brand of disappointment.
Mammoth keeps shifting from foot to foot like the floor's judging him.
Gizmo's yelling about constitutional rights — his voice cracking halfway through the word "habeas." Clearly, he learned all he knew about the Justice system from Legally Blonde.
Billy Numerous keeps cloning himself to dodge the mugshot. The officers are not amused. "Every copy gets its own cell, genius!" one yells. That fixes the problem real quick. Not sure why. They'd just run out of cells. But, I guess if he were smarter, he wouldn't be here.
Jinx leans against the wall, twirling a strand of pink hair, eyes distant. She's doing the classic "too cool to care" routine, except her jaw keeps tightening every time the cuffs jingle.
And Terra… Terra just stands there. Silent. Watching. Like she can't decide if she's the victim or the villain in her own story. Typical teenager.
For a moment, the noise fades. All I can think about is how young they all are. Barely out of high school. Still figuring out who they want to be — and someone out there convinced them this was the answer.
"Congratulations, me," I mutter. "Locked up the future CEOs of villainy. Feeling heroic yet?"
The detective looks over. "You say something?"
"Just thinking out loud," I said, waving it off.
But the thought sticks.
Because this is the part nobody talks about. The part after the fight, when the adrenaline fades and all that's left is the paperwork and the echo of your own hypocrisy.
I watch the officers cataloging stolen tech — half of it junk, the rest untraceable — and I think about how the world keeps expecting kids like these to pick a side between "hero" and "criminal" when the middle ground costs money nobody has.
You want to go straight? Cool. Better hope someone hires a meta with a rap sheet and glowing eyes.
You want to be a hero? Great. Hope you've got savings. Because good doesn't pay minimum wage.
Even for me — a guy with movie posters, a line of action figures, and an endorsement deal with an energy drink that tastes like carbonated regret — every heroic thing I do comes out of pocket. Repairs, fuel, gear upgrades, insurance.
Don't even get me started on insurance.
I've done the math.
Public hero work doesn't pay. Government stipends are a PR myth. Endorsements? Risky. One bad photo and suddenly you're trending for "property damage."
The detective's voice cuts in, snapping me out of it. "You okay there, King?"
"Fine," I lie. "Just thinking about the paperwork you're about to make me sign."
He smirks. "We've got a whole stack with your name on it."
"Lucky me."
I take a seat by the booking desk, watching the Five being led to holding cells. Jinx glances back once, her eyes meeting mine. No fear there — just a spark of defiance. Maybe even confusion.
I know that look. I used to see it in the mirror.
The detective sits beside me, rubbing his temples. "You know," he said quietly, "you're one of the few who stick around after a bust. Most of your kind just vanish after the applause."
"I told you, that's not my style," I mutter, signing every dotted line that seemed to only multiply the more I left my signature. "You know, not to speak ill of Batman or anything, but disappearing doesn't mean the mess just goes away. Someone still has to clean it up."
"Could use more like you," he mutters.
"Trust me," I reply, "one of me's already a handful."
He laughs, and for a second the station almost feels human again. Then his phone buzzes, and the moment's gone.
As he answers, I drift back into my thoughts.
The question keeps turning over and over in my head, grinding against the cynicism that keeps me sane:
What if being good didn't have to mean being broke?
What if heroes could be heroes full-time — not just between jobs, not just when the rent's covered?
What if doing the right thing… came with a paycheck?
The idea hits like caffeine to the brain. Stupid. Unlikely. Dangerous, even.
But maybe that's what makes it worth it.
Because if the system doesn't work for people trying to do good, maybe it's time to build one that does.
The detective hands me the final form to sign. I scrawl "KING" in bold letters and slide it back.
"Thanks for the assist tonight," he said. "You ever get tired of solo work, there's a badge waiting."
I stand, shaking his hand in parting. "Appreciate it. But I don't do badges. Too shiny."
He chuckles. "So what do you do?"
I pause at the door, watching the kids disappear behind reinforced glass.
"…Still figuring that out."
Then I step out into the cold L.A. night — lights flashing against the clouds, city humming with its usual brand of chaos.
...
My penthouse looks like a conspiracy theorist's basement had a baby with a WeWork.
Sticky notes. Everywhere. On the fridge. On the ceiling. One stuck to my clothes — which is my fault for not being decisive enough to actually take a notes.
In the middle of the chaos sits me: Luke Grayson, wearing a hoodie that costs more than most people's rent but still somehow looks like I slept in it. A half-drunk energy drink sweats beside my laptop, which currently has fourteen tabs open. Eleven of them are legal disclaimers. The other three are pizza delivery menus.
"Okay," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "Think corporate, but not evil. So, obviously not Vought. Vigilante… but with benefits." And even that wasn't entirely accurate. With the right permits, that an actual business requires, most of the things superheroes do are entirely legal.
The cursor blinks back at me like it's judging me for even trying.
I start typing names.
Heroic Solutions, LLC.
I stare at it. Delete.
Sounds like something LexCorp sues in the pilot episode.
Next: MetaWorks.
Not bad. Sounds like a tech startup that harvests DNA for fun. I'll put it down as a maybe.
S.A.V.E. (Superhuman Aid, Vigilance, and Enforcement).
Okay, catchy acronym, kind of reminds me of SHIELD, but I don't like the Vigilance and Enforcement angle. Realistically, crime fighting will probably come up, but I'm not trying to steal jobs from the police, and this kinda gives that impression. Delete.
Knights of California.
I actually like that one. Feels noble. Heroic. Marketable. Accurate, too. Problem is, that leaves the initials at KOC… yeah, I don't want that said out loud. Ever. Delete.
I lean back, running a hand through my hair. "Alright, Luke. Think. What's the actual pitch here?"
I open a new note and start talking out loud, because apparently, I need to hear my bad ideas echo to believe in them. What can I say? I'm an auditory learner.
"Step one: legalize heroism. Step two: monetize it. Step three: hopefully avoid becoming the Jeff Bezos of punching people." A sticky note flutters off the wall, landing on my shoulder. It reads "INSURANCE?" in angry, underlined red. I tear it off and crumple it up. "Later problem."
I flip to another page in my notebook. Scribbles. Diagrams. Arrows connecting nothing to nothing.
Client subscription tiers.
Platinum members get guaranteed rescue within 30 minutes or your money back!
HR for villains — Mandatory therapy Tuesdays. Free donuts on Fridays.
Uniform budget: TBD (no capes, seriously).
Edna Mode was very wise… on the other hand, I'm never taking my cape off, and what if some heroes need capes at some point? Like Batman's glider cape. This is an uphill battle.
I stop. Stare. Laugh quietly.
"This is insane."
The kind of insane that either changes the world or gets you a headline that starts with "Local man found surrounded by Post-its."
My laptop pings. I ignore it. Probably Jessica reminding me that Fallon wants a follow-up interview. Yeah, no. Not after the "Tonight Show Massacre." I still haven't finished reading the memes.
I scroll back up to my document and start drafting a mission statement:
We punch evil so you don't have to. Hourly rates negotiable.
I hummed. "I sound like Batman with a LinkedIn."
But still… it's not quite right. It's too self-aware, not enough sincerity. The kind of slogan you'd find printed on a t-shirt in a Hot Topic clearance bin.
I open a voice memo app. "Note to self: workshop slogans when I'm sober."
Then I start sketching out logistics like I'm building an empire out of duct tape and caffeine.
A rotating roster of heroes. Pay rates by risk level. Subscription packages:
— Bronze Tier: Minor assistance — cats in trees, tech support, light burglary deterrence.
— Silver Tier: Property defense, disaster response, aggressive animal removal.
— Gold Tier: Full-scale villain intervention and recovery care.
Each comes with its own waiver. Naturally.
I grin despite myself. "Okay, maybe this could actually work. Heroes for hire — but not mercenaries. A system. An infrastructure."
And yeah, it sounds ridiculous — but so does half the Justice League's hiring process. At least mine comes with HR. And a salary that makes sense, and doesn't steal from your parent's company, Bruce.
I scribble another note:
PR slogans:
— "Do good. Get paid. Don't get sued."
— "Justice. Now with dental."
— "Saving the world — one invoice at a time."
My phone buzzes again. Jessica this time, for real.
Jessica: "You're trending again. #GraysonFallonFight is up to 12 million views. You want to say something?"
Me: "Yeah. Delete the internet."
I toss the phone aside. If I start reading comments, I'll never stop. I've already lost too many hours to people debating whether my armor's bulletproof or just "a very shiny cry for help." It's platinum, no shit it's not bullet proof. I don't need it to be.
I'm the one who's bulletproof.
The clock on my wall hits 3:07 a.m.
Outside, the city hums — that late-night L.A. drone of engines, sirens, and bad decisions. Somewhere out there, another crime's probably happening. And I should be out there too.
But right now? I'm building something else. Something bigger.
"Maybe it's not just about stopping bad guys," I murmur. "Maybe it's about giving people a reason not to become them."
That stops me cold. The words hang there, electric.
I stare at the screen. Then type it out:
"To make heroism sustainable — for everyone."
I lean back, exhale slowly.
"…Huh."
For once, it doesn't sound like a joke.
The Post-its rustle from the air conditioner kicking on, and I take that as a sign.
I slap one last note onto the whiteboard, dead center. Big block letters:
MetaWorks
In hindsight… it was probably the best one I had.
...
The lights in the holding block buzzed like dying hornets. Terra sat on the edge of her cot, elbows on knees, staring at the cracks in the floor.
Concrete. Always concrete. Gray, lifeless, unmovable—kind of poetic, if you were into that sort of masochism.
She wasn't.
The others had taken to the new accommodations in predictably annoying ways.
Gizmo had turned his handcuffs into a fidget toy. Billy Numerous had made five of himself just to argue about whose turn it was to sit closest to the vent. Jinx lay on her cot like a cat who'd decided prison was simply a new kind of chaise lounge. Mammoth, bless him, was trying to fold the thin mattress into an origami swan.
Terra was just… tired.
"Man, this is bogus," one of the Billys muttered, pacing the length of the cell. "We didn't even do anything that bad this time."
"Yeah," Gizmo snorted. "Armed robbery and mild property damage? That's like—community service levels of evil."
Terra rolled her eyes. "You held a family hostage, Giz."
He shrugged, the chains clinking around his wrists. "They were rich. They'll recover."
She bit back a sigh. Same song, different verse. Every time she thought maybe she could steer these idiots toward something better, they doubled down on stupid. She wasn't sure if that made her the worst influence in the room or the dumbest optimist alive.
Before she could decide, the heavy security door hissed open.
Every conversation died instantly.
King stepped in, flanked by two guards who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. The man was all silver and reflections—platinum armor gleaming under fluorescent light, a cape that somehow didn't look ridiculous, and that mirrored visor that hid any trace of a human face. The crown-shaped crest on his helmet caught the light, throwing fractured brilliance across the walls.
For a second, Terra wondered if it was deliberate—some intimidation tactic. Then she decided no, he probably just liked the aesthetic.
"Good morning, delinquents," King said, voice modulated and metallic. "Sleep well? Enjoy the continental breakfast?"
Jinx smirked. "Oh yeah. Five stars. Loved the ambiance."
King pointed a gloved finger at her. "See? Positive attitude. That's how you get promoted to minimum security."
He stepped closer to the cell, hands clasped behind his back like a teacher walking the aisles of detention. "So. The H.I.V.E. Five. Minus the actual hive, plus a few questionable life choices. You know, you kids were trending last night. Great mugshots, by the way. Billy, you somehow blinked in all six of yours. Impressive."
One of the Billys grinned. "Consistency's a virtue."
Terra crossed her arms. "What do you want, King? Come to gloat?"
He tilted his head. "Tempting, but no. I'm here with an offer."
That got everyone's attention.
Gizmo squinted. "This a sting? You gonna tell us to snitch for reduced time?"
King's tone turned almost lazy. "Nah. I'm offering employment."
The group stared at him.
Jinx sat up. "You expect us to work for you?"
King leaned forward slightly, reflective visor catching her scowl. "No. I expect you to work for yourselves. I'm just here to make sure you don't accidentally explode a Starbucks in the process."
Gizmo's jaw dropped. "Oh, this is definitely a sting."
Mammoth frowned, scratching his head. "Wait. We can get paid… for breaking stuff?"
"That's the gist," King said, folding his arms. "Here's the pitch: I'm putting together a team. A legal one. You help people, you get paid. I handle the paperwork, the permits, the PR nightmare. You do what you're good at—preferably without committing felonies."
Terra blinked. "You're kidding."
"Do I sound like I'm kidding?" he asked. Then, after a beat, added, "Actually, don't answer that. I sound like this all the time."
Jinx narrowed her eyes. "What's the catch?"
King held up a single finger. "You don't commit felonies on company time."
The silence that followed was thick enough to chew.
Billy finally broke it. "That's it?"
"Yup."
"Like—no ankle monitors, no undercover ops, no exploding implants if we run?"
King shrugged. "Those sound expensive. Who do I look like, Amanda Waller? Oh, you probably don't know her. Not important. Anyways, if you do try something, it's not like I can't just bring you in. Again. Though I'll be very disappointed next time."
Gizmo muttered, "You're insane."
"Probably," King admitted. "But with great insanity, comes great health coverage."
Terra's mouth twitched despite herself.
She hated that.
The idea was ridiculous, obviously. Heroes didn't hire villains. Villains didn't take W-2s. But there was something about the way he said it—like he wasn't mocking them, not really. Like he genuinely believed they could do something else.
Which was… unsettling.
"You're serious?" she asked, trying to sound bored and not hopeful. "You're just gonna hire a bunch of teenage criminals to go 'help people'?"
"Not just any teenage criminals," King said, pointing at her through the bars. "The ones with potential."
Terra snorted. "Yeah, sure. We're overflowing with that."
"Exactly," he said. "You're young, talented, and underachieving spectacularly. I see opportunity."
Jinx crossed her legs, skeptical. "And what's in it for you, your majesty?"
King's visor turned toward her. "Legacy. Infrastructure. And maybe—just maybe—a chance to prove that doing good doesn't have to mean going broke or dying young."
That earned him a few side-eyes.
Terra watched him carefully. The armor gave nothing away—no eyes to read, no smirk to analyze—but his posture stayed relaxed, casual. Like he was completely confident they'd say yes eventually.
And maybe that's what bothered her most.
He didn't look like someone testing an idea. He looked like someone who'd already decided this would work.
Mammoth leaned toward her. "You think he's serious?" he whispered.
"Unfortunately, yeah," she muttered back.
Her mind spun. Heroes. Again. After everything. After betraying the Titans, betraying Slade, betraying herself. And now this guy in chrome armor wanted to hand her a clean slate like it was a coupon.
She didn't trust it.
But God help her, part of her wanted to.
King checked his wrist display, probably for dramatic timing. "You don't have to decide now. You'll get standard contracts, NDAs, the usual nonsense. Read the fine print, or don't—it mostly just says don't commit arson unless I say so."
Gizmo scoffed. "You got investors or something? Who's dumb enough to fund this?"
"Working on that," King replied. "But first, I need proof of concept. A team that can function without imploding." He paused, tilting his head. "So naturally, I thought of you."
Billy laughed. "Man, that's flattering and insulting at the same time."
"Good," King said. "Means I'm doing it right."
Does it?
He took a step back, signaling the guards. "Think about it. You can rot in here, or you can get paid to break things legally. I'll be back tomorrow with paperwork. Don't disappoint me—I already used up my inspirational speech quota for the week."
The door slid shut behind him, sealing them back into silence.
For a long moment, no one said a word.
Then Gizmo muttered, "I still think it's a sting."
Jinx rolled onto her back. "If it is, it's the weirdest one I've ever seen."
Billy started debating with himself about benefits packages.
Terra stayed quiet.
She kept her gaze fixed on the spot where King had stood, trying to read meaning into the reflection he'd left behind.
She'd been offered second chances before. They never lasted.
But maybe this wasn't a second chance. Maybe it was a job.
And maybe that made it different.
She lay back on her cot and stared at the cracked ceiling again.
Concrete. Always concrete.
But for the first time, it didn't feel quite as unmovable.
...
You know a workspace has "character" when the ceiling tiles look like they're auditioning for a horror movie and the break room fridge hums the national anthem whenever the lights flicker. I'd like to say I bought this building because it had potential. Really, I bought it because it was cheap, structurally sound, and no one had suffered a legally provable death inside it.
Mostly.
Welcome to MetaWorks.
The lobby used to be a telemarketing bullpen. Now it had tasteful lighting, reinforced walls, and exactly one (1) piece of furniture: a sad couch Mammoth would absolutely destroy within a week. Probably by sitting on it wrong, or breathing too heavily.
I'll admit, it's a work-in-progress. Even with my speed, it'll still probably take me a weekend to get this place in any presentable condition. But prime L.A. real estate is way too expensive, even for a guy who can mine literal asteroids for gold, sell it to pawn shops, and pay for the building and land in cash.
Okay, so maybe I'm just cheap.
Let's focus on the positives, here. I have my proto-headquarters ready. I have my phase-one superhero team ready. And today was our first official team orientation.
I imagined I'd walk in to see everyone waiting for me.
Proud. Professional. Inspirational.
Instead, I walked into the main workroom to the sound of Gizmo shouting. "—and if you don't like the asking price, tough nougats, this is limited-edition tech, baby!"
I stopped dead. "…Gizmo, what exactly are you selling on eBay?"
He didn't look up. He was perched at a workstation like a gremlin who'd discovered caffeine by injection, tiny fingers typing at Mach 5. "Just some of the stuff you had lying around. The sparky discs? The pingy thing? The boomerang that explodes if you throw it wrong?"
"Those are mementos of some of the villains I fought." I stepped closer, visor reflecting his screen. "Very expensive, very personal mementos." Ones that I had planned to mantle on the walls to encourage the team, like a school trophy.
Is this what betrayal feels like?
Gizmo shrugged. "Then it's good I got a bidding war going."
I swear I felt my blood pressure rise. Which is impressive, considering Viltrumite arteries are basically hydraulic steel pipes.
Deep breaths, King. Leadership is about trust. And if not trust, plausible deniability. If you didn't see him do it, it didn't happen. And if it never happened, the warranty paperwork can't come back to haunt you.
"Gizmo," I said carefully, "take down the listing."
He frowned. "But I already added shipping."
"Now," I repeated, adding the patented "Viltrumite glare," which works even with a helmet because people can sense disappointment radiating off me like ambient heat.
He grumbled but started deleting.
Good. One fire extinguished.
Which meant it was time for—
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIM FOR THE SKYYYYYY!"
I turned just in time for my coffee mug to shriek motivational quotes at me. Loudly.
Every.
Thirty.
Seconds.
"You've cursed my mug," I said flatly.
Jinx slid into view from behind a cubicle wall, smirking, pink hair bouncing. "Correction: I enhanced your mug. It now screams affirmations. Very empowering."
The mug shrieked again:
"YOU ARE VALID AND BEAUTIFUL!"
I stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the mug.
"Why do I even have this?" I muttered to myself in confusion. "I can't drink coffee through a full-face helmet."
She fluttered her lashes. "Then it's really for all of us."
This is why people become villains. It's never the big things, like revenge, or a lack of options. It's always the petty stuff. It's always the coffee mug.
Before I could decide whether to throw it or Jinx into the sun, a loud crack came from the gym.
Followed by a gentle, "Sorry!"
I found Mammoth standing guilty over the shattered remains of treadmill number… I checked my list… three.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "It wasn't my fault. The belt got all slippery."
I looked at the ruined machine. The belt wasn't slippery. The belt was torn wide open like it had tried to flee its own existence.
"It's okay, Manny," I said. Yeah, I called him Manny. He liked it. It made him smile like a golden retriever who could bench-press a Buick. He probably thought it was my way of calling him manly, or strong.
It wasn't. It was me referencing Ice Age.
"That's why we brought multiples."
"We only bought three," he reminded gently.
"Right. Bought." Stole from a warehouse and then discreetly mailed a compensation check under an alias. The less paper-trails I have to deal with, the better. "Okay, well, we'll get more later. In the meantime, let's maybe transition you to… weights. Or yoga. Something low-impact."
"Yoga looks hard," he muttered, but he nodded. Sweet guy. Strong enough to fold a sedan into origami, but apologizes to the equipment when he breaks it. Mammoth is proof the universe occasionally hands out soft hearts in very large bodies.
Which is when Terra poked her head in.
She was holding a binder. A very organized binder.
"I finished the inventory you asked for," she said, voice cautious, like she was offering me a bomb with good intentions.
"Already?" I blinked. "That was fast."
She shrugged. "Not like anyone else was doing it."
I glanced into the workroom.
Billy was chasing three of his duplicates around, yelling about identity theft laws.
Jinx was braiding cursed string into a lanyard.
Gizmo had reopened eBay in a second tab.
"Fair point."
I took the binder.
Neat handwriting. Clear labels. Graphs. Actual graphs.
I looked up at her. "You did great."
She froze. Not visibly, not dramatically—but in that subtle, someone just said something kind and my brain has no driver installed for this reaction way.
"…Thanks," she said quietly. Almost too quietly.
She's trying so hard. And she thinks every path she takes collapses under her. Poor kid's made of landmines and guilt. And here I am, the idiot who handed her a clipboard and said 'we're a team now.'
Please don't let me screw this up. Or let her screw this up. Or let anyone screw anything up. Actually, everything here is probably already screwed.
We walked back into the main area, where Billy was now arguing with himself at the registration table.
"I'm not fillin' out no W-9s," the original Billy said.
Clone #2 replied, "We're technically plural individuals, Bill. We need a group return."
Clone #4 helpfully added, "The IRS is not prepared for us, y'all."
I approached like a man approaching a wild animal with a too-high insurance premium. "Billy. We talked about this."
He crossed his arms. "Tax law's murky, man. I multiply. That's like… multiple mes. They can't tax multiple me's. That's double jeopardy."
"That is not remotely how double jeopardy works." Clone #1 rolled his eyes.
"You don't know! You only know what I know!"
"Yeah! Which means I know that you don't know!"
"Oh, yeah?! Well I know that you know that I—"
"No!" I snapped. "We are not doing this bit. Stop it."
"Aw, man."
"I know, right?"
I hate him/them so much.
I pinched the bridge of my nose inside my helmet, to try and calm my nerves. I had to physically squeeze my hand right up against my face to make that happen. Which only made me more frustrated, in hindsight.
On the bright side, I think the gesture transferred telepathically through sheer emotional exhaustion. "Look. Just fill out one form. One. The rest of you can file as dependents or… I don't know, spiritual extensions."
Billy paused. "…can I claim myself as a deduction?"
"No."
Clone #3 whispered, "Worth a shot."
Billy sat down with a dramatic sigh and began writing. The problem with a man who duplicates is that he duplicates paperwork stress too. I was suddenly very glad the IRS doesn't have a superhuman division.
And then the screaming mug started again.
"BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD!"
I slammed my hand on the table. "Jinx!"
She called back sweetly, "Yes, boss?"
"I swear on every permit I haven't filed yet, if that mug yells one more time—"
The mug yelled one more time. Before it promptly burst into shards of ceramic in my slightly tighter grip.
Terra snickered under her breath.
I heard her. Viltrumite hearing is a curse.
This is fine. This is good. Kings lead by example. Kings inspire. Kings—I am absolutely going to need a babysitter for these feral, undercaffeinated disaster children.
I looked around the room.
Gizmo dismantling tech and ethics simultaneously.
Jinx practicing curses like she was seasoning a pot of soup.
Mammoth gently petting a broken treadmill, apologizing to it.
Terra pretending she didn't care but watching everything with the eyes of someone terrified to hope.
Billy arguing with four versions of himself about line 12B.
My team.
God help me.
"All right!" I clapped my hands, which echoed off the metal plates of my gauntlets. "Team! Huddle!"
They gathered. Slowly. Suspiciously. Some duplicates merged back into the original out of boredom.
"This," I said, gesturing at everything—the mess, the chaos, the emotional mayhem—"is our beta test."
Jinx raised a hand. "We're failing, right?"
"Oh absolutely," I said. "Crashing and burning at a professional level. It's to be expected, we're still figuring shit out. And I think I know the first step to doing just that."
Mammoth frowned. "What is it?"
"Hiring someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Five pairs of eyes blinked.
Jinx shrieked. "You're replacing us?! Already?! It's the first day! We'll do better, I promise!"
"I'm not replacing anyone." I rolled my eyes. "If you'd let me finish, what I meant was that I would be hiring someone who could show the ropes to this whole superhero thing. Someone with time. And patience."
Terra tilted her head. "Like… a manager?"
"Exactly." I nodded. "A role model, slash floor manager… or whatever our equivalent is. You know. Someone who can wrangle powered personalities, keep operations running, and tell me when my ideas are stupid."
Billy snorted. "That's a full-time job, man."
"Yes, Billy. I know. That's why I'm hiring a professional." I explained, slowly and simply, as if to a child… wait, he is a child. Well, under eighteen. Above fifteen, though. So, really, he should know better.
I walked to my workstation, pulled up a list, and let my voice drop into my best dramatic-narrator tone. Which wasn't that hard, given that I do some of that for an actual living.
"Behold. Retired heroes. Former vigilantes. Superpowered project managers. My future employee… is somewhere on this list."
Jinx leaned in. "You have, like, a Rolodex of old superheroes?"
"No," I said. "I have a Rolodex of people who owe me favors or hate boredom." Some of which were old superheroes. Some were really closer to civilian consultants. I'm not opposed to bringing them on board, but it's a delicate matter.
Terra folded her arms. "Anyone we know?"
"Maybe," I shrugged. "But don't worry. Whoever I pick, it'll be someone competent. Promise."
Oh no. I need someone competent.
Why would I have promised that? Where does one even find competence these days? Craigslist? Doom Patrol alumni meetings? Group therapy for retired sidekicks?
I stared at the roster.
Someone out there could manage this crew. Someone with infinite patience. Someone with crisis experience. Someone who wouldn't punch me on sight.
…That eliminated almost everyone.
But I'd find them. Or die trying… well, obviously not literally, but you get the point. I'll find someone, whatever.
...
Luke's motivation is brought to you by... Gen Z!
The generation that frankly does not give a damn!