Disclaimer: The characters, organizations, and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events or organizations, is entirely coincidental. I do not condone or promote violence or threats toward real individuals or institutions. The material is presented for artistic and narrative purposes only and is intended for mature audiences.
The camera pans over a steel-and-glass war room deep within the Pentagon. Massive screens line the walls, flickering with live satellite feeds, city maps, and streams of media coverage. The air is thick, sterile, and humming with tension. A long oval table sits in the center, polished to a reflective shine, surrounded by high-backed chairs. The clack of polished boots on marble echoes faintly as aides and tech staff scurry quietly, adjusting screens, whispering updates, and watching the doorway.
Rain lashes against the narrow, reinforced windows, making the outside world look distorted, distant, almost unreal. The muted roar of distant sirens from the city mixes with the soft whir of drones hovering overhead.
At the table, President Trump leans back in his chair, fingers drumming rhythmically on the glossy surface, an expression somewhere between bemusement and calculation. Elon Musk sits upright, calm and poised, a tablet glowing softly in front of her, scanning data streams with clinical detachment. General Cain stands at the head of the table, posture rigid, eyes scanning the room like a hawk, assessing potential threats and risks.
All screens now focus on the recent Heroes' activities: cities in chaos, buildings aflame, and digital feeds showing both heroic feats and horrifying destruction. The tension is almost physical, pressing down on everyone in the room.
The doors slide open with a quiet hiss. Clavin steps in, papers in hand, and Dr. Monroe follows, his face a mask of focused intellect, eyes darting over the reports displayed across the screens.
The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of electronics, as all eyes turn to Dr. Monroe.
I stand by the chair, analyzing all of them. I am wearing a black suit with a white undershirt and black tie. Clavin, with the same suit, stands beside me with files and a big bag filled with more files and a computer. He carefully sets them down and starts to hook them up without saying anything. Dr. Monroe nods softly and takes a seat. His hands lay softly on the table as he stares at them all. He begins, his voice low and somewhat cold. I was informed of such behavior that is rogue. I've seen acts like this before, similar acts, yes, but with a hero with a big title and a big situation that was fascinating to me. That day, 47 people were killed, but that wasn't Inferno's first offense, was it, Clavin? He turned his head to Clavin, who is sweating bullets. Um...ye..yeah, sir. In...the past, we have covered up many horrible, disturbing things they did. Mostly just to keep their public image intact.
Trump's lips twitch into a crooked smirk, his fingers still tapping the polished surface. Of course… cover-ups. Always cover-ups. You wouldn't believe how much the public can't handle the truth. Bad press worse than war sometimes. He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. But Inferno, huh? That guy sounds like… a disaster with a cape. Maybe a lot of people like him, but I hear a lot of people don't. And when people don't… he spreads his hands wide, …well, things fall apart fast.
Elon Musk doesn't look up from his tablet, his voice cool, detached. Patterns. That's what we're talking about. Destruction follows Inferno's presence like gravity. If it was once, twice, you could call it chance, bad luck. But consistent, repeated… statistical inevitability. Which makes him not an asset. He finally looks up, face calm as ever. It makes him a liability.
General Cain's hands are clasped tightly behind his back, his boots clicking once as he shifts forward. His deep voice cuts through the room like a knife. And liabilities get people killed, Doctor. You said forty-seven once. Multiply that by ten, by a hundred. That's what we're looking at if this continues unchecked. He glances briefly at Clavin's sweating form, then back to Monroe. So I want to hear your analysis. Not numbers, not vague talk. You've studied people like him. What's your verdict?
The room stills, all three pairs of powerful eyes now pinned directly on Dr. Monroe.
Dr. Monroe folds his hands, the black suit cutting a severe shape against the dim room. His head tilts slowly toward Clavin, his voice dropping into something almost intimate, almost venomous. Show them the photos you tried to hide.
Clavin's fingers twitch on the mouse. Sweat traces down his temple, his voice a stammer. Y-yes… sir.
The screen flared to life with a hollow click.
First image Inferno inside a church. Flames bled across the pews, turning the holy space into an inferno. Bodies charred beyond recognition, skin splitting open as heat boiled their insides, exposing rib cages and melting organs. A crucifix stood half-melted in the background, its wooden frame blackened and warped. In the foreground, a pile of ash lay on the floor, its beads fused together in a grotesque clump.
Click.
A child splayed on the concrete like a broken doll. His body flattened, limbs twisted in grotesque directions, bones protruding through torn skin. The report in the corner read: Fall from seventy floors dropped by Inferno himself. The impact had turned the child into a pulpy mess, internal organs splattered across the pavement, a sickening red and purple stain spreading out from the corpse.
Click.
The final image froze the room. Six children. Their small frames crumpled in the shadows of a derelict building, their bodies contorted in unnatural angles. The air in the picture seemed heavy, wrong. The caption at the bottom made Monroe's jaw tighten: Homicide, Rape, Perpetrators: Sentro and Mr. American. The children's faces were frozen in eternal screams, their eyes wide with terror and pain. Blood pooled beneath their bodies, mixing with the filth and debris of the abandoned building.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Clavin swallowed hard, his hand hovering over the mouse like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Monroe finally spoke, voice like a knife scraping against stone. This… is what your heroes really are.
President Trump leaned back in his chair, lips pursed, the gold cufflinks on his wrist catching the sterile light. He jabbed a finger toward the frozen image of the six children. This is… this is disgraceful. I mean, I always said these so-called 'heroes' were overrated, didn't I? People laughed at me. But look at this! It's disgusting. They call me the bad guy, but this? No, no. These people are worse than anyone ever imagined. Believe me. We're going to need to deal with this very strongly.
General Cain shook his head slowly, his voice low, carrying the weight of both anger and disbelief. You don't get to put on a cape, burn down a church, or harm a child, and call yourself a hero. That ain't heroism. That's evil. Pure and simple. And the worst part is, they've been hiding it sweeping it under the rug while the people cheer. You got folks out there worshipping them, while this… this is the truth. He slapped the table with an open palm. I've run businesses, I've run campaigns, but I've never seen corruption this rotten at the core.
Elon leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers pressed together. His tone was calm but tinged with unease. From a systems perspective, this is catastrophic. You have public icons, supposed pillars of safety, operating as predators. The infrastructure of trust collapses when the brand of 'hero' is this compromised. And if you think globally… this isn't just one country's problem. It destabilizes everything. Markets, alliances, technological development. If Inferno or the others turn rogue at scale, you're not looking at scandals. You're looking at civilization-level risks. He paused, glancing at Monroe. So the question isn't whether this is bad it's what's the plan to contain it. Because if these guys are still out there, the world is a very fragile place.
Dr. Monroe shakes his head and pinches his nose. These Heroes need to be stopped. End of story. Clavin interrupts, trying to protect his industry, No... you can't just stop them. They... they mine! Monroe snaps back toward him, his lips pressed tightly together. That's why you will be behind bars. He shifts his gaze back to Trump. Trump, Elon, and Cain, I have a proposal. Taking down the heroes alone, the military force would be enough due to the failures of leadership that led us to this decline. The military option won't be it. Trust me, I've heard lots of ideas: bombs, poison, hypnotize. But the best one yet is… The Hunter.
The Hunter steps forward from the shadows. He is wearing a full black super suit with black carbon fiber material all over, a black mask with a big white triangle in the middle of the forehead of his back helmet over the mask. He also has the white triangle centered on his chest and the black round shield he is carrying. He stands to the side of Monroe, mumbling something horrible that no one knows.
Monroe continues, This is my latest product. I believe he is similar to the Black Assassin, aka the… Clavin interrupts him again, this time even more pissed off. He jumps out of his seat and starts pointing at Monroe, You fuck cock!! Winthrop is mine... how did you.... make a fucking copy, you sick bastard?! Monroe chuckles, shaking his head a little. Oh… Cal, he's not a copy. He's an improvement. Anyways, Trump, Elon, and Cain, I believe this is your call. Hunt the heroes or let them go.
President Trump leans back in his chair, hands steepled, chin raised smugly. Well, look, Monroe, I gotta say this is very interesting. Very strong. People tell me all the time, 'Mr. President, you know the heroes, they're dangerous, they're out of control. And I think, frankly, I'm the only one ever had the guts to say it. This Hunter guy? He looks tremendous, very tough. But Cal… you come in here, you threaten me? Threaten the country? That's a big mistake. Biggest mistake of your life, actually. Because I don't back down. Not to you, not to Inferno, not to anyone. If it's me making the call well, let's just say, the heroes aren't gonna like what comes next.
Elon is quieter, fingers drumming the table nervously, eyes half-distant like he's running a hundred calculations in her head. I didn't… expect that. Blood on the floor, a body still warm, and you don't blink? Honestly… that's impressive. Terrifying, but impressive. If what you're showing us is real if these 'heroes' are committing atrocities, then humanity deserves the truth. But make no mistake, Monroe: I'm not here for blood games. I'm here because what comes after matters. If I commit my resources, it's not just funding. It's the future. Mars, AI, energy all of it tied into this. So yes, maybe there's a deal. But it won't be your deal. It'll be mine. And trust me… I don't play second chair to anyone.
General Cain slowly leans forward, voice calm but edged like steel: Monroe's right about one thing: heroes are a liability. They upset balance. They break laws and then hide behind their so-called morality. But Cal… you sound desperate. Threatening the president in this room? That's weakness talking. You let emotion dictate your moves, and that's why you'll lose everything. Now… the Hunter that's calculated. Cold. Efficient. I like that. But Monroe if he fails, if your product cracks under pressure? You'll answer to me first.
Clavin leaned across the steel table, spit flying as his voice cut through the silence like broken glass. His eyes locked on Trump and Elon, pure venom behind every word. You two will fucking die. I swear to God. You (his finger jabs at Trump) you'll be squeezed into orange goddamn juice. And you (he whips to Elon) I'll make sure you're left with a robotic cock once I'm done with you!
In a single motion, Clavin lunged across the table like a predator, veins bulging, teeth bared. His body never completed the move. Hunter moved faster than thought itself. His pistol was out, the chamber already singing before Clavin's feet left the ground. The crack of the gunshot rattled the walls. The bullet tore through Clavin's chest. His body snapped back mid-air, slammed into the table, and slid to the floor. He clutched his chest with trembling fingers, eyes blazing red, spit and blood foaming at the corners of his mouth. Aghhhh… y-you… agh… You will… all… regret… this… His hand stretched out, shaking, reaching for nothing then fell limp. His body collapsed, blood spreading in dark streaks across the cold floor and splashing up onto the sterile white walls. Dr. Monroe didn't even blink. His hands stayed calmly folded, his expression unreadable, as if he had been waiting for this outcome all along. He turned his head slowly toward Trump. Well, Mr. President… you've seen what he could do. The question is… do we have a deal? The room went still. Only the steady drip of blood hitting the floor echoed in the silence, marking the weight of the moment. BLACKOUT.
Scene 2
Rain pounded relentlessly against Lydia's windshield, the droplets blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. Her hair clung damply to her forehead, strands plastered to her cheeks, and her eyelids drooped under the weight of exhaustion. Each breath was shallow, as if the storm outside mirrored the turmoil inside her chest. Her knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly, adjusting the radio with trembling fingers until the soft, melancholic chords of Two Moons by BoyWithUke filled the car.
The lyrics wrapped around her like a mirror of her own fractured life: "I see two moons and nothing more, I close the door, I'm left with less…"
Lydia's eyes welled with tears, blurring the road ahead, as memories assaulted her mind. She could almost feel her father's hands in hers, tossing a ball back and forth across the yard on sun-drenched afternoons, laughter echoing across the lawn. Movie nights sprawled on the couch, warm blankets and hot cocoa, the simple joys of being a family.
And then the hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the sharp bite of metal needles, the suffocating dread as she watched her father slip away. Her chest tightened, a physical weight pressing down as she remembered the red staining his clothes, the life draining from his eyes. Her mother was always somewhere else, working endlessly in the hospital, leaving Lydia alone with a grief too heavy for her young shoulders. She was left with nothing but less.
At a stoplight, she loosened her grip on the wheel, letting her fingers run through the tangled strands of her hair. Her eyes flicked up, and she froze. A billboard loomed over the intersection, the massive image of the Nine staring down at her. Inferno stood at the forefront, expression rigid, pointing directly at her. The words scrawled beneath were almost a mockery: "You can do this. Don't kill yourself. Call 988 for help."
Her jaw tightened. The fuck… she muttered under her breath, a shiver running through her spine. She shook her head violently, whispering again, I don't need fucking help. The light turned green, and she drove off, teeth clenched, eyes darting between the wet, glistening houses of the neighborhood.
The GPS chimed softly: two minutes to her destination. She exhaled, a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a fleeting second, trying to escape the storm inside her head. Houses passed in a blur, their manicured lawns slick with rain, children's laughter echoing faintly as they chased each other under umbrellas. Her chest ached, a physical thrum of pain as she remembered a similar day years ago snowballs flying, her father laughing, her small hands red and numb from the cold. And then him… struck down, the snow turning pink, the warmth ripped from the world.
Her car rolled into the driveway, the engine's purr cutting through the steady drum of rain. She sat there, gripping the steering wheel, letting the memories bleed into her like the storm outside. The weight of grief pressed on her chest. She let herself sit, letting tears fall freely, washing her face, letting the sorrow take its toll.
Finally, she climbed out, the rain soaking her coat, drenching her hair, but she barely noticed. She walked up the wet stone path, the chill biting her hands as she raised her knuckles to the door. Laughter spilled out from inside the house warm, inviting, and painfully normal.
Ryan's mother opened the door, her face a mixture of joy and subtle worry. Her eyes crinkled with concern as she took in Lydia's disheveled state.
Hey, Lydia… are you okay, hon? Her voice was soft, sweet, laced with a care that made Lydia's chest tighten even more.
Lydia didn't lift her head, barely muttering, Ryan… I want to talk to him. Please.
Her mother's brow furrowed, but she nodded and stepped aside. Ryan! Lydia's here.
From the dining room, Ryan rose, wiping his hands on a towel, his expression instantly shifting to concern the moment he saw her. Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a firm, comforting embrace. One hand rubbed circles on her back, slow and methodical, while the other held her close.
Shhh… hey, it's okay. Are you… okay? His voice was calm, grounding, a steadying force in the storm of her mind. There's leftovers, water… whatever you need.
Her gaze met his deep brown eyes, and tears brimmed, threatening to spill. I… I don't know, Ryan, she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. She crossed her arms, hugging herself as though trying to shield her raw, bleeding heart. I'm… scared… and… worried…
Ryan lifted her chin gently with a single finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. Hey. Hey… I've got you, okay? We'll get somewhere comfortable. You're safe.
Her lips parted slightly, gasping, as she leaned against him, letting the warmth of his presence seep into her bones.
He guided her to the family room, setting her gently on the couch, still holding her close. Lydia… what's… what's wrong?
I… I don't know, Ryan," she admitted, voice barely audible. I'm tired… worn out… She shook her head violently, choking on her own words. I feel… so alone…" Her gaze searched his, desperate for the tether of human connection.
You're not alone, he said, voice unwavering. Not now, not ever. I'm holding you… no matter how hard it gets, no matter how many times you fall, I'll be here. Through it all. You'll never be alone.
Her lips trembled into a weak, tearful smile. The words wrapped around her, fragile, like a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea.
For a brief moment, the warmth of the memory returned, filling her chest with light. But the flashback began to fade, the edges darkening, twisting into reality.
Her vision shifted violently. Ryan lay before her, motionless, blood soaking through his clothes, the life drained from him. She fell to the floor, cradling him in her arms, forehead pressed against his chest. The warmth of life was gone.
I… I'm so sorry, Ryan, she whispered, choking back sobs. Thank you for… being here with me… Her hands trembled, clutching his bloodied shirt, fingers digging into the soaked fabric.
You… said you'd hold me through it all… I'd never be alone… Her voice cracked, tears carving paths down her face. …Now… now I'm holding you… and you'll never be alone…
She stayed like that, rocking him slightly, her forehead resting against his shoulder. The room felt impossibly cold. The storm outside hammered in time with her heartbeat, rain drumming against the roof and windows, each drop a reminder of the life and warmth she had lost.
She inhaled shakily, her tears soaking into his clothes, the metallic tang of blood sharp in her nostrils. Her body shook uncontrollably, grief and shock intertwining, leaving her numb and raw all at once.
Lydia looked down at him, the tears flowing freely now, her voice barely a whisper: I… I should've been there… I should've… kept you safe…
Her hands moved over his face gently, tracing the features she had loved so dearly, memorizing every line, every scar. "You were always here for me… always. And now… now it's my turn."
The storm outside began to ease, but inside her, the deluge raged on. She clutched him tighter, refusing to let go, as if holding him could somehow pull him back, make the world right again.
For hours, she remained there, rocking him gently, murmuring apologies and memories, each word an attempt to stave off the unbearable emptiness. The flashback that once offered warmth now stood in stark contrast to the brutal reality, each memory of his life before this moment a cruel echo of what was gone.
And as the rain slowed outside, Lydia finally allowed herself to shiver from exhaustion, leaning her head against his chest, whispering once more, You'll never be alone… not while I'm holding you… never…
Scene 3
Inferno stood in the center of the room, his red cape pooling like spilled blood across the polished floor. His hands rested on his hips, shoulders taut, his entire posture radiating a deadly, barely contained fury. The Heroes team encircled him, tense, every one of them trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to make a wrong move.
He stepped forward, deliberate and slow, the floor creaking under his weight, until he was just inches from Strike. Four inches. Barely enough space for the heat radiating from his body to brush Strike's face.
What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Fucking say to me? Inferno's voice cut through the air, cold, razor-sharp, each syllable dripping with menace.
Strike's knees trembled. His hands shook, the metallic gloves slick with sweat. His chest heaved as he hovered slightly above the ground, lightning crackling over his skin in jagged, contained arcs. Yet, he straightened up, forcing defiance through his fear.
You… heard… me, he stammered, voice quivering. I said… who would fucking stop me?
At that moment, the storm around Strike exploded. A dark, swirling thundercloud erupted above the city, spreading wide enough to blot out parts of New York. Civilians below pulled out their phones, screaming with excitement, oblivious to the true horror. OMG, look at this cloud! Is Electric Strike struggling to take a shit? LMAO! One comment read. Another: LOL he's shitting a storm!
Inferno froze. His eyes widened, the tension coiling inside him like a spring ready to snap. He didn't move, didn't flinch. The sheer audacity of Strike's defiance hung in the room like a challenge.
Roadrunner leaned over to Vortex, whispering with a smirk, Yo… are they done staring yet?
Vortex stretched her long, athletic legs, the tight super-suit molding every curve. She smirked, glancing at Inferno's back. I don't know… hope they stare a little longer. Look at that ass, she said, a teasing glint in her eyes. Might give the Omniman meme a run for its money.
Strike's lips pulled back in a snarl. This is for the 47 people you son of a bitch! He fired a single bolt of pure energy. It arced through the air, a screaming comet of white-hot fury. The moment it touched Inferno, the air around it hissed, metal sizzling and flesh vaporizing. Strike's eyes went wide in disbelief.
But Inferno… smiled. Just slightly, unnervingly calm. In a blink, faster than the human eye could track, his hand shot forward, cutting through Strike's stomach at the speed of sound. Blood erupted in a geyser, painting the floor in glistening red. Strike's chest heaved one last time before collapsing with a sickening squish, his guts spilling grotesquely in a warm, pulsating heap across the tiles.
The room went silent for a moment, the only sound the drip, drip, drip of blood running into the cracks of the floor. Respect, trust, even morale all of it vanished from the Heroes' minds in a heartbeat.Vortex screamed, her chair toppling as she rushed to Strike's body, shaking him, shouting, Stay with me! Stay with me! You're going to be okay!
Warrior Girl, unflinching, lit a new cigarette, exhaling slowly. The smoke curled around her face, eyes narrowed, a mixture of disgust and disbelief.
Roadrunner and Sentro both stared at the spreading blood puddle, horror etched into every line of their faces. Roadrunner pounded his fists on the table. What the fuck is wrong with you?! H… he's my best friend!
Inferno lifted his head, jaw tight, eyes glinting with cold pride.
Mad rested her hands on the table, a mixture of revulsion and shock on her face. I… I can't believe you… did that.
Inferno folded his arms, casually walking around Vortex, who was still crying over Strike's body, whispering gentle, desperate reassurances. He leaned down, brushing past her shoulder. I did what had to be done.
Warrior Girl's lips curled in a scornful scoff. Yeah, killing forty-seven civilians and your own teammate… that was totally necessary, huh? She slammed her hand on the table, smoke trailing from her cigarette like a dagger in the air.
Winthrop, standing silently by Inferno, scribbled on a dry erase board: If I were you, I wouldn't continue.
Warrior Girl shot him a glare. And I should listen to you? You're almost as vile as he is. She turned back to Inferno, voice trembling with fury. Why? Why kill them? Why Strike? Explain.
Inferno didn't flinch. His eyes twitched slightly, jaw clenching as he spoke softly. Children, he said, voice almost a whisper. They took our files. Planned to take us out… one by one. Winthrop and I were to handle it. But the public… they knew. They came. I killed them.
Warrior Girl exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You've not only decimated our team… you've thrown the entire nation into chaos!"
Mad's eyes were sharp, piercing. Who were the kids?
Inferno looked at her and softly said, Lydia Howard...and that boy...Ryan. Roadrunner's eyes widened at the name Howard, sweating and shaking. He gulped, "Uh..Howard you said Howard right? MAD jumped in before Inferno, Yeah the fuck he said it what you want me to fucking spell it out to you?! Roadrunner snapped. Have…. the fuck off, you
Oh, please. At least I wasn't a high school dropout. Roadrunner, now pissed, stood up. Ok thats it Iam about to beat the living shit out of you you mother fucking whore!" MAD snickered as cosmic energy flowed through her fingers. Bring it on bitch!
Warrior Girl jumped to her feet, yelling, Stop! Look at what this is doing! We're already down one! Keep your composure! She shot Inferno a sharp glance, voice hard as steel. Don't make us lose another! She sat, back rigid, glare unwavering.
Inferno chuckled, slow and deliberate, clapping his hands with mock admiration. Wow… what a good fucking speech. You just… pulled that out of your ass?
Warrior Girl, having endured years with him, said nothing. She just leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with contempt.
Sentro, hesitating, murmured, Boss… I think… she has a point… maybe we should
Inferno's eyes snapped to him, cold as ice. Speak one more word, and I will kill you. Sentro sank back into his chair immediately, nodding, wide-eyed.
Mad broke the suffocating silence. So… um… next on our agenda?
Inferno straightened, gesturing lazily to Mad. Finally, something of value, he said, flicking his hand at Strike's mutilated body. Are you done saying your prayers to him, sweetheart?
vortex lifted her bloodied face, nodding slowly through her tears.
Good, Inferno continued, voice low, venomous. "You know he's fucking dead, right?
She nodded again. Then get back in your fucking seat. She scrambled to comply, moving quickly as the room seemed to shrink around the horror of what had just occurred.
Roadrunner, curious, leaned in to Mr. America's phone who is jerking while watching "A Serbian Film. His eyes widened at the scene. What...what the fuck...? Your...your...a fucking necrophile! Inferno snapped his neck and smiled. Necrophile what? He walks over to Mr. America and just stares. "This is what you watch?" Mr. America smiled, stopping rubbing. Uh..um..yeah its hot isnt it? Inferno smiled and said calmly, So they took the idea of true love and made it...fucked up?" Mr. American um....I mean yeah...I love it! Inferno's smile grew as he patted his shoulder, leaning in almost whispering. You know what I like? What says Mr. American? Inferno quickly takes the phone and shoves it
violently into Mr. American's face. Screams erupted as blood spurted, the screen crushing into his skull, embedding itself painfully, half inside, half dangling grotesquely. He clawed at it, wailing as crimson sprayed across the walls.
Warrior Girl raised her glass of whiskey, exhaling slowly. Ha… karma.
Inferno stepped back, watching the blood drip and pool, a reminder of his twisted justice. Let this be a lesson, he said softly, almost serenely, respect… the human body.
With a final chuckle, he turned and walked toward the exit. Mr. American's head rested grotesquely on the table, the phone still lodged in his eye, the movie still playing on loop, a quiet, horrifying testament to the chaos Inferno had left behind.
The Tower fell silent, save for the wet, sickening sound of blood pooling on polished tiles and the heavy, uneven breathing of the surviving Heroes. Their trust was shattered. Their fear, palpable. And Inferno's shadow lingered long after he had left the room.
Inferno strode down the hall, his red cape trailing like a dark river behind him, soaked in the aftermath of carnage. Each step was deliberate, boots thudding against the marble floors with a heavy, rhythmic echo that seemed to reverberate through the entire tower. Interns, agents, and security personnel stepped aside instinctively, their eyes flicking nervously toward him, but none dared meet his gaze directly. They knew instinctively: one wrong look, one wrong word, and they'd be next. The stench of blood and the metallic tang of gore clinging to his fists made the air heavy, oppressive, a suffocating weight that pressed down on everyone in the hallway. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscles in his neck twitching with controlled fury. Every movement radiated power and danger, a predator walking through a jungle of scared prey. He didn't need to speak; his presence alone demanded submission. Shadows from the dim lighting clung to his frame, stretching his figure into a monstrous silhouette. Occasionally, he shifted his weight slightly, the motion slow and calculated, as if daring someone to make a wrong move. He passed by a line of security interns, their eyes wide, breaths held. A clerk dropped a stack of files, the loud clatter bouncing off the walls, but no one flinched more than a fraction. Inferno's gaze darted sharply toward the sound, and for a moment, a chill of fear rippled through the room. He continued forward, unflinching, the weight of menace radiating from him so strongly it pressed the air into a thick fog. Reaching the main floor, the scene shifted. Dwayne Johnson, Gal Gadot, Emma Watson, and Ryan Reynolds were gathered around a low table, plates of Gordon Ramsay's finest cuisine arranged meticulously. They laughed softly, the sound oddly fragile under the oppressive presence of Inferno. Ryan wiped his hands on his pants, trying to seem composed, though his eyes betrayed unease. Gal's back straightened imperceptibly, shoulders tense, as she instinctively leaned away from the dark energy emanating from the man who had killed forty-seven people without a second thought. Emma, slightly tipsy, giggled and nudged Ryan, oblivious or defiant, her body language swinging between playful flirtation and anxious anticipation. Inferno's eyes narrowed, scanning them all, yet he did not linger. One measured step closer, and the world seemed to shrink around him. Dwayne Johnson, arms crossed over his chest, tried to mask the unease curling in his stomach, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his biceps. "He's at it again," he muttered under his breath, low enough that only Gal could hear. His gaze stayed locked on the dark figure, watching as Inferno's presence seemed to warp the very air. Gal's eyes widened, and she sank slightly into her seat. "God… I thought…" Her voice faltered, a whisper of disbelief. Her hands twitched, almost as if she wanted to make a protective gesture, though no one was close enough to shield. Ryan leaned forward, running a hand through his hair, mind racing, words catching in his throat. "Yeah… but what do we do? I mean… I'm not Deadpool, and Gal's not Wonder Woman. How can we stop this?" His chest tightened with panic, though he tried to keep his voice steady. The Rock, sensing the need for focus, pointed at a tablet on the table. "Points. Continue. Points." The gesture was mechanical, deliberate, a small attempt to regain control amidst the chaos. Emma's fingers danced across the screen, tapping on the heroic icon of Roadrunner. Her giggles rose and fell, small, nervous, playful. Ryan leaned over her shoulder, whispering a question that barely registered amidst her excitement. "So… Winthrop. How's he… like… what is he even like?" The words were careful, tentative, like testing the waters with a predator nearby. The Rock let out a dry scoff, his lips tightening into a thin line. "God… he's… a mystery. Doesn't talk, doesn't eat, doesn't sleep… doesn't even make a sound. I saw him around the corner once, talking to Inferno. Only saw an inch of his face because of the lighting." His eyes darkened with the memory, shifting uncomfortably. The sheer mystery of Winthrop was enough to chill them all. Gal's head snapped toward him, disbelief etched across her features. "Really? Has anyone… has anyone seen his real face?" Her voice trembled slightly, both awe and fear mixing in the question. The Rock smirked faintly, a tension-breaking grin masking unease. "Maybe Inferno has. But it looked…" He trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like a threat. Emma, oblivious or deliberately teasing, snatched the tablet back and giggled again, tapping on Roadrunner's stats with almost dreamy fascination. "Look at him! Flexing, strong… cute." She rubbed the screen with her fingers as if feeling the hero through the glass. Gal rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. "God, can any girl find a man these days without only liking them for their looks?" The frustration in her voice carried weight, her body stiffening with disbelief. She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as if bracing herself against the absurdity of the moment. The Rock, ever the practical one, turned to Ryan. "Wait… Emma, you're up to something. And it just might work." His voice had an edge now, a sharpness born from necessity and urgency.
Scene 4
The sun spilled golden light through the wide windows of the café, illuminating the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans that hung warmly in the air. The gentle hum of conversation and the occasional clink of porcelain cups created a calm background, almost meditative in its steadiness. In a corner booth, a young woman sat with her papers spread neatly to one side and a steaming cup of coffee cradled in her hands. Her black hair was tied up in a loose bun, stray strands framing her focused face, and her silver bodysuit shimmered subtly beneath a layer of casual blue jeans. She glanced at her watch, sighing softly, before taking a deliberate, careful sip from her cup.
Moments later, a waitress approached, a graceful figure in uniform, her hair tied back, eyes blue and clear, the corners of her lips lifted in a charming smile. She set the cup down gently and asked, How's your coffee? Her hands rested behind her back in a posture of calm attentiveness.
The young woman looked up, her own smile spreading slowly, warmth and approval lighting her expression. It's really great. Thank you.
The waitress straightened, confidence growing with the acknowledgement. "You're welcome. Anything else I can get for you?
The young woman shook her head, impressed by the skill that had gone into the simple cup. I'm good, thanks.
Satisfied, the waitress moved on, leaving the young hero to her work. She flipped through her notes, pen poised, though a small frown tugged at her brow. Mason was already fifteen minutes late.
The café doors swung open with a sudden crash, letting in a rush of warm air. Mason stumbled inside, panting as though the minutes he had lost had weighed heavily on him. His brown hair was mussed from running his hands through it, his casual blue shirt slightly wrinkled, black jeans marking him as more hurried than polished. His eyes immediately found her, and he froze for a heartbeat, stunned by her presence.
Oh oh my god… I can't believe it's you… Lucy Silver, he stammered, his cheeks coloring with an awkward flush. I'm a really, really big fan. A nervous chuckle escaped him.
Lucy's smile softened, eyes sparkling with amusement. Wow… Mason, gee, thanks. She rested her chin on her hands, tilting her head slightly, curious and patient, letting him settle his nervous energy.
Mason cleared his throat, trying to regain composure, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. I'm… sorry I'm late. My mom you know… she had me stay and clean up a bit longer.
Lucy gave a faint nod, sympathetic but still amused. It's fine, she said lightly, brushing the tension from her shoulders. So… what brings you to join my super team?
He swallowed hard, voice trembling slightly. I… I wanted to be in a safe environment… among heroes. I don't… I just want to help people. His hands twisted together, thumbs rubbing nervously. I want to be there for everyone… for those who can't defend themselves. I want to… I want to be that hero.
Lucy set her pen down softly, lifting her gaze to his. I love that you're encouraged to help everyone, Mason. But with that mindset… it'll only weigh you down.
Mason's head dropped, a faint shadow of defeat in his posture. What… do you mean? I… I can save everyone… right? His voice was barely audible, a mixture of hope and naivety.
Lucy reached across the table, gripping his hands with a gentle firmness. Look, Mason… when I was your age, I thought I could save the world. Stop every villain, solve every problem… fix every wrong. But the more you try, the more you see… the same wrongs keep returning. You put people away, and others rise in their place. No one not even God himself can stop evil completely.
His shoulders slumped, the harsh truth sinking in. The disappointment in the world weighed on him, heavier than any failure of his own.
Lucy's lips quirked, trying to lighten the moment. Okay… let's switch gears. Something lighter. Tell me about your experiences. How long have you been a hero?
Mason lifted his head slightly, adjusting in his seat. Um… I have about one to two years of combat experience… He paused, biting his lip. "I've put… seven people in jail.
Lucy's eyes widened, impressed. Wow… seven people at your age? That's remarkable. She nodded, encouraging him to continue.
And I've been on only one mission… and I've been a hero for three years, he added, his voice steadier now.
Good… very good, Lucy nodded, her tone warm. And what mission was that?
Mason scratched his head, thinking back. It was… one the government sent me on… to see if I was ready to be recognized. I had to stop a cartel from smuggling drugs. I… stopped all of them, but at the end, there was this guy at the dock black hoodie, black coat, steel plates, purple gloves. He… he handed me a… human brain. His voice cracked slightly, the memory vivid. Then he just walked away.
Lucy's eyebrows lifted in slight recognition, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Ah… that's Winthrop. He's… different from the others.
Mason's eyes widened, confusion and curiosity warring in his expression. Different… how?
Lucy shook her head, exasperated but amused. "Dear Lord… why does everyone ask this? It's all over the news, Reddit… even kids' channels. Everyone wants to know who he is. Honestly, the truth is… only Inferno really knows.
Mason's jaw dropped. Wait… Winthrop's part of the Nine?
Lucy giggled, bemused at his shock. Yes… he's been there since the beginning. Actually, it used to be him and Inferno before people like Jackson, Windstorm, and Angel arrived.
Lucy tilted her head, studying him. But tell me… what are your powers and abilities?
Mason straightened, confidence creeping in. I… I only have super strength.
Lucy nodded slowly, expectation tempered with interest. Limits?
Mason scratched his chin, thinking. I… I've never really tested it. But I can lift a small car and throw it.
Lucy smiled, sipping her coffee. That's a start. She gestured toward the counter. Do you want me to order one to go before we head out?
No… I'm fine. Thanks," Mason replied politely.
Alright, Lucy said, her tone soft but professional. Before we go to base, I need you to fill out this form name, last name, date of birth, and a few government-related questions. She passed the paper and pen to him. Mason began filling it out, the pen shaking slightly in his hand.
Lucy's gaze drifted to the television in the corner, where a news segment played. The screen showed a vibrant Gay Pride parade, Lionheart and Riptide waving to the cheering crowd, rainbow flags snapping in the sunlight. The reporter's voice cut through:
It's a beautiful day for a Gay Pride parade, celebrating 56 years. We applaud these heroes for standing up to Congress!
Suddenly, another voice interrupted. Matt Walsh, appearing on the split screen, frowned into the camera. It's… isn't just… ludicrous. These heroes saving others is one thing but they can't even respect themselves. What has become of America?
Lucy slapped her forehead lightly, muttering, Jesus Christ…
Mason looked up from the paper, eyes wide, watching Lionheart and Riptide kiss as the camera zoomed in, the crowd's cheers filling the café with distant echoes of jubilation.
Lucy's voice hardened with determination. Let's go. She gathered the papers and slid the pen across to Mason, standing smoothly. Her posture was firm, confident, a subtle signal that the day was about to get serious.
The screen shifted, displaying Charlie Kirk's death in stark, jarring detail a bullet striking his chest, blood spurting as his body fell, Matt Walsh reacting in horror. The reporter, a cruel smirk playing on his lips, recounted the moment, twisting the story to provoke outrage.
Mason's face tightened, a mix of fear, disbelief, and resolve etching into his features. Lucy's jaw set, her eyes cold but focused, a quiet storm beneath her composed exterior. She gestured toward the door, the papers tucked neatly under one arm, signaling that it was time to leave the comfort of the café and step into the chaotic, dangerous world outside.
Together, they walked out, the sunlight striking their figures as they moved into the open air. Mason's shoulders straightened slightly, determination mingling with nervous anticipation. Lucy's eyes scanned the streets ahead, alert and calculating. The world outside was unpredictable, violent, and unforgiving but for the first time, Mason felt a spark of purpose ignited by guidance, experience, and the chance to truly be a hero.
Scene 5
The cold wind clawed at Mason's shirt as he trailed behind Lucy. They'd left the warmth of the coffee shop, and now she was leading him into an alley that felt like it had been carved out of winter itself. The brick walls rose high on either side, damp and streaked with age. A flickering streetlight at the far end gave off a sickly yellow glow, barely cutting through the shadows.
Mason hunched his shoulders, adjusting his shirt nervously, his small frame shifting from foot to foot. His eyes darted left, then right, like a stray animal waiting for a trap to spring. Where… where are we? His voice cracked, quiet, almost swallowed by the alley itself.
Lucy didn't answer right away. She shrugged, brushing her gloved hand along the wall like she knew it by heart. Her expression was calm, but her eyes always scanning, always aware—were sharp. Finally, she spoke, her tone even but carrying weight. You remember that paper you signed, right? The one that said once you came with me, you can't tell anyone what you see?
Mason's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He stepped forward, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. His tone dropped lower, less boyish, more serious, almost as if this was the moment he realized he couldn't afford to joke anymore. …Yeah. I won't tell anyone.
Lucy nodded once, clipped and final. Good. She pressed her palm flat against the wall, fingers sliding until they found a nearly invisible dent. She tapped it, and with a muted click, a panel shifted inward. The entire wall rumbled, stone grinding against hidden machinery. A seam split open, revealing a staircase descending into shadow. Cold blue lights ignited along the rails, pulsing faintly as if the building itself was breathing.
After you, Lucy said, gesturing with her hand.
Mason hesitated, peering down into the hollow dark. His legs trembled slightly as he put one foot on the first step. The railing was slick under his hand, cold enough to bite. Each step echoed, the sound stretching into the void, and Mason felt his stomach twist. He moved slowly, carefully, his weight leaning forward like he expected the stair to collapse beneath him.
Halfway down, voices floated up laughter, easy and careless. The kind of laughter Mason hadn't heard in years. It was strange hearing it down here, buried under stone. He quickened his pace, the blue light glowing brighter with each step until, finally, he reached the bottom.
What lay before him was nothing like the grim cave he expected. The main chamber spread wide, its rough walls smoothed into a perfect arc. A massive computer dominated one side of the cavern, its glowing screens plastered with the faces of villains: Red Flame's sneer, General Pike's scowl, a collage of evil Mason had only seen in shaky news broadcasts.
In the center of the room stood a circular platform, its marble floor gleaming white, bordered by a perfect ring of gold that caught the light. Six chairs sat neatly arranged, all black leather, high-backed, and far too fancy for a cave. The mix of elegance and raw stone gave the room a surreal energy, like the collision of two worlds that weren't supposed to touch.
Lucy stepped forward, her boots clicking against the marble. Mason followed close, tugging his sleeve nervously.
The first to notice him was Blades. She rose smoothly from her chair, her posture tall and confident. Her dark hair framed her angular face, and when she smiled, it was the kind of smile that said she meant it. She extended her hand, her movements deliberate but warm. Hey. Nice to meet you. You must be the newbie, right?
Mason froze, his gaze flicking from her hand to Lucy, then back. His body shifted awkwardly, one foot scraping the marble. Finally, he reached out, his hand hesitant and clammy. Um… yeah. I guess.
Blades's grip was firm, grounding. Don't worry, she said, her voice steady. We all started out the same way.
Before Mason could respond, Violet drifted closer. She didn't say anything just stood beside Blades, her pale eyes fixed on him. A faint smile tugged at her lips, almost eerie in its stillness. Mason felt her stare linger a second too long before Lucy clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
Alright, Lucy said softly. How about I show you the rest of the lair?
She guided him through a corridor, her hand resting firmly on his shoulder. Mason's nerves flared again at her touch it wasn't unwelcome, but it reminded him how small he felt in all this. They stopped at a window overlooking another chamber.
The training room was vast, a sterile white cube alive with holograms. At its center, a glowing treadmill stretched endlessly, its surface warping as if reality itself was being rewritten. Neon blurred across it, a streak of color, his body a machine of speed. Numbers flickered above him: 332 mph. His breathing was ragged but relentless, each stride a thunderclap on the projection.
That's Neon, Lucy said, her lips quirking into a half-smile. Our speedster. Fast. Powerful. Kind of an ass sometimes especially when you bring up Roadrunner. She rolled her eyes.
Mason pressed a hand to the glass, his reflection trembling. He's… insane, he muttered. There was awe there, but also fear.
Lucy's smile faded as she turned him away, leading him further down the hall. At the end was a modest office. She pushed the door open, letting Mason in first before closing it behind them with a click. The noise sounded final.
Sit, she said.
Mason obeyed, settling into the chair across from her desk. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles white. Lucy sat across from him, leaning back, her boots propped casually on the desk. She slid a stack of files toward him.
Before I let you on the team, you need to know a few things. Her tone had lost the warmth it carried upstairs. Now it was steel.
Mason's brow furrowed. Being aware of… what?
Lucy leaned forward, her silver eyes catching the light. These. She tapped the files.
Mason's hands trembled as he flipped one open. The first photo punched the breath out of him. A grinning man Sentro naked, his wrists in cuffs, laughing as police hauled him away. Below the photo: the words rape and homicide scrawled in heavy ink.
Jesus Christ, Mason whispered, his lips parting. He rubbed his temple with one shaking hand. Rape? Homicide?
Lucy scoffed, leaning back again. Surprised? You shouldn't be. He was out the next day. Did it again. No one stopped him. The Nine think they're untouchable.
Mason's eyes watered as he flipped another page. His stomach churned. This is insane
Lucy leaned forward again, slower this time. Her voice dropped low, dangerous, intimate. Mason. She placed her hand over his, steady, grounding him. We are the only hope this world has. We were sent to kill the Nine.
Mason froze. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His chest rose and fell too quickly. Fear swelled in his eyes, raw and unfiltered. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't.
Before he could gather words, the ceiling above them flashed red. WAIL WAIL WAIL. Sirens exploded through the lair, the walls pulsing with crimson. A mechanical voice screamed: Security alert. Security alert.
Lucy shot to her feet, her chair screeching backward. Her silver abilities sparked across her hands, dancing like liquid metal. She turned to Mason, her jaw tight, her body tense. "Stay here. Do you understand? Stay. Here."
Mason didn't answer. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, his whole body shaking. He gave the smallest nod, but Lucy didn't wait. She bolted, silver light trailing behind her.
Alone, Mason clutched the files to his chest, his breaths shallow and fast. The alarms pounded into his skull. His legs bounced under the chair, restless, panicked. After what felt like forever—but was barely a minute—he stood. Against every instinct, he opened the office door and crept down the hall.
The screams hit him first. Blood-curdling, human-ending screams. His pace quickened, then broke into a stumble-run.
He reached the main chamber—and froze.
The man from the docks stood there. Black hoodie. Purple gloves. His posture wobbled slightly, but he was unshakable, like a nightmare planted in stone. A long silver spear jutted clean through his skull, yet somehow he stood, his body defying death. Black blood streamed down his face, dripping into the cracks of the marble.
In his hand, he clutched a severed head. Lucy's head. Her silver eyes were popped, leaking thick ooze down her ruined face. Her hair, matted with blood, clung to his fist. He held her like a trophy before dropping her head to the marble with a wet thunk.
Mason staggered back, choking on his own breath. His vision blurred as his tears welled. His body trembled so violently his knees nearly buckled.
His gaze jerked left. Blades slumped in a chair, her jaw grotesquely unhinged, a still-beating heart stuffed into her mouth like a sick joke.
He turned right. Violet dangled from the ceiling, intestines coiled tight around her throat, her limbs twitching weakly as she gurgled out the last of her life.
No… Mason whispered, his voice cracking, breaking. His chest heaved. His breath hitched in quick bursts, his legs shaking uncontrollably. He tried to scream, but no sound came.
The man Winthrop stepped forward, slow, deliberate. His boots crunched against glass and bone. He loomed over Mason, stopping just inches from his face. His breath reeked of iron and rot.
Winthrop placed a gloved hand on Mason's trembling shoulder. Then he pressed something into Mason's limp palm. A photograph. Mason's eyes dropped.
The picture showed Winthrop stabbing his mother, the image frozen mid-butchery. Below it, a bagged head, her head, her face pale and twisted in horror.
And then, as if mocking the photo, Winthrop reached into his cloak and produced the real thing. He dropped Mason's mother's head onto the floor with a wet roll. Her lifeless eyes stared straight into her son's.
Mason collapsed to his knees. His body shook violently, sobs tearing through him. His hands clawed at his hair, pulling, ripping, desperate to wake up. His screams echoed through the cavern, raw, primal, inhuman.
WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?! he wailed, his throat ripping itself apart.
Winthrop didn't answer. He stepped back, silent, and walked away. His boots echoed, fading into the darkness, leaving Mason screaming and crying in the ruins of everything he had left.
Scene 6
The media room smelled of hot circuitry and stale coffee. Monitors lined the walls like a bank of accusing eyes dozens of streams, channels, live-ticks, all looping the same grotesque footage: Inferno's massacre. The headlines screamed in different fonts, the anchors' voices overlapped in a constant, breathless drone: "Inferno's massacre shocks Millions; Who Can Stop Him?; The Nine Fallen. The glow of the screens painted everything in cold blues and false light.
Inferno stood in the center of it all, a red silhouette against the river of news. His jaw was a hard line; his hands clenched until the knuckles shone white. He didn't pace. He didn't mutter. He simply stared, eyes fixed on a single feed until the anchor's words scraped into him like grit.
They want us dead, he said at last, voice flat as a slab. It wasn't a question.
He turned up the volume until the talk became a howl. On some channel, the president's voice spoke of necessary measures deconfliction, civilian safety,and the need to take down compromised heroes. Another anchor read a transcript, breathless: Multiple superhero groups have been tasked yes, including the Hunter. The room vibrated with a low urgency, like thunder through bone.
The door eased open. Winthrop stepped in as if nothing about the world had changed. His suit was a wet black, gore clinging to the seams — not slapped on in panic but worn like a second skin. Blood dripped from his shoulders in slow, silver-streaked lines. He didn't hurry. He didn't glance at the screens. He looked only at Inferno.
For the first time that day Inferno allowed something like a smile small, almost private and then it vanished. He walked toward Winthrop, each step a measured footfall on tile.
Did… you kill them? Inferno asked, the words clipped.
Winthrop nodded once. The motion was small, inevitable like a stone settling in water.
Inferno's laugh was a dry scrape. He jerked a thumb at the wall of televisions, the screens reflecting in his eyes. Do you see this? They want us dead. All of us. His hands curled into fists at his sides. After everything. We save them and for one thing that doesn't go their way, the house burns.
Winthrop held up a sheet of paper, the blunt method of writing in thick Sharpie: kill who? The letters were impatient, amused.
Inferno stepped closer until their breaths could have mingled. All thirty‑five million people watching, he said softly, and for a moment his voice was almost tender, like a man reading a number in a ledger and seeing a plan take shape.
Winthrop flipped the paper: you think that's going to fix anything?
The corner of Inferno's mouth quirked. He moved away from the wall, toward the broad window that looked out over the city, his cape pooling like spilled blood at his boots. Yes, he told the empty skyline. Yes, it would.
He launched himself before the breath left his mouth a red comet ripping through glass and sky.
In the White House, the mood was clinical and ceremonial. President Trump sat behind a desk piled with folders, each paper a small battlefield of policy. The Hunter stood like a statue at his left, hands folded behind him, silent and unreadable. The pen hovered, ready. The bill a simple, brutal thing, ordered the registration and removal of supers from domestic service. It was supposed to be the answer, the bureaucratic cord meant to choke a crisis.
Trump's hand moved to sign.
The ceiling exploded.
Inferno dropped through the breach as if the roof had been cut for him. He landed with the calm of someone entering a home he owned, blood and viscera dripping from his suit like twin banners. He didn't shout. He didn't boisterously announce his presence. He simply stood, composed, surveying the room like an investigator reading the last page of a report.
Alarms screamed. The Hunter shifted forward in an instant, the motion a spring uncoiling. Soldiers ducked behind consoles. Trump's pen clattered from his hand. For a heartbeat, the President's composure fractured: breath quickened, hands trembled. He masked it with a jerked smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Inferno… you're he began, then swallowed. Too late. I'm signing it. We're moving to remove all supers
Inferno's smile widened, slow and cold. Too late? I already moved." He tilted his head, amusement flickering across his features. I killed them. All of them."
Silence crashed into the room. On the screens, the tally of missing and dead who'd once chanted victory moments before flickered like a pyre.
Trump's face went white, then red, then the ashen gray of a man hearing impossible math. What do you mean? His voice shook on the last word.
Inferno walked. His hands were loose at his sides, his cape whispering as he circled the desk. He described, in a voice almost conversational, what the footage had shown him: a thousand little collapses of order, the public's revulsion, the headlines that demanded a scapegoat. I thought, since they want us dead, why not make them dead? He shrugged, all 35 million of them.
The Hunter surged.
He moved like a weapon brought to life: fast, precise, the kind of training that erased distance. But he'd been built to restrain superhumans, not to contend with the visceral will of a being like Inferno. The Hunter launched himself, metallic limbs a blur and met an answer that was not in any brief or manual.
Inferno's hand struck like a piston. The Hunter's body accepted the force and split. Metal sheared, servo and bone rent as if a sheet of paper had been folded and torn. The sound was immediate and awful: a clean, wet rip, organs rebounding and spraying across the floor in an arc of red spray that painted the President's polished shoes. The Hunter's torso pushed away in two parts, servos chattering uselessly, hydraulics hissing, and the upper half slumped in a motion that looked almost human in its sudden, silent surrender.
Trump remained frozen, eyes locked on the tableau, breath thin and fast. His hands trembled. The guards moved like marionettes with cut strings.
Inferno stepped back a half pace, dispassionate. Blood spat at his boots; the Hunter's lower half twitched once like a broken animal. Inferno's voice was low and deliberate. Let this be fucking clear: do not send anyone to me. Do not try to use force on my people again. If it happens, if you try, I will fucking kill you, and your fucking family, and every fucking, rotten soul in that building, and I will end them. Every member of Congress will be fucking dust.
He let the words hang like a noose, then turned away. He rose, a slow, deliberate ascent through the breach he had made, and became a red stain against the afternoon sky.
As the guards finally scrambled toward the door, one of them managed the first human sound they'd had all minute: Sir? Mr. President. Are you are you all right?
Trump's jaw worked. He looked at his own hands, at the dying warm rivulets on the carpet, and forced a nod. I'm…fine, he said, the words brittle. He pushed to his feet, voice steadier by force, and barked a command. Get me the project. Bring that prototype here now.
Outside the window, the city moved in oblivious rhythms. Inside, the furniture smelled of iron. The world had been given its new arithmetic.