He stood in the void.
Not just an empty room this place was a tomb. A hollow, soundless grave of concrete walls soaked in old blood. There were no lights. No windows. Just a darkness so absolute it felt like a living thing. The air was wet and heavy, like it had been breathing in corpses for years.
In the center of it all stood Winthrop.
His boots were spread shoulder-width apart. Arms slack at his sides. Chest rising and falling so slow it was almost imperceptible. His face was bare hood pushed back, revealing pale skin streaked red. A deep gash above his right eye spilled blood like an open faucet. It streamed over his cheek, down his jaw, soaking into the collar of his armor. Drip. Drip. Drip. Each drop echoed off the stone like a distant heartbeat.
His eyes weren't focused on anything. Or maybe they were focused on everything. The walls. The ceiling. Himself. The future.
He didn't move for hours.
Then, with a breath so quiet it could've been mistaken for the room creaking, he reached up with two fingers, pulled the hood back over his head, and walked into the black.
The War Room Heroes Tower
The table was long, black, and polished like a coffin lid. Red emergency lights bathed the room in the glow of a hellfire sunset. The ceiling vibrated with distant thunder. Something was coming.
Electric Strike, barely a week on the team, sat stiff in his chair near the back, wide-eyed, hands gripping the armrests like they'd keep him alive. His foot bounced. His jaw trembled. Sweat trickled down his temple, making the metal contacts in his mask flicker.
Standing beside the head of the table was Winthrop.
Motionless. Same posture. Same silence. His arms were folded behind his back now. Head bowed. Hood low. Not a single breath out of place.
Strike leaned toward the person next to him.
Is he, like...a depressed monk or something?
Jackson Windstorm, third in command, scoffed. A brutal scar split his upper lip in half.
Kid, nobody knows what he is. He doesn't eat. Doesn't talk. Doesn't even sleep.
He leaned in closer.
Just don't piss him off.
Across the table, Gazerbeam adjusted the broken visor hanging lopsided on his face. The lower half of his helmet was melted from a past mission gone wrong. He chuckled through the holes in his mask.
He only speaks in violence.
Then he slammed his fist onto the table CRACK! making Strike jump halfway out of his chair.
You point him at a problem, and he solves it. Permanently.
Strike's voice cracked. Okay, but who is Inferno, really? I keep hearing the name like he's God or something.
Gazerbeam leaned back in his seat. You'll find out.
CRASH.
The ceiling exploded in a rain of concrete and metal.
PLOP. Something meaty slammed onto the table with a dull, wet slap.
BOOM. A massive figure descended from above, landing hard enough to crack the titanium flooring.
Blood sprayed across the room.
Inferno had arrived.
His armor gleamed under the red lights red, black, and gold, now soaked in crimson. His gauntlets dripped with gore. Tiny shards of bone were wedged into the gaps of his suit. Something that looked like a human ear hung from a chain on his chest.
His boots crunched over shattered tiles as he strode forward.
Electric Strike vomited.
He didn't even turn away just bent over and threw up on the floor, chunks of acid-soaked breakfast splattering the metal.
Angel, fourth in command, strode over in her tight white suit, heels echoing like gunshots. She knelt beside Strike and pulled him back by the shoulders, brushing his hair aside.
Breathe, kid. It's your first time. Happens to all of us.
Inferno's voice cut through the chaos like a dagger:
You okay, Strike?
Silence.
Even Angel blinked in shock. Inferno never asked questions like that. Ever.
Strike trembled. I-I'm fine… sir.
Inferno's lips curled slightly behind his blood-smeared mask. Not a smile. Something worse. Something amused by pain.
Good. Then come here.
Strike hesitated, his legs buckling slightly.
Now.
He obeyed. Slow, shaking steps carried him toward the table. Toward the thing lying on it.
And then he saw it.
A boy. No older than 14.
Tied down with razorwire. Skin peeled in places. One leg twisted completely backward at the knee. His face was a mess of broken bones and torn flesh. One eye was missing. The other stared lifelessly at the ceiling.
His vocal cords had been torn out. Blood and bile spilled from his ruined throat like a clogged drainpipe.
Strike fell backward, gasping. His voice broke into a sob.
What… what the hell is this?!
Inferno stepped beside him, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder.
This, he whispered, was a traitor. He leaked photos. Videos. Thought he could bring us down.
Strike's voice cracked. He's just a kid!
Inferno's grip tightened. He was a threat.
Strike shook his head violently. I won't do this. I'm not a killer.
The room went cold.
Inferno leaned down, inches from his ear.
Then you're already dead.
In a flash, he grabbed Strike by the throat and slammed him into the wall.
CRUNCH.
The plaster split like bone. Strike's body left a dent four inches deep.
Inferno dropped him to the floor. Winthrop.
The black assassin moved.
Without a word, he stepped forward. From his back, he drew a long, curved blade blacker than ink. It pulsed with something unnatural. The air around it bent slightly.
Winthrop approached the table. The boy was still twitching.
He didn't hesitate.
SPLAT.
The sword plunged through the boy's skull. The sound was like wet plywood being torn in half.
CRACK.
Brain matter exploded outward in clumps, splattering Gazerbeam's boots. Blood gushed over the floor like oil.
Strike screamed.
Inferno turned slowly. See? That's loyalty. That's discipline.
He loomed over Strike, now trying to crawl away.
Get up. Or die like him.
Winthrop stood over him now. His head tilted to the side. A subtle motion. A silent message.
Move. Now.
Strike stood.
And followed him into the dark.
Scene 2
The moon hung low over the skyline as Winthrop and Strike exited the Heroes Tower. The air was thick with the metallic tang of city smog and the stale chill of midnight.
Winthrop walked at a steady, ghostlike pace his boots barely seemed to make a sound on the pavement. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to make the silence feel like it might swallow the night whole.
Strike followed a few paces behind, adjusting his blue mask with twitchy fingers. His breath caught in his throat as he muttered to himself, Um… where are we going… sir?
No answer.
He sped up, half-jogging now, leaning forward to catch even a sliver of Winthrop's face. Hey, uh sir? Did I… do something wrong?
Still no reply.
Winthrop didn't look back. Didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge the question at all. He just kept moving like a shadow glued to a purpose only he understood.
The two turned a corner, stepping off the main street. Neon lights gave way to flickering bulbs. Trash bags lined the alley. A cat screeched somewhere in the distance.
Strike's hands went into his pockets. He looked down, slouching slightly, and stopped talking. He didn't want to say anything anymore. His footsteps grew hesitant, like his legs weren't quite convinced they should keep going.
Eventually, they stopped outside a concrete building sandwiched between a shuttered bar and a boarded-up pharmacy. No windows. No signs. Only a gray keypad bolted beside a steel door.
Before Strike could ask, the panel let out a soft beep and blinked green without Winthrop touching it.
The door clicked.
Winthrop stepped aside, finally making eye contact. Cold. Distant. Calculating.
He didn't say a word. Just tilted his head slightly.
Strike's legs trembled. He swallowed hard. Then, reluctantly, he stepped through the doorway.
Darkness swallowed him.
Scene 3
The doors hissed open with a smooth hydraulic breath, and Warrior Girl strutted in with a grin that practically shined. Her combat boots thudded across the polished quartz floor, her long ginger hair bouncing behind her in curls. Her freckles lit up against the sunlight pouring in from the atrium.
She was dressed casually well, her version of casual. Fitted jean shorts, a white tank top hugging her figure, and a worn leather jacket that made her feel like she'd already been on five missions. The boots were scuffed and dusty. Real boots. Not mall-bought.
As she took her first steps into the gleaming lobby, her jaw dropped.
Oh my god…
Her voice echoed through the empty expanse. The walls were curved, modern, painted in eggshell white with gold accent lights lining every angle. At the center of the room, a circular quartz floor reflected her image beneath a chandelier the size of a small car.
The couches looked like they belonged in billionaire mansions. Wall-length displays played live footage of Heroes in action Stormchaser landing on rooftops, Inferno walking through fire. Music played softly from unseen speakers.
Holy shit, she whispered.
She clapped her hands twice and practically skipped toward the mirrored elevator. "Okay, okay," she said breathlessly, pulling out her phone and flipping to the selfie cam. She flipped her hair and hit record.
This is my first official day at Heroes Tower. And it's even nicer than the training vids made it look! Like, I can't even look at this place!
She spun the phone around to film the lobby. Then back to herself. She winked.
Let's do this.
The elevator dinged. She beamed as the doors slid open and stepped inside.
Scene 4
The elevator opened with a chime.
Standing directly in front of her was a tall man in a sharp navy suit. Clean-shaven. Slick black hair. Movie-star jawline. White teeth that practically glowed. He held a tablet in one hand and smiled like he was about to announce a prize on a game show.
Warrior Girl, he said with a warm, practiced voice. I'm Clavin. Welcome to the Tower.
Her jaw dropped again.
No way, she said, laughing. You're You're Clavin. Like the Clavin. You run the media team. You're, like, famous.
Clavin chuckled, tucking the tablet under one arm as she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. He hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace his hands settling at her back, then slowly stroking upward with fingers that lingered a moment too long.
You're even more radiant in person, he said, his voice smooth as silk. Let me take a look at you.
He gently pulled her back by the shoulders and looked her up and down not shyly, not professionally. His eyes slid over her legs, her hips, her chest, and back to her eyes with deliberate confidence.
She giggled, blushing, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. Thanks. I mean, that seriously means a lot coming from you.
Clavin gestured to the hallway. Come on. Let's get you settled in. You've got a big future here.
He placed a guiding hand on her waist. She flinched slightly but didn't pull away. Instead, she fell in step beside him.
So, where is everyone? I thought I'd meet the other Heroes.
Clavin kept his smile, tapping his fingers lightly on her hip as they walked. Most of them are out on a mission. You'll meet them soon. For now… let's take care of introductions, paperwork, and… evaluations.
He opened a door at the end of the corridor. It led into a spacious office sleek, minimalist, too clean to feel lived-in. Large desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows. An expensive leather couch.
Please, he said, gesturing toward the chair across from his. Have a seat.
She stepped in, turning once to look at the view before sitting. The skyline stretched out like a painting perfect, distant, cold.
Clavin shut the door behind him with a gentle click. Then, almost too quietly, locked it.
She didn't notice.
He moved behind his desk, sitting down and opening a dark blue folder.
Alright," he said, flashing that bright smile again. "Let's start with the basics. Age?
Nineteen.
Height?
Five-seven.
Weight?
Uh… She laughed nervously. I don't usually say that on camera.
No worries, he said, scribbling. Powers?
Super strength. Speed. Agility. Like, I can punch through a wall if I get mad enough. Bullets bounce off me unless they're, like, armor-piercing.
Mm-hm. Clavin nodded. Any weaknesses?
Not really? I guess my hair's kind of flammable.
He smiled faintly, setting the folder aside. Then he looked up at her with a change in expression less professional, more... focused.
Stand up for me, please.
She blinked. Huh?
Just stand, Warrior Girl. I need to see your posture.
She hesitated. Something in his tone was… off.
But she obeyed.
She stood slowly, adjusting her jacket, her boots creaking softly on the floor.
Clavin leaned forward, folding his hands under his chin.
Now, he said, take off your jacket.
She froze.
…What?
Your jacket. Take it off.
She glanced toward the door. Her voice trembled. Why?
His tone sharpened but barely. It was a whisper with steel behind it.
Because I asked you to.
She took a step back, eyes wide now. No. No, I....I don't think I'm comfortable with that.
Clavin stood.
The charm was gone from his face. Now he looked hungry. Cold.
He tilted his head and smiled.. but it was thinner now. Crooked.
That's disappointing," he said. "Really. I thought you understood how things worked here.
She backed toward the door instinctively.
That's when she noticed the shadows shift in the corner of the room.
A figure stepped forward.
Winthrop.
He emerged silently, hands at his sides, eyes like dark glass. He said nothing. Just stood there. Blocking the only way out.
Warrior Girl's breath hitched. Her pulse roared in her ears.
I thought they were on a mission…she whispered.
Clavin sighed. They are. But Winthrop… he's everywhere.
She turned to Clavin. This is a mistake. I.....I want to go back down. I didn't sign up for this.
Clavin slowly stepped around the desk. No one ever signs up for this part, sweetheart.
He reached out, brushing her hair back again...this time without permission.
She slapped his hand away. Don't touch me.
A beat passed. The tension snapped.
Clavin's smile broke into a sneer.
Winthrop stepped forward.
Clavin's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over her trembling breath.
Last chance… undress.
Warrior Girl stood against the wall, trembling...eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, throat locked in a breath she couldn't finish. Her fists balled at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
No… she whispered, her voice barely audible. No, I don't want to. Please… don't.
Tears slid down her freckled cheeks, hot and helpless. She shook her head over and over, like she could deny reality if she just moved fast enough.
Across from her, Clavin smiled...too bright, too calm. He straightened his tie, raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head.
Well, he muttered, turning slightly toward the corner. Winthrop. You know what to do.
Winthrop stepped forward.
She flinched as he moved, his steps perfectly measured, his presence heavy like a death sentence. No hesitation. No mercy. Just a living weapon in a hood and armor.
Her feet shifted. A fighter's stance...shaky, desperate, barely holding.
But it wasn't enough.
CRACK.
Her back slammed into the wall hard enough to leave an imprint. She gasped as the air tore from her lungs.
NO! she screamed, twisting against him, but he was immovable. A metal vise with hands.
Her jacket was ripped off in a single jerk. Her tank top followed...torn at the shoulder, pulled until the seams screamed. She gasped, chest heaving, now in only her bra. Her arms flailed, trying to block, trying to claw away. She kicked at him, wild and untrained.
Nothing worked.
STOP! she shrieked, fingernails dragging across the wall. Her voice cracked into sobs. Please, STOP!
Her face crumpled, tears streaking down, soaking her jaw. Her breath came in broken hiccups as she struggled, humiliated and trapped.
Good, Clavin said under his breath, approaching the desk.
He opened a drawer, retrieving a small silver chip and a rotary saw. The saw whined to life, its teeth glinting.
Hold her head back, he ordered.
Winthrop drew a knife, pressing the point beneath her chin, forcing her gaze upward. Her neck trembled against the cold steel.
Clavin stepped forward, saw humming. Don't worry, hon, he whispered. It'll all be over soon.
That broke something.
Her eyes snapped wide.
She grit her teeth. Every muscle in her body screamed with tension. Her biceps bulged. Her legs locked against the floor.
CRRRACK.
The wall behind her split.
And then
SNAP.
Her hand flew up and SLAMMED against the knife, driving it straight into Winthrop's face.
SHHHHUNK....CRUNCH!
The blade tore through the underside of his jaw and punched deep into his skull. Bone cracked. A wet, sucking noise followed as the tip pushed through the base of his eye socket.
Winthrop staggered.
Blood...black, red, thick...spurted out in uneven gushes. His head tilted, the knife still jutting upward at an unnatural angle, buried to the hilt in his skull. He didn't scream. He didn't flinch.
His body twitched once.
Then collapsed.
THUMP.
He fell against the wall and slid down, the knife still embedded, his face shrouded by his hood. His legs sprawled. One arm twitched. Then nothing.
Dead.
Silence.
Warrior Girl fell to her knees, breathing in jagged, animal gasps.
Clavin stood frozen, hand trembling above the still-spinning saw.
Her head rose.
Her eyes were feral.
She stood.
Fast.
Her fists clenched, her ribs still bruised and exposed, her chest rising like a piston.
One step
CRACK.
She grabbed Clavin by the collar and slammed him into the wall so hard that his jaw bounced off it.
Blood sprayed from his mouth.
You don't ever she snarled.
SLAM.
His skull thudded again. His legs buckled.
fucking touch me!
She roared, slamming him again.
His body sagged, limp in her grip, but he was laughing. Bloodied teeth showing.
You think you stopped anything? he coughed. He's coming. He's going to be here in seconds
She froze.
Her grip loosened.
…Who?
BOOM.
The office door exploded inward in a hurricane of red wind and splinters. The hinges shot across the room like bullets. Wind howled. The temperature spiked.
She turned fast, breath caught in her throat.
There, in the ruined doorway, stood a man like a god.
Red cape. Gray-and-crimson armor. Gold plating across broad shoulders. Brown eyes that didn't blink. Brown hair swept back. His arms rested on his hips, every inch of him coiled in fury.
Inferno.
He didn't move.
He didn't have to.
He scanned the room in one glance...Clavin, bleeding and pinned. Winthrop, dead with a blade in his skull. Warrior Girl, half-dressed and shaking, surrounded by broken glass and cracked walls.
His eyes narrowed. His voice echoed.
Someone tell me what the fuck is going on.
Scene 4
Somewhere in the dead forests of Maine...miles from any road, buried beneath decades of silence and snow...an unmarked hatch lay hidden under the brush. Beneath it, past a rusted ladder and reinforced steel, lived two ghosts of war: Phantom and Katio.
Their bunker was far from glamorous. Concrete walls seeped moisture. A single strip of flickering overhead light buzzed relentlessly. The air smelled like oil and old blood. One room served as kitchen, living space, and armory. A pair of sagging, ripped couches faced each other around a cracked wooden table. The table itself was buried under layers of weapons: rust-flecked combat knives, handguns stripped and half-cleaned, black-market bullets, and a stack of local newspapers detailing the aftermath of recent supe attacks.
In the far corner stood a larger metal table...this one littered with files. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Each one stamped with a codename, each with blood-stained photos, autopsy notes, enemy sightings. These were their trophies. Supes they had killed... and the ones still breathing.
Phantom stood by that table, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they moved across the files. She wasn't what most would expect from a killer. Sixty-eight years old, slim and birdlike. Wrinkles lined her pale skin, and her once-golden hair now hung in streaks of gray down her shoulders, but her eyes...sharp, calculating, endlessly haunted...were alive. She wore nothing more than ripped jeans and a sweat-stained tank top, her bare arms wiry and scarred.
Winthrop, she muttered under her breath, eyes scanning.
Katio didn't look up. He lounged on the far couch, one arm over the backrest, the other resting on his knee. Japanese-born, late fifties, face ragged with knife scars he usually hid behind a mask. Today, he let the air hit them. His black jeans were torn at the knees, and his shirt was soaked through from last night's rain. Still, he seemed relaxed. Casual, even.
Does he have a file? she asked, voice quieter now.
Katio scoffed and shook his head, eyes half-lidded. He's a ghost. A rumor. All I know is that he was in Nazi Germany. 1939.
Phantom froze. Her jaw clenched. 1939?
She bit her lower lip. Her fingers danced faster across the folders, trying to connect dots.
How do you know that? she asked.
Katio leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Because I saw him. Years ago. We crossed paths once. He let me live. On his forehead, carved into the skin like some sick fucking brand, it said: 'Winthrop. Nazi Germany. 1939.
Phantom's breath caught. Her knees buckled slightly as she pulled Inferno's file from the pile. She laid it flat and flipped it open. Her brow furrowed deeper.
It says here Inferno came to Earth in 1939... and received something called Winthrop.
She gasped, the breath ripped from her lungs.
You think Inferno is a...
Katio sat bolt upright. His hands curled into fists. His eyes...usually unreadable...were wide, searching hers for any glimmer of doubt.
Wait, he can't be...
But Phantom was already pacing.
No, no, it makes sense. It all fucking makes sense. Who else can lift a skyscraper and throw it across a state? Who else can hit Mach 20 like it's nothing? Who else can take an anti-tank shell to the chest and smile?
She stopped. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
He's not human. He's an alien.
They both said it at once.
The silence that followed was heavy. Oppressive. Not even the buzzing light dared interrupt.
Then...a sound like a scream splitting steel.
The front hatch glowed red. A pinpoint laser sliced clean through the reinforced lock, sending molten slag down the door's edge. Phantom's head snapped to it instantly. Katio was already on his feet, hand on the Glock beside the couch.
From the hatch fell a small black sphere, the size of a baseball. It hovered midair for a second, then clicked open. Out unfolded a drone, black and sleek, with twin rotary guns tucked beneath its wings.
It fired without warning.
The first bullets shredded the floor and chewed through Katio's leg. Blood sprayed the wall in thick, arterial bursts. He dropped like a stone, a broken scream stuck in his throat as he clutched at the gaping hole in his thigh. Muscle and bone glistened.
Fuck! he howled, rolling behind the couch.
Phantom didn't scream. She moved.
She spun across the room, barefoot, silent, ducking behind the table as bullets tore through the couch cushions. Her hand moved to her thigh, pulling a dagger from a sheath sewn into her jeans.
The drone pivoted, scanning, tracking.
Phantom darted left.
It followed.
She spun right.
It adjusted.
Then...she leapt.
Her arm cocked back, and with inhuman precision, she hurled the dagger.
It struck true.
The blade sank through the drone's left lens. It spiraled, smoking, screaming a mechanical shriek as it crashed into the floor and flailed.
But Phantom's instincts screamed louder.
Trap! she barked, sprinting for Katio.
The drone twitched.
Then it pulsed...glowing red.
KATIO! Phantom screamed, sliding across the floor.
She wrapped her arms around his limp body and hoisted him onto her back with one fluid motion. Blood poured down her shoulders. Katio coughed, his face ghost-white.
Stay with me, she hissed. Don't fucking die on me.
The explosion behind them was deafening. The walls cracked. Fire and smoke filled the room, and heat scorched her back. Phantom didn't look back. She sprinted down the escape tunnel, breath ragged, the weight of Katio pressing into her spine.
Far behind them, buried in static, a screen inside another compound flickered.
Winthrop watched. One hand behind his back, the other resting on the table. He tilted his head as the feed cut to black.
He didn't move. Not for a while.
Meanwhile, Strike sat slumped in an abandoned brick building, arms crossed, boot tapping against the floor. His suit...blue and yellow, flashy as hell...was covered in dirt and ash. His mask sat on the table beside him. He stared at Winthrop, who stood silently by the window, unmoving.
Strike sighed. Loudly. Overdramatically.
Okay, seriously. What the fuck are we doing here?
No response.
It's been like 30 minutes, man. You're just... standing there. Breathing. That's it. Total waste of
Winthrop turned.
Slow. Mechanical.
His eyes...black, wet, too large...locked onto Strike. His mouth opened just slightly. His voice was soft. Barely audible. Dust in the air sounded louder.
He said, slowly:
Shut... the fuck up, nigger
Strike flinched. His mouth hung open.
Winthrop turned back to the window. As if he hadn't spoken at all.
And then, with a single wave of his hand, he gestured.
Strike hesitated. Then...without another word...he followed.
Scene 5
The stale air of the tunnel stank of sweat, gun oil, and old death. Every footfall echoed, bouncing like whispers off the crumbling concrete. Phantom's breathing was labored, not from exhaustion, but the tight knot of dread winding tighter in her gut. Her jeans were stained with dirt and someone else's blood; her tank top clung to her wiry frame, soaked in sweat. One hand gripped a knife. The other dragged Katio along as he leaned into her, limping heavily, his injured leg leaving a trail of blood that streaked the concrete like a morbid breadcrumb path.
Katio's face was pale and slick with sweat, his lips drawn tight to keep from groaning. His black shirt was torn, one sleeve soaked through with crimson. He clenched his teeth, his jaw twitching with every step. "We gotta keep moving," he rasped.
We are, Phantom muttered. Her voice was barely audible, focused and cold, but her eyes darted to every shadow. Her knife flashed in the dark, her steps light but deliberate. Quiet now. He's coming.
Behind them, a low mechanical hum echoed...a sound like a distant swarm of bees sharpening knives.
Then...silence.
Too silent.
Katio's knees buckled. Phantom caught him, propping him against the tunnel wall, eyes never leaving the darkness ahead. Stay here. Hide if you can. Don't be a hero.
Katio chuckled dryly, spitting blood. That's your job.
Then the sound came again. But this time, it wasn't mechanical. It was footsteps. Two sets. One steady, weightless...barely touching the ground. The other clumsy, boots scraping gravel.
Strike.
He stepped into view first, the flickering emergency light revealing his blue shirt stretched tight over muscle, black gloves clenched into fists. His mask was slightly crooked, sweat beading under his chin.
Behind him...silent as smoke...came Winthrop.
A shadow.
Expressionless. Pale. Eyes sunken. Muscles impossibly tight under the gray skin that glistened with oil and blood. He held a blade that pulsed with some inner energy, its edge vibrating with murderous anticipation.
Strike squinted into the tunnel. There they are!
Phantom didn't wait. She launched her knife...straight at Strike's face.
He flinched and stumbled, the blade slicing across his cheek with a hiss of blood. Shit! he shouted, drawing his weapon clumsily. You bitch!
Phantom didn't respond. She was already moving, blurring toward Winthrop like a ghost of war.
Her fists came first. A flurry of precise strikes aimed for pressure points...neck, elbow, temple. Winthrop blocked with inhuman calm, his arm snapping up like iron. Phantom's blows landed with brutal thuds, but Winthrop barely moved.
Then he struck.
An elbow like a sledgehammer caught her shoulder...she felt the bone crack. She grunted but twisted, rolling behind him, slashing at his Achilles. Her knife skittered off his skin like it hit steel.
Katio tried to rise, wincing, then grabbed a pistol from his waistband and fired.
Three shots...one grazed Strike's thigh, making him yelp and duck behind a support beam.
Fuck! I'm bleeding! This was not part of the plan!
Katio fired again.
Strike panicked and tossed a flash grenade blindly down the tunnel.
Phantom saw the glint and dove over Katio, covering his face with her hand.
The explosion of light and sound shredded the dark. Concrete cracked. Rats scattered.
Winthrop didn't flinch.
When Phantom opened her eyes, she was deafened, her ears ringing in high-pitched horror. She barely saw Winthrop advancing until he lifted her by the throat.
Her feet left the ground. His fingers crushed her windpipe with glacial calm.
Then Katio's blade sunk into Winthrop's ribs...deep. Not enough to kill. But enough to piss him off.
Blood...thick, black, and syrupy...dripped from the wound.
Winthrop turned, eyes glowing now, lips peeled back in something that might've once been a smile.
He backhanded Katio. The man flew like a ragdoll into the wall, his spine cracking audibly. He hit the floor in a twitching heap.
Phantom screamed...more rage than pain...and stabbed Winthrop in the eye with a rusted screwdriver.
It sunk halfway in.
Winthrop staggered back, blinking wildly, the tool twitching in his socket.
Phantom hit the ground hard, gasping, coughing blood.
Strike finally emerged again, holding his side. Yo! Yo, you good? I think I'm shot!
Winthrop didn't answer. He gripped the screwdriver and yanked it free.
His eye began to regenerate.
Strike stared. Holy shit, that's gross.
Winthrop pointed down the tunnel. Go.
Strike sighed. Right, right, right...kill the old guy.
He rushed Katio, fists raised, but Katio wasn't down.
Katio surged up, pulling Strike's shirt and headbutting him...hard.
Crunch.
Strike screamed, blood spraying from his shattered nose. You motherf-
Katio stabbed his side, deep.
Strike wailed, staggering back, kicking out. He caught Katio's bad leg...snapping the wound wider. Katio roared in agony.
Phantom tackled Strike from behind.
They rolled, slamming into the wall. Her fists rained down...eyes, throat, jaw.
Strike, panicked, grabbed a rock and smashed it into her ribs. Once. Twice. Bones crunched.
Phantom coughed blood.
Winthrop moved now...fast. No more games.
He kicked Katio's leg...breaking it sideways.
Katio screamed.
Phantom, dazed, saw it coming too late.
Winthrop drove his knife into her stomach.
Not a clean stab. A twisting, gory push...upward.
She gasped, blood spilling down her chin. He held her close, face inches from hers. Dead eyes stared into hers as he dragged the blade sideways.
Then...he let go.
She collapsed. Blood soaking her jeans, her shirt, the floor.
Strike limped toward Winthrop. We done here?
But Phantom moved.
Her hand found the screwdriver.
With a final roar, she drove it into Strike's thigh, twisted, and shoved him backward into Winthrop.
They crashed together, unbalanced for a second.
Katio...through blinding pain...hit the detonator.
The floor under them shook. The small mine Phantom placed earlier exploded in the wall.
Rocks caved. Dust exploded.
Phantom grabbed Katio, dragging him through the collapsing side tunnel.
Debris fell behind them.
Winthrop didn't chase. He stood perfectly still in the dust cloud, watching them vanish.
Strike wheezed. What the fuck, man? What are they made of?
Winthrop said nothing.
He turned and walked into the dark.
Scene 6
The corridor was dim and quiet until a guttural, ragged scream shattered the silence.
Bare feet slapped against cold tile. Warrior Girl came sprinting out of the darkness like a wounded animal, arms clutching her bruised torso, skin scraped raw. Her body trembled with every panicked step, and her chest heaved as if she couldn't breathe. Naked. Shaking. Soaked in blood that wasn't all hers.
She crashed into the Heroes' training room, knees buckling under her. Her arms hugged herself, trembling, and for a breathless second...just one...she looked like a child begging to wake up from a nightmare.
Angel turned fast, voice sharp. What the hell...?
Warrior Girl collapsed into her arms with a sob so broken it silenced the room. Her lips moved, barely forming words through her cries. I… I said… no… they took everything… I told them no…
Gazerbeam's jaw clenched. He turned slowly. Jesus Christ… Who the fuck… did this?
Shade didn't move. His eyes locked on the raw bruises, the blood dripping down her legs. Windstorm lowered his arms as if surrendering to the horror. Nova Prime stared, shaking. Her hands balled into fists so tight the skin split open.
She took a step forward. Her voice cracked like it was made of glass. Who. Did. This?
Before anyone could answer, the wall at the far end exploded inward with a roar of shattering concrete and flame.
BOOM.
Smoke and red lightning tore across the chamber.
Inferno.
He wasn't walking.
He was a meteor of heat and hate.
In less than a blink, he was through Nova Prime. Literally.
Her pupils dilated in confusion...then her chest split open. Her body separated vertically from groin to chin. Bones cracked like breaking branches. Her spine popped in half. Her ribcage unfolded like a book.
Blood sprayed in a geyser. Her organs dropped steaming to the floor. A wet slap. Her face lingered for a moment before the top half of her skull fell like shattered porcelain.
Warrior Girl screamed. Angel screamed louder.
They flew back from the shockwave. Concrete shattered beneath them. Angel slammed spine-first into a steel beam with a sickening crunch. Warrior Girl hit the wall and crumpled, skidding in her own blood.
She couldn't move. Could barely think. Could only curl into herself, shaking violently.
Angel blinked through the pain, gasping...and then saw Nova's remains.
What was left of her.
WHAT THE FUCK! Angel roared, staggering upright. WHY DID YOU KILL HER!?
Inferno didn't reply.
No movement. No flinch. His body barely breathed.
Then
FLASH.
He was behind Angel.
SHHNK.
Her head separated at the base of the neck. A clean, horizontal slice. For a second, her body kept standing, lips twitching like she was still trying to scream.
Then her head hit the floor.
Her body followed.
ANGEL!! Gazerbeam shouted, backing up, eyes glowing.
Jackson didn't shout. He just moved.
Fast.
His titanium blade sang through the air. He brought it down with every ounce of his strength...right at Inferno's skull.
CLANG.
The sword shattered.
Titanium shards spun into the air like confetti.
Jackson stared in disbelief. No…
Inferno's hand lashed out, grabbed his throat.
CRACK.
Three vertebrae shattered. Jackson gasped. Legs kicked. Fingers clawed at Inferno's arm.
Then came the laser.
Gazerbeam fired.
But Inferno turned...and Jackson's limp body absorbed the full blast. His chest caved in. His skin burned away. Smoke poured from the cavity as the beam shot through.
Inferno hurled Jackson's corpse like a missile. It crashed into Gazerbeam's chest. Bones snapped. Gazerbeam fell, pinned beneath.
Windstorm screamed and charged. He spun, wind ripping from his palms. Tornado-force blasts shook the room.
Inferno walked through them.
Grabbed.
He caught Windstorm mid-air by the leg and smashed him into the floor. Once.
CRACK.
Twice.
CRACK.
Three times.
CRUNCH.
Blood sprayed across the ceiling. Windstorm's limbs twisted in directions no body could survive. His skull split open against the floor like a watermelon.
Shade vanished into shadow, trying to flee...but Inferno reached into empty air and dragged him out of the void, fingers clutching nothing and pulling everything.
Shade screamed.
Inferno plunged his hand through his ribcage.
Blood shot from Shade's mouth. His heart stopped in Inferno's fist. Still pulsing.
He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
And then… silence.
Only Warrior Girl remained.
She sat in a pool of blood, legs twitching. Her mouth hung open, shaking. Her arms covered her chest, knees pulled up to hide herself.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her back scraped against the wall as she tried to crawl away, nails scratching the tile.
Inferno turned.
Boots clicked.
Each step crunched over broken glass, crushed metal, and mutilated bodies. The trail behind him was smeared in red. His glowing hands dripped with gore. He left bootprints of blood.
Warrior Girl whimpered. Her skin was ghost-pale. Her lips trembled, eyes wide with horror.
She flinched when he crouched.
He reached out...slowly...and placed his bloodied hand on her bare, quaking shoulder.
She sobbed at his touch. Flinched again. But couldn't move.
His head tilted. Like he was studying a corpse.
Why… she gasped. Why are you doing this…?
His voice was cold steel through bone.
Because they were weak.
His thumb brushed her collarbone, smearing blood across it.
She closed her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks.
His hand slid to her neck.
But you're not, he whispered. Not yet.
A long pause.
Then:
Welcome to the Heroes.
He rose. Boots soaked in red. Walked through the dead without a glance back.
And disappeared into smoke.
Warrior Girl stayed where she was...curled, broken, alone.
The lights flickered above. Unblinking.
End scene.