The Heroes' Tower stood like a middle finger to gravity, stabbing the sky at nearly 4,000 feet tall. Gleaming black panels swallowed the sun, reflecting the city below like a polished obsidian mirror stretched over a god's tombstone. The tower didn't just scrape the clouds — it owned them.
Inside, the air was thick with a scent that dared you to breathe it: aged mahogany, citrus-polished stone, and a sterile prestige so dense it felt like it might choke you. The kind of air meant to remind you, you don't belong here.
The lower floors were a symphony of whispered curses and refined chaos — five-star chefs in crisply ironed jackets barked orders. Gordon Ramsay snapped into his headset, the edge in his voice sharper than his knives. Nearby, Massimo Bottura drifted past servers like an artist in motion, painting invisible masterpieces in the air. Here, food wasn't plated — it was composed. Truffle oil hung suspended, perfuming the air with decadence. Caviar wept delicate tears onto handmade crystal plates. And beneath it all, the quartz floors gleamed smooth as sin, always cold enough to steal the heat from your skin.
Three hundred suites sprawled across the upper levels like chambers of Olympus: hot tubs that filled in thirty seconds flat, rainfall spas spitting programmed aromatherapy, beds that whispered lullabies you couldn't refuse. The wealthy came here to sleep and left changed, like they'd been touched by something divine, or dangerous.
But above all that past the glamour, gloss, and global envy was the Hero Wing.
No luxury. No room service. No warmth.
A bed. A toilet. A cold, unforgiving floor.
And silence.
This wasn't punishment.
It was design.
These weren't celebrities.
They were weapons.
Scene: The Heroes' Meeting Room
The chamber felt like the quiet before an atomic bomb cold, cavernous, suffocating. The walls pulsed faintly with hidden technology, humming just beneath the surface. Spotless, sure. But sterile. Dead. Like a morgue for heroes.
At the center, a massive obsidian table stretched out like a blade poised to strike. Each chair molded specifically to its occupant shaped to their spine, their weight, their pressure points. Worth more than a penthouse in Manhattan. The kind of luxury that promised comfort but delivered control.
Above the table, a circular light hovered like a halo glowing white and soft, refusing to cast shadows. It exposed everything.
Winthrop stood near the far end. Still. Silent. His hood swallowed his face, leaving a black void where eyes should be. Arms hung limply by his sides no twitch, no breath, no life. The kind of watching that made your skin crawl, the itch behind your ears demanding you look away, even as you couldn't.
Strike sat near the entrance, slouched deep into his chair, fingers drumming rapid, unconscious beats against his thigh. The dark blue mask that never left his face rose and fell with each tight, irritated breath. He radiated barely contained tension.
Warrior Girl — Amy perched sideways by the window, one leg hooked lazily over the other. Her foot swung gently, a cigarette glowing between her fingers like a small, dangerous sun. Smoke trailed upward, alive, curling and twisting like a venomous snake. Her eyes didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just stared out at the skyline unreadable, distant, cold.
Vortex and MAD sat stiff as statues beside her, quiet tension crackling between them. Not one of them relaxed. Not one smiled. Everyone waited. Held their breath.
In a far corner, a Channel 4 News crew moved silently, setting cables, adjusting lights with clinical precision. Red bulbs blinked alive.
CAMERAS ROLL.
The crew chief raised three fingers.
Three… two… one…
A green light blinked.
Alan McAllister stepped forward, the too-bright suit on his frame clashing with the sterile room. His smile stretched a little too wide, too forced.
Hello America! I'm Alan McAllister with Channel 4 News, broadcasting live from the top floor of the world's most advanced, most mysterious and arguably, most important structure on Earth: The Heroes' Tower.
He strode toward a portrait on the wall as the camera followed.
This image here, he said, gesturing with a nervous flair, "was taken 14 years ago. The Nine in formation battling a colossal sea beast just off the Icelandic coast.
He moved to the next.
And this… is Inferno, caught midair, ripping a tentacle in half—
He froze.
His eyes flicked to the image brutal. A sea creature's blood and innards splattered across the ice. Inferno's face smeared with dark, wet gore.
Alan's jaw twitched involuntarily. His mouth opened, then snapped shut.
His breath hitched audibly.
Holy… shit. He slapped a hand over his mouth, trembling.
Let's move on, he stammered, voice cracking. Um… let's, uh… let's talk to one of the heroes.
Winthrop
Alan approached Winthrop, stiff, awkward microphone out like a shield. His free hand hovered nervously at his side, fingers twitching.
So… Winthrop, right? What's your role in the Nine?
Nothing.
Winthrop didn't flinch. Not an eye twitch beneath that black hood. Not a breath. Just the same unnatural stillness that filled the room with ice.
Alan chuckled nervously. Glanced helplessly at the crew.
Is he… okay?
He reached out fingers trembling and gently tapped Winthrop's shoulder.
It was like touching a corpse.
Hey… hey, buddy, are you alright?
Warrior Girl Speaks
A low, rough chuckle rolled out from behind Alan.
Warrior Girl smirked, smoke curling from the corner of her lips like a living thing. She shook her head slowly, grinding ash into a nearby tray.
I wouldn't touch him if I were you.
Her voice was raspy. Low. Like she'd eaten glass and liked it.
Alan jerked his hand back, spine stiffening as he spun to face her.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
Wh-what is he?
She didn't look at him. Just flicked her cigarette lazily toward Winthrop's hood — a black void swallowing light and hope.
He's an assassin.
She leaned back, exhaling smoke upward, long legs crossing slowly, confidently. Every motion deliberate. Casual power dripping from her like venom.
Enter Inferno
BOOM.
The steel doors exploded open.
Inferno strode in a walking weapon. The very air seemed to bend around him.
His cape billowed perfectly in time with his steps. His uniform sleek grey armor laced with blood-red titanium shimmered under the harsh light. A red ceremonial ribbon draped across his chest, embossed with ancient Greek symbols.
His gaze sliced through the room like a blade.
Then he saw Alan, hand still half-raised near Winthrop.
Inferno's smile vanished. His jaw clenched like iron.
His voice hit the room like a bullet.
Let. Go. Of. Him. Now.
Alan dropped his hand as if it burned him. Backed up, breath quick and uneven.
Inferno exhaled slowly, running a hand through his perfect brown hair, then marched to the head of the table.
Winthrop silently moved to stand at his side.
Inferno's hands flattened on the obsidian surface. Fingers spread wide. Shoulders squared.
Let's cut the shit, he said, voice low, scanning the room with deliberate precision.
The Meeting
You all did good this week, Inferno said, eyes flicking from Strike to MAD to Warrior Girl. Fifty villains neutralized in twelve days. That's a fucking record.
The room stayed frozen. A few weak mumbles of "Yes, sir" drifted out. Hollow. Uncommitted.
Inferno smiled sharp and cold at the camera, then back at his team.
I'm proud of you.
He dropped a thick folder on the table with a brutal thud.
But we've got a problem. A Manipulator someone who hacked into our systems. Made copies. Better, faster, stronger than the originals.
He leaned in. Voice tightened like a steel wire.
This is an existential threat. We're going to find them. And erase them.
His eyes locked on each of them.
Ideas?
Road Runner Fails the Test
Road Runner lazily raised a hand, fingers curling like a cat stretching. His red suit gleamed under the lights. Greasy black hair hung tangled over his jaw.
I say we go in loud, he smirked. Boom.
He clapped his hands, like a kid waiting for a prize.
Inferno's gaze turned icy.
You want to go in with no plan. No recon. No tactics. Just fists?
He tilted his head, voice as cold as a grave.
You idiot.
Road Runner sank back, grin fading into something sour.
Vortex Interruption
Inferno's eyes flicked to Vortex, smirking.
You, sweetheart?
I'm not your sweetheart, she snapped. The temperature dropped ten degrees instantly.
Inferno stepped closer, voice a whisper edged with menace.
Excuse me?
She swallowed hard, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
I… I don't know, sir.
Inferno spun, eyes cutting to Warrior Girl.
"You just gonna sit there and smoke your problems away? he growled. Or are you gonna say something useful?"
Warrior Girl lifted her head, smirk curling the corner of her mouth.
At least I'm blowing it out, she said. You keep all yours locked up in here.
She tapped her temple with her cigarette, the glow flaring for a heartbeat.
The room froze.
Inferno rose. Walked forward slowly. Predator closing in.
Then barked at the cameraman:
Cut the feed. Do the interviews.
The heavy door slammed shut behind Warrior Girl. The sterile corridor swallowed the sharp click of her boots against cold tile.
She pulled another cigarette from a battered black case, fingers trembling ever so slightly. She lit it, inhaling deep, the smoke filling her lungs like poison and relief all at once. Her eyes burned, rimmed red, but her posture was still defiant shoulders squared, chin tilted up.
A sudden, heavy presence.
Inferno.
He moved fast, the ground seeming to quake beneath his boots. Three long strides and he was on her.
You think that shit was funny? His voice was low, venomous.
Amy turned slowly, smoke curling from her lips like a living threat.
You got a problem with honesty, sir?
That was the spark.
Inferno shoved her hard. Shoulder slammed against steel with a sickening crack.
Her breath slammed out of her lungs in a ragged gasp.
Before she could react, he grabbed her by the front of her suit, yanking her up a foot off the floor. Her head thudded against unforgiving concrete.
Their faces were inches apart. Inferno's eyes burned with cold fury, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.
What the fuck is wrong with you?! You don't talk to me like that. Not ever.
His hands pressed hard into her collarbones. She flinched but held her ground. No screams. No swings.
Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
Her jaw trembled, but her eyes dared him.
Got it, cunt? he growled, lips barely moving.
No answer.
Just a single, silent nod.
Inferno released her abruptly she crashed down hard, the floor cracking beneath her impact.
She coughed violently, rolling onto her side, spitting blood into the cold tile, wiping it away with the back of her hand.
Inferno pointed at her with a flickering finger.
Now fuck off, bitch.
And he strode away, every step like thunder echoing in the hollow hall.
The Interview Scene with Amy (Warrior Girl) and Gal Gadot
Scene 2
The stark white room felt suffocating under soft floodlights that gave no mercy. Amy sat stiffly in the high chair, every muscle wound tight beneath her suit. She adjusted her collar, fingers twitching with residual adrenaline. Smoke clung faintly to her, a stubborn ghost.
Her eyes were sharp but hollow, guarded like a cornered animal.
Across from her, Gal Gadot smiled practiced, polished, a mask of warmth hiding whatever else lay beneath. She shifted in her elegant wine-colored dress, legs crossed like a poised predator. Clipboard in hand, ready to pry.
The red LIVE light blinked on.
We're live in three... two... one...
Gal leaned forward, voice soft but precise.
Hello. I'm Gal Gadot, here with one of the Nine — Warrior Girl. Or may I call you Amy?
Amy flinched. Just a flicker too fast for most to catch at the corner of her mouth.
Sure, she said, voice low, brittle. Amy's fine.
Gal nodded, turning on the charm.
You've been with the team for, what, fifteen years now?
Amy took a slow drag of her cigarette, fingers twitching nervously as she toyed with the edge.
Since I was nineteen. Always been a fighter.
Gal's eyes widened, genuine admiration or a perfect imitation.
What's your greatest strength feat?
Amy looked up, lips pressed tight.
Probably 2021. Held up an apartment building on my back for seven minutes straight. Gas line about to blow. People needed time.
Gal's breath hitched.
Seven minutes? You just… held it?
Amy nodded, expression blank.
Yeah. Heavy.
Incredible, Gal breathed, flipping a page.
And your take on Inferno?
Amy blinked hesitation cracking through her tough exterior.
Her smile slipped.
Across the room, hidden behind the camera lens, Inferno stood rigid, arms crossed like a fortress. His stare was a weight crushing her ribs.
She stole a quick glance at him, then forced a smile back to Gal.
He's a great man. Strong. Smart. Knows what he's doing. The perfect leader.
Inferno's nod was almost imperceptible but it carried a chill that made Amy's hands clench beneath the table.
The Hallway Confrontation with Emma Watson and Inferno
Scene 3
Inferno's boots echoed sharply down the hall as he left the interview room.
Ahead stood Emma Watson, awkward and nervous, gently holding Winthrop's hand. Her grip was careful, hesitant like guiding a frightened child.
Okay, she whispered, voice soft. One step at a time, alright? Safety first… I think he might be blind… maybe deaf too…
Inferno's booming voice cut through the quiet like a whip.
What the fuck is happening here?
Emma flinched and spun to face him, cheeks flushing red. She straightened immediately, forcing composure.
I...I thought… he needed help," she stammered. He...he's not responding…
Inferno rubbed his temples, frustration flickering in his eyes.
His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.
Just leave.
Emma nodded quickly, breaking contact and almost running away without looking back.
Inferno stepped close to Winthrop, heavy hand settling on his shoulder with a weight that bent the air.
Warrior Girl's doing an interview. Watch her.
Winthrop tilted his head just slightly the barest gesture and then shifted to face the tall window, staring out like a preacher lost in a sermon only he could hear.
Scene 4
Amy sat rigid beneath the unforgiving white lights, eyes burning from strain. She'd answered every question lied every lie repeated every carefully crafted story.
Her chest rose and fell slowly now, exhaustion folding into rage and despair.
Her head turned slightly a glance.
Through the glass, she saw Winthrop standing motionless, his black hooded form etched against the world outside.
Watching.
Something cracked inside her a fragile break in the carefully maintained armor.
She stood suddenly, yanking off her microphone with a sharp snap.
Gal blinked, startled.
Amy, wait! We still have thirty minutes
Amy's hand was already fumbling for another cigarette.
Go fuck yourself.
The door slammed behind her with the finality of a guillotine.
Gal sat frozen, hand pressed to her chest like she'd been stabbed.
What… is wrong with her? she whispered.
Winthrop said nothing.
He just kept watching.
Warrior Girl's boots echoed softly on the marble as she stalked down the hallway, hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her head hung low, brown hair falling straight around her shoulders like a curtain, shielding her from the world.
She pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the city's brutal breeze. The cold gust whipped her hair sideways, the sharp air stinging her skin. She crossed her arms, clutching herself against the chill as she waited on the curb.
Manhattan moved around her couples walking hand in hand, a woman pushing a stroller, the indifferent crowds flowing like a river around her island of solitude. No cheers, no flashes of cameras, no strangers pushing past for selfies or signatures.
Nobody noticed.
Nobody cared.
Warrior Girl shrugged, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick. The match flared, momentarily bright in the gray afternoon.
A cab pulled up with a grinding halt. The driver sat behind the wheel — a heavyset man with a bald head, double chin, and dark sunglasses. He didn't speak. Just lifted a hand, motioning her inside.
Without hesitation, she opened the door and slid into the seat. She brushed hair from her face, the smoke trailing out the open window.
The driver's voice came slow, steady, gravelly:
Where we headed, hon?
She scoffed and rolled her eyes, the barest hint of a smirk tugging her lips.
You know the… usual, Toby.
He nodded, fingers tightening on the wheel. At the stoplight, he bit his lip, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Okay, yeah… the hospital, right?
She nodded again, gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles blanched.
Yeah… Her voice dropped to a whisper, fragile and raw.
Toby eased onto the street, the engine humming low as the city blurred by. Then, glancing up at the mirror, he added, Hey you know what? I don't got shit going on. I can drop you back off at the tower, my treat.
The offer made her tense the smile that followed was real but fragile.
Thanks, Toby. That means a lot.
He shrugged, pulling into the children's hospital parking lot.
Don't mention it. You deserve it after all the shit you put up with.
She chuckled softly, genuine for the first time.
Thanks, Toby, really.
She climbed out, slipping on aviators. Toby waved as he pulled away.
Scene 5
The room was small but cozy soft pastel walls, a round table with a vase of fresh flowers, and a plate with half-eaten sandwiches. A small TV flickered quietly in the corner.
Aleeh lay in bed, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around a battered teddy bear. Her head was bare, all her hair lost to the cancer. IV lines snaked from her arms to the monitor blinking softly beside the bed.
Her giggle was light and pure as she watched Bluey on the screen, pointing excitedly.
Aw… Bluey… you're so funny…
A knock at the door. Warrior Girl stepped in, hands relaxed at her sides but eyes softening immediately.
Aleeh's face lit up.
WARRIOR GIRL!!!
She flung her arms wide for a hug. Warrior Girl knelt down and pulled her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair.
I missed you, she whispered, stroking Aleeh's head like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Aleeh giggled through tears sliding down her cheeks.
Guess… how I say yesterday?
Warrior Girl's eyes widened, breath catching.
Who… who did you meet, Aleeh?
Aleeh sat up, eyes sparkling.
I met Ethan Lawson!!
Warrior Girl smiled — a little tight, a little forced.
Oh my… that's so cool, Aleeh. Tell me all about it.
Aleeh's small hands played with the bear.
We… um… played games. I asked him questions! He was really cool and funny!
Warrior Girl listened, voice warm as she stroked Aleeh's hair.
I'm so glad Ethan was kind to you.
Aleeh brightened, lifting the bear out to show her.
Look! He gave this to me. He said it was really, really special. And he wanted me to see it.
Warrior Girl stared at the worn bear, silence heavy between them. She shook her head slowly, unable to speak.
Aleeh's brow furrowed, confused.
Um… is everything okay? Have you been smoking lately? Because I can't be around
Warrior Girl cut her off with a tired sigh.
I know, I know. I just have a lot on my head, okay?
She forced a small smile, bending down to pick up a book from the table.
How about I read this to you, huh?
Aleeh smiled, snuggling deeper into the blankets.
Yeah… I'd really like that.
Warrior Girl turned the page, voice low and steady.
There once was a little frog. Small... and mighty. The bravest of them all. Others were short and skinny, others were short and tall…
As she read, Aleeh's eyelids fluttered sleep pulling her under. Soon, she was silent and still.
Warrior Girl tucked her in gently, lips whispering "Goodbye," before closing the door quietly behind her.
Warrior Girl's boots clacked down the long corridor, head bowed under the weight of unspoken grief.
A doctor stepped from the shadows, blocking her path.
Madam… he grasped her wrist gently but firmly. Are you done with your visit?
She turned, meeting his eyes, hands on hips, stance rigid.
She nodded without a word, releasing his hold.
Aleeh's asleep.
He lowered his gaze, swallowing hard.
Madam… there's something I need to tell you.
She stared him down, unblinking.
The doctor sighed, voice heavy with regret.
This might be… her last few days. She's untreatable. I… I am so sorry.
His hands trembled as he held his clipboard like a shield.
We did the best we could. I… am sorry.
Warrior Girl stood frozen. Her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms. Tears threatened to spill, but she swallowed them back hard.
She simply nodded.
Turned sharply.
And walked away without signing a single paper.
Scene 6
The air inside the school gym buzzed with adolescent chaos. About 200 students packed the bleachers like sardines, creating a wall of noise that echoed off the metal beams above. Chatter bounced in every direction crude jokes, giggles from cliques of sassy schoolgirls flipping their hair and glancing at each other's phones, boys trying to impress anyone who'd look, and loudmouths shouting half-hearted insults across the bleachers. The air reeked of cheap body spray, popcorn, and teenage sweat. Phones were out, heads turned, attention scattered.
Then creeeak at the front of the gym, the ancient wooden podium squealed as the principal approached. She didn't walk so much as shuffle, supported on both sides by two other teachers holding her elbows as if at any moment she might crumble into dust.
Principal Agnes Fairwright, a woman who looked like she was born during the Hoover administration, hunched like a troll, her brittle frame swaying like a paper scarecrow in the wind. Her face was a crumpled prune of too many years in the education system. With a toothy grimace, she squinted into the crowd.
She leaned forward, mouth hovering inches from the mic. Her voice was a sound no one could quite place... a rusted gate? A haunted tea kettle?
Heh...hehlo...ch...children, she wheezed with a gummy smile, raising a bony hand in what she thought was a cheerful wave. A few students mocked the wave back.
T-today... weee... hav... s-som...e very... spec...cial... gu...guests...
A few snickers. A couple girls whispered, Please not another army vet with PTSD… Another student muttered, Swear to God, if it's that retired guy again who cried about mustard gas I'm leaving.
But then...
BOOM!!!
The lights cut. Smoke canisters exploded from the entrance. A bass-heavy thump hit the PA system. The students collectively gasped as colored lights danced across the fog, strobing red and blue like a superhero-themed rave.
From the blinding smoke burst STRIKE decked out in armor that shimmered like electrified obsidian, his mask glinting with sharp angles, his entrance a choreographed blast of whoosh and crackle. He spun, kicked, flipped midair, and fired bolts of lightning into the ceiling.
WHOOOOO!!! YEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!! LIGHTNING, LIGHTNING, LIGHTNING!!! Strike shouted, voice booming like a rock star opening a world tour.
The crowd erupted.
Following immediately in a streak of scarlet was ROAD RUNNER a blur of kinetic energy, red-blue sparks trailing behind his sneakers. He appeared in a flash at center court, dabbing, then zipping around the gym high-fiving everyone in the front row at lightning speed.
WHOOOOOO!!! Let's gooooo High School! Road Runner bellowed. He pointed randomly into the crowd. I love you! You! You! And you!
The walls shook from teenage screams. One girl threw her arms into the air, standing on her seat.
I LOVE YOU ROAD RUNNER!!! she shrieked.
Road Runner winked and made finger guns at her.
Then the final guest stepped forward MR. AMERICAN.
Clad in a bomber jacket and military pants, with a tight buzz cut and a jawline so rigid it looked like it had been carved by war gods, Mr. American didn't say a word. He just raised a hand, cool as ice. Then from behind his back, he pulled out a merch cannon. POP! POP! POP!
Shirts emblazoned with superhero logos launched across the gym. The crowd lost it. Screaming. Diving. Climbing over one another for a T-shirt.
Chaos.
Back on the mic, Strike snatched it from the trembling principal.
Tap tap. Whhhhaaat's up HIGH SCHOOOOL?!
The crowd roared like a coliseum.
We got a NORMAL school day ahead, Strike grinned, his voice sly, teasing. But NOT... for THIS SCHOOL!
He blasted lightning into the air like fireworks.
Today... YOU... are spending the whole freakin' day with US!
The cheers became seismic.
Strike chuckled and gave the old principal a gentle pat
CRACK!
She collapsed like a felled tree. Teachers rushed to her aid.
Oh nooo! Strike gasped, mock-horrified, placing his hands dramatically over his masked face. I didn't mean to...!
One teacher glanced up, calm as ever. "It's fine. Happens all the time. She passed out last week in the middle of her mashed potatoes."
Road Runner blinked. His fingers twitched nervously.
"That's... that's not a good thing, right? Should we call an ambulance or—?"
Another teacher leaned in close to him, voice low and gravelly. "Don't... fucking... call them. Even the cops want her dead."
Strike's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "What the hell does that mean?"
The teacher bit his lip, backing away. She... I can't... just let it go. She'll get up. Maybe.
Strike wasn't convinced.
But Road Runner clapped his hands. Okay okay! Let's hype some kids up! Mr. American, you in?"
Mr. American didn't reply. He just walked out of the gym, stiff, emotionless.
Road Runner frowned. God, what's his deal?
Strike's voice dropped. That's not what I'm worried about…
Scene 7
Later that morning, the stale hum of fluorescent lights buzzed over a half-dead history class. Desks were scratched, chewed at the edges, and covered in graffiti Suck It, Mr. Howard, Free WiFi = Freedom, and a crude stick figure hanging from a noose labeled "Midterms.
At the front stood Miss Rachel, twenty-three, far too pretty and far too optimistic for this job. She wore a long, thin skirt that flirted with the word professional, paired with a floral blouse that tried to scream innocence but whispered naïveté. She tapped a piece of chalk against the board like it was a magic wand about to cast enlightenment.
So... she began, flashing a soft, eager smile, Can anyone tell me what the Bill of Rights is?
The room fell into an instant coma.
Blank faces. Gum chewing. One kid blinked slowly like he was rebooting.
Rachel turned around, her smile faltering slightly as she scanned the chalkboard for support. Then
The door creaked open.
In stepped Mr. American.
No smile. No warmth. Just a heavy blank stare and boots that thudded like coffin lids with every step.
The class shifted uncomfortably. One girl whispered, Damn. I was hoping for Strike… Another muttered, "Dude looks like he just got back from waterboarding someone."
Rachel turned, startled. Then quickly composed herself, offering him the kind of nervous, bright smile that came with a slight blush and hopeful diplomacy.
Hi! I'm Rachel! This is my class. Say hi, class!
A weak chorus of Hi drifted out like a fart in the wind.
Mr. American didn't respond. He stared too long. Then, in an eerily slow motion, he reached out and gently touched Rachel's cheek.
You're... beautiful, he said, cracking a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Rachel froze. Her breath hitched. She stepped back instinctively, hand brushing the spot he touched. Her cheeks pinked, lips parting slightly aroused or afraid, even she didn't know.
I'm... married, she murmured, trying to smile, trying to soften the recoil. Please, mind your space.
Mr. American's smile turned grim. He crossed his arms, standing like a statue of subtle threat.
Oookay, Rachel said awkwardly, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear, flustered. So... the Bill of Rights… anyone?
Mr. American cleared his throat and stepped forward. I know them.
Rachel blinked, surprised. Oh... really? Um, sure. Be my guest.
His stance shifted. He stood tall, military-perfect, eyes dead ahead like he was in boot camp again.
One. Freedom of speech. You can say what you want to the government without their interference.
A pause.
Two. Right to bear arms. Self-explanatory.
He looked at a student who flinched.
Three. No quartering of soldiers. The government can't turn your house into a barracks during wartime.
Four. No unreasonable searches. Cops need a warrant granted by a judge before they search your private property.
Five. You don't have to testify against yourself. Known as pleading the fifth. Courts can't force you to incriminate yourself.
Rachel raised her hand slightly, overwhelmed. That's... that's enough. Thank you.
Mr. American nodded and resumed hawk-like observation of the class.
A skinny kid in the second row hesitantly raised his hand.
Yes? Mr. American asked, stepping closer.
The boy fidgeted. About the First Amendment... like... my parents say teens don't get rights, that we're just kids. But... they freak out when the government tells them what to do. Where's our say?
Mr. American froze. His eyes twitched. For the first time, emotion.
Trust me... he said in a low, hollow tone. When you're a parent, you'll understand.
He walked out. Just like that.
The kid blinked. ...So much for staying the day.
His friend elbowed him. Same thing my dad says. Useless advice.
Rachel stared at the door as it clicked shut. She exhaled softly, muttering under her breath, Are they all like that?
She shook her head, chalk returning to her hand.
Okay. Who can tell me one of the five amendments Mr. American mentioned?
Scene 8
Strike and Road Runner strolled down the buzzing hallway, the worn linoleum reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead like a dull mirror. The murmur of distant conversations and slamming locker doors filled the air, but the two heroes moved through it with ease, relaxed yet alert.
Strike's boots clicked steadily against the floor as he scanned the corridor, his dark eyes flicking left and right beneath the mask. A slow, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned to Road Runner, tilting his head slightly, brows raised in playful curiosity. So... what do you think Mr. American's up to right now? he asked, voice low but teasing.
Road Runner's lips twitched into a snicker as he covered his mouth with the back of his hand, barely able to hold back laughter. His eyes gleamed with mischief. Probably raping someone, he whispered, barely audible, his shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.
Strike threw his head back and let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, adjusting his mask as if to catch his breath. Yeah, that's not the first time he's done that.
Road Runner's expression instantly shifted, eyes widening in surprise, stepping back a little as if struck. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling nervously. What? I was just joking, man. I... I didn't know
But Strike cut him off with a sharp nod, voice darkening with cold certainty. Yep. He did. Two years in the joint. He smirked bitterly, eyes narrowing behind the mask. But 'vacation,' so we were told. Nice cover story.
Road Runner slapped his knee, chuckling ruefully. Goddamn, even I fell for that stupid trick.
Strike let out a quiet snicker, shaking his head slowly as if still amused. Well yeah, it wasn't that hard. Who the fuck goes on a two-year vacation? What, did he disappear to Narnia or something?
Road Runner's laugh bubbled up again, his shoulders shaking. Stupid idiots.
Strike spun towards him with a mock glare, a grin stretching across his face. Man, shut your ass up. You're the one who fell for it.
Road Runner straightened instantly, chin jutting out defensively. Hey, fuck you, bitch! At least I don't eat Big Macs all day.
Strike's brows knitted in genuine confusion, head tilting. Mate, what the hell does that have to do with...
Road Runner held up his hands in surrender, shrugging with a sheepish grin. Man, I don't know. I just wanted to say that.
Strike shook his head, smirking, and turned towards the gym doors, a spark lighting in his eyes. This is the only thing we're good at in this whole fucking school. Let's show these kids what we've got.
With a shared grin, they pushed the heavy double doors open, stepping into the sprawling gym where the afternoon sun slanted through high windows, dust motes floating in the light like slow ghosts.
Inside the Gym The Crowd and Chaos
The gym erupted in motion as teens sprinted laps around the polished floor, their heavy breathing and pounding footsteps a rhythmic pulse beneath the sudden hush that fell. As soon as Road Runner and Strike appeared, the room seemed to freeze, like time itself was holding its breath.
Heads whipped around, eyes wide with excitement and disbelief. Teenagers scrambled from their circuits, abandoning their laps to swarm the two heroes. Some shouted random questions: Strike, how far can you shoot lightning? Road Runner, can you fly?
Strike's boots hit the floor with measured steps as he calmly weaved through the crowd, mask tilted back slightly to catch the light glinting off his sharp jawline. He shot a knowing glance at the exasperated PT teacher who stalked forward, hands on hips, exhaustion painted in deep lines on his face.
You two shouldn't be distracting my students from PT. Go away, will ya? the teacher snapped, voice rough and tired.
Road Runner barely caught the words over the chorus of questions. He bobbed and weaved, waving cheerfully and laughing as teens clambered to touch the glossy fabric of his suit, tugging at his sleeves, trying to snag autographs.
Strike caught every word. Stepping forward deliberately, he planted himself firmly between the PT teacher and the crowd, voice low but deadly calm. Talk to me again like that, he murmured, eyes like burning coals beneath the mask, and I won't just burn you alive. I'll rip you apart limb by limb... and watch you fucking die while your family roasts in flames. Got it?
The PT teacher froze mid-step, wide-eyed, his hands dropping from his hips to twitch at his sides. He swallowed hard, nodded frantically, his entire body rigid as if expecting Strike to snap at any second.
Strike let out a dark chuckle, turning on his heel with a grin that split his masked face. Alright, fuck PT. Let's play dodgeball!
The teens erupted, voices raising into a wild cacophony of cheers and whoops. Road Runner grinned wide, a spark of joy lighting his eyes as he zipped towards the equipment room, the air humming faintly around him. Moments later, he returned, arms full of balls, jerseys, and gear.
Alright, kids, Strike announced, voice dripping with theatrical flair as he joined Road Runner at center court. "First round Teens versus PT teacher, Strike, and me.
Road Runner sprinted backward, scattering balls in a neat line across the gym floor. We'll make it fair no powers.
Strike's smirk deepened, eyes glinting with barely contained excitement. Yeah, no powers. Definitely.
The PT teacher blew his whistle, eyes darting nervously between the crowd and the heroes. Alright, seven minutes to lunch. Let's make this a fast round. Back against the wall! On your mark... get set... dodge!
Before anyone could even move, Road Runner was off like a bullet, blurring across the court with impossible speed.
The teens moved in slow motion, bodies frozen while Road Runner's lithe form darted and spun, tossing balls with precision. One, two, three, four, five, six ...six kids dropped before the others could even blink.
Road Runner stopped mid-sprint, giving the rest a chance as the fallen picked themselves up and walked off, murmuring in disbelief.
One kid made it to the center, flanked by teammates shielding him, whispering and gesturing in a frantic huddle.
Alright, the kid said breathlessly, I've got an idea. We can't hit them directly... but if we throw all the balls at once, they might stumble.
Strike's grin grew wide and predatory. Come on, kids. Let's see what you've got.
The teens stepped back, arms winding up to throw every ball simultaneously.
ZZZZZZZ—
In a blinding flash, Strike unleashed a burst of zero-point energy, the balls rocketing back with deadly accuracy, scattering the kids like bowling pins.
That's unfair! one kid shouted, frustration and awe mixing in his voice.
Road Runner stuck his tongue out playfully, pointing at the girls lingering at the back, unwilling participants. Let's go, Olivia! Grace! Show 'em how it's done!
The girls shuffled forward, faces pale, hands trembling. The pressure was too much; the balls slipped through their fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor. Defeated, they dropped out.
Strike slapped his thigh, feigning disappointment. Come on, girls. Not even a chance?
Olivia smirked, phone raised, recording every second for TikTok. She shot Strike a venomous glance. No, I don't think so, bitch.
A collective gasp rippled through the gym; even the PT teacher took a step back, uneasy.
Strike's eyes narrowed dangerously, jaw clenched tight. For the first time, a flicker of genuine rage danced in his gaze. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened as he stalked toward her.
His voice dropped low, cold as steel. What did you just call me?
Olivia straightened, chin high, posture defiant like a queen on a throne. A bitch. And you wanna know why? Because nobody fucking cares you're here. You're stupid, and you're a waste of space.
The crowd's reaction was a mix of shocked ohhhhs and whispered murmurs.
Strike shrugged off the verbal blow, eyes flicking briefly to her phone as likes and comments flooded her screen.
Without another word, he turned and gestured at Road Runner. The bell rang.
The crowd began to scatter some sprinted toward the lunchroom, others lingered in small groups, whispering and giggling.
Scene 9
Amelia sidled up close to Strike, voice soft, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips. I'm sorry about Olivia. It's those TikTok girls. You know… retards, if you catch my drift.
Strike glanced down at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. You really know your stuff, huh?
Well, I mean, yeah. I really do, she said, shrugging as they pushed through the lunchroom doors.
Inside, the cafeteria buzzed with chatter. At a long table, Inferno stood, his cape brushing the backs of chairs as he commanded attention. He greeted the crowd with a booming voice, steady and confident, as students lined up to grab trays.
Olivia, still defiant, sat in the corner, phone raised, filming the entire scene.
Inferno's gaze flicked sideways, then jerked his head deliberately toward Strike and Road Runner. They moved swiftly to his side without hesitation.
With a sharp clap that echoed like a gunshot, Inferno demanded attention. Alright! There's been an occurrence. These two heroes are needed elsewhere. This is your time your only time to say
His words were cut off by Olivia, who continued chatting loudly on her phone. Her friend nudged her, whispering to be quiet, but Olivia ignored her.
Inferno chuckled darkly, boots slamming against the floor as he raised his head high, hands clasped behind his back. Towering over her, he asked, Miss, what's so fucking important that you had to ruin my meeting?
The room froze even the dust seemed to hang in midair.
Without hesitation, Olivia pointed her phone at him and spat, I don't give a fuck, bitch. Fuck off!
Silence engulfed the room. Strike took a step back, tension tightening his shoulders. Road Runner's fingers twitched, ready to bolt.
Inferno's eyes twitched, pupils narrowing to fiery slits as a faint red glow bled in. Then, with a snap, he turned his back and slammed his palm down on her phone shattering it.
Olivia gasped, clutching her chest. YOU FUCKING COCK! THAT WAS MY PHONE!
Inferno met her gaze silently, then strode out, his cape flowing behind him like a shadow in motion. Muttering under his breath, Let's go. They don't deserve goodbyes.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
Strike was the first to break the silence. Whoa. What the hell was that?
Road Runner's eyes were wide, voice breathless. "Dude, you went full savage then smashed her phone!"
Inferno didn't reply, walking ahead, cold and distant.
At the front doors, the principal and a teacher blocked their path.
Inferno rolled his eyes, lips curling into a snarl. What the fuck now?
The principal hesitated, struggling to speak, her voice a broken whisper. Th...ank you...for...coming...it...has...been...an...honor...to...see you...all in...this...environment...Al...though...I...have...a problem...
Inferno nodded sharply. Go on.
She wheezed out the words slowly, each syllable punctuated by a cough. Two...students...are...absent...and have...not been...here...in two...days...and they...have been...searching...up...weird things...in the school...database...in regards to...the heroes' death...of Mr. Howard.
For the first time, Inferno's eyes widened but he quickly masked it with a nod.
He glanced sideways at Road Runner, who was sweating bullets.
Inferno squared his shoulders and said firmly, We'll solve this. Don't worry.
As they turned to leave, Inferno bumped into the principal, who collapsed with a loud crash.
The teacher knelt beside her, pressing fingers to her neck.
It's okay, he murmured softly. This happens all the time.
Inferno didn't look back as he walked away.
The teacher's voice dropped to a whisper. No...this time...she's actually dead.
Scene 10
The air outside the derelict hospital crackled with tension. The night sky above was bruised purple, lit only by a dying moon and the blinking red warning lights on the building's rooftop antenna. Wind howled through the crumbled windows, sending broken glass skittering across the asphalt like nervous whispers.
Ryan and Lydia ran like hunted prey, their sneakers slapping the cracked pavement, clutching a battered manila folder the evidence that could ruin The Nine forever. Their breaths came in sharp gasps, fogging the cold air. Ryan held Lydia's hand tightly, their fingers laced, their arms trembling with adrenaline and panic.
Then...
A gust of wind slammed against them, halting their sprint.
A silhouette emerged from the shadows ahead, cape flaring in the violent breeze like a banner of dread. Inferno.
He stood tall, unmoving, hands clasped behind his back with disturbing elegance. His head tilted upward in arrogant poise, a cruel smile carved into his sharp face. His crimson and black armor gleamed under the flickering security lights, bloodstains still fresh along the gauntlets.
Children, he said in a deep, polished voice, unnaturally calm. Running away... are we?
Behind him, a darker presence shifted.
Winthrop.
He stepped into view without a single sound, his body gliding like a shadow detached from the world. His armor was black as oil, and from his back he drew a long obsidian blade with a whisper like silk being torn. His eyes locked onto Lydia dead, flat, soulless.
Ryan swallowed hard. His legs trembled, but he stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. Blood drained from his face. Still, he tried to look brave.
You... he stammered, pointing a shaking finger at Inferno. You're supposed to be a hero! Why... why would you?
Inferno took a slow step forward. His boots scraped the gravel, echoing like war drums. He chuckled low, raising a single gloved finger and wagging it gently side to side.
Tsk tsk, he whispered. That gesture subtle, controlled was a silent signal. Winthrop began to advance, blade glinting.
Inferno knelt slightly, lifting Ryan's chin between two fingers, his grip unshakably firm. Their eyes locked.
I am a hero, he whispered, breath like sulfur. A hero... that can't be stopped.
Then...
CRACK! Inferno flicked his arm like a whip. Ryan's body launched into the air like a ragdoll, spinning mid-air, until he slammed down onto the hood of a parked ambulance.
CRASH!
The metal caved in beneath him. Blood sprayed from his skull, painting the windshield in a thick red sheet. His spine arched unnaturally. His body twitched. Then...still.
Lydia screamed. She dropped the folder, falling to her knees. Her hands hovered over her mouth as tears poured from her eyes. Her scream became a raw, animal howl.
RYAN!! NO—PLEASE!!
She turned and pointed a trembling finger at Inferno, every part of her shaking. You... you're a fucking MONSTER!! You're NOT a hero!
Inferno only chuckled. His hands returned behind his back, his cape now deathly still.
Oh, darling, he said softly. You've got it all twisted.
He began to walk toward her slow, deliberate steps.
You broke into a school, searched files that weren't yours... came here to expose your Heroes. That, he said, tilting his head, is a death offense.
Lydia stayed on her knees, defiant despite the tears, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her mind flickered with images of her father, her mother's last moments.
This is all your fault! she cried. All I wanted was the truth! What happened to my dad!
Inferno's expression changed his eyes narrowed to slits.
Wrong answer.
CRACK!
His punch came like a lightning bolt. Lydia's head whipped sideways as her cheekbone exploded with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the concrete in long streaks. She hit the ground hard, her face a smashed mess of pulp skin torn open, jaw hanging, one eye swollen shut.
She screamed, curling up, hands pressed to her ruined face. Blood soaked her hair, pooling on the ground beneath her. Her sobs were ragged, wet, choked by shattered teeth and mucus.
Inferno sneered. Look at her, he muttered to Winthrop, gesturing lazily. Fucking useless.
WHUP WHUP WHUP.
The sound of a helicopter approached channel 9 news, spotlight sweeping the rooftop.
Inferno looked up, his face twisted with fury. Fucking... shit.
Winthrop pointed down the street. Police cruisers and fire trucks screamed toward them. Sirens howled. Floodlights flickered to life.
Inferno turned and sighed, dragging a gloved hand down his face in exasperation. The police poured out, rifles raised.
FREEZE! HANDS UP!
One deputy stepped forward, holding a notepad. What the hell happened here?
Inferno didn't respond. His eyes were fixed behind them.
Lydia and Ryan were gone. The folder was gone.
Inferno's jaw clenched. He shook his whole body trembling with rage.
HEY! the deputy barked. I'm TALKING to you!
Inferno turned slowly, his eyes now blazing pits of red.
Even Winthrop took a cautious step back.
Then—
SCHLRRRT!! In a flash, Inferno's blade-arm sliced through the deputy's wrist. His hand dropped, twitching on the pavement.
AAAAAAAHHH!! the deputy screamed, falling to his knees.
Before he could finish screaming...THUMP!...his head was severed cleanly, rolling across the ground.
The other officers opened fire.
Bullets ricocheted harmlessly off Inferno's armor.
He lunged.
In seconds, he tore through three men ripping one completely in half with his bare hands, showering intestines across the sidewalk. Another officer's jaw was torn off, his tongue wriggling like a worm before Inferno stomped on his skull, turning it into red paste.
Blood slicked the ground. Brains painted the walls.
Screams echoed through the lot.
Inferno soared into the air like a bullet and landed on the fire truck, crushing it under his boots. He yanked the driver from the cab and crushed his head between his palms bones cracked, eyes popped, brain matter oozed through his fingers.
The helicopter pilot screamed.
Inferno shot upward, breaking the sound barrier. In an instant, he was on the chopper. He tore through the metal like paper, grabbed the terrified reporter by the throat, and whispered:
You want the scoop?
Then, he shoved his thumbs into the man's eye sockets. Blood sprayed the cabin. The man shrieked as his head exploded between Inferno's palms flesh, bone, and brain coating the windshield.
The helicopter erupted into flames and spiraled downward.
KABOOM!
Inferno hovered in the smoke, suit now dripping with viscera chunks of skull, cartilage, and organ matter.
He descended to where Winthrop waited, grinning ear to ear.
I am the best, Inferno said, spreading his arms wide, blood flying from his cape. The best hero this hero-less world needs.
Meanwhile...
Lydia dragged Ryan through the trees, one arm over her shoulder, her legs wobbling with each step. Her ribs ached. Her vision swam.
She collapsed.
Ryan hit the ground with a dull thud, unconscious and bloodied.
Tears streaked her face. She shook. Her knees buckled again.
But then...
A flicker of memory. Her mother's voice. Her father's laugh.
She clenched her fists, wiped the blood from her eyes, and hoisted Ryan back up, sobbing through clenched teeth.
Hold on, she whispered. This... this isn't over yet.