The city was... Perfect
Not in a manufactured, artificial way—but in the kind of way dreams often are. The sky was a soft blue canvas, dappled with light, pillowy clouds that floated like thoughts waiting to be spoken. Twin suns, one real, the other a stabilized light orb in the atmosphere, bathed the city in an endless golden hour. Light shimmered off glass towers that rose like monuments of progress, each one sleek, impossibly tall, their surfaces catching reflections of a world at peace.
Beneath them, wide streets buzzed with life, but not chaos. Hovercars glided by in gentle hums. Clean sidewalks brimmed with people—some chatting over coffees, others feeding winged drones designed to mimic birds, children racing through the crowd, some leaving trails of light or flame or frost in their wake. Awakened humans and normals walked side by side, indistinguishable unless you knew where to look.
Everything was warm. Alive. Good.
Michael walked through it all in silence.
He wore a charcoal hoodie, the hood pulled low, and a black metal mask that covered his face entirely. Red eye lenses glowed faintly, shaped into angular ovals that made people turn away without realizing why. The mask didn't literally see through souls—but it felt like it did.
He liked that. He liked watching this world. Not participating. Just… observing.
No one questioned him. No one asked why he was covered. No one judged. There was no fear here. Just laughter, conversation, harmony.
And for a moment, Michael let himself believe this was real.
But then—
The glitch.
It was small at first. A ripple in the pavement. A flicker in the light.
Then a crackle of sound—like a cable snapping—and suddenly the sky fractured, glitching like a broken simulation. The buildings twisted, then blinked out. The people froze mid-laugh, faces blurring into static.
Michael blinked.
And the world was gone.
Replaced by darkness.
A storage room. Concrete walls. Flickering fluorescent light. Rusty pipes hissing above. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. Damp air that stank of mold and copper.
And screams.
From somewhere close—too close.
Familiar voices.
Screams that tore through his chest and clawed into something buried deep. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn't respond. The room shook. The light above exploded—
Michael gasped and snapped awake.
Music buzzed in his ears, one earbud still tucked in. The light of morning poured through the scratched window beside him.
He was on a bus.
Seats filled with other eighteen-year-olds stretched behind and ahead of him. Some chatted nervously. Others stared out the window in silence. A few slept. They were all headed to the same place.
Hero Core Training Facility.
Michael sat up slowly, the dream still wrapping its cold fingers around his mind. He pulled his hoodie tighter and adjusted the black mask, which was now resting loosely around his neck. His face was white, eyes deep-set and intense, a stormy gray that looked almost silver in the light. His hair was thick and dark, shaved on the sides, loose curls falling over his brow.
Even now, that dream—that perfect world—lingered behind his eyes like an afterimage burned into his brain.
He had it every time he slept. A city that didn't exist. A reality that he wished did.
"Yo," a voice said across from him.
Michael looked over.
The boy sitting across the aisle was leaning forward slightly, gesturing to him. A little awkward. Skinny frame, soft features, dark blond hair a bit too long, like he hadn't bothered to cut it. A freckled face and nervous, ocean-colored eyes. He looked like someone who tried to avoid being noticed—and failed.
Michael took out his earbud.
"You alright?" the boy asked. "You were moving a lot in your sleep. Like… twitching."
Michael blinked, then gave a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. Just a… dream."
The boy nodded, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. "Cool. Just making sure. You looked like you were fighting monsters in there."
A brief silence passed between them, not uncomfortable—just unspoken.
Then the boy said, "I'm Kaleb."
Michael hesitated. He always did, when someone asked. But then, "Michael."
Kaleb smiled.
Michael remembered him now. He'd seen Kaleb before they even got on the bus. Saw how a group of kids laughed behind his back, how one of them whispered lowest score in the sector. Kaleb didn't have a strong ability—something minor, if rumors were true. He could amplify the abilties of other people, maybe. Nothing flashy.
But Michael didn't care about scores or powers. He never had.
You could meet a hero with a godlike ability who only cared about applause. Or you could meet someone like Kaleb—weak powers, maybe, but the heart of someone who ran into burning buildings because he couldn't stand the idea of not helping.
Kaleb scratched the back of his neck. "You excited? For the training, I mean?"
Michael nodded, his voice quieter this time. "Of course. We all are. We're about to become something we didn't think was even possible."
Kaleb looked out the window as the massive silhouette of the Hero Core facility appeared on the horizon—a sprawling mega-structure of shimmering stone and tech. "Yeah… guess we're not normal anymore, huh?"
Michael followed his gaze. "We never were."
The bus began to slow.
Outside, armored gates opened as the bus rolled up the road flanked by statues of legendary heroes. People who changed the world. People who were now myths.
The bus hissed to a stop.
The door slid open.
A woman stepped in.
She wore a long black and violet coat that shimmered like oil in sunlight. Her hair was dark purple and cut into a sharp bob that framed her smooth, ageless face. Her eyes were glowing amethyst behind narrow lenses. She didn't smile—but she didn't need to.
She exuded control.
"Hello, recruits," she said, her voice calm, confident, and cold. "Welcome to the Hero Core. My name is Purplex. That is what you will refer to me as from now on."
Purplex stepped forward, scanning the crowd like a general inspecting soldiers.
"From this moment forward, your civilian names no longer matter. You are training to become something beyond that. Heroes must learn to abandon the comforts of normalcy. What matters now is discipline, cooperation, and the ability to survive under pressure."
Michael and Kaleb exchanged glances—a quick, awkward uh oh look.
Someone at the back snickered. Her eyes instantly locked on them.
"Am I amusing?" she asked coolly.
"No ma'am," the voice muttered.
She continued. "I will be your guide, your trainer, and your examiner. You may ask questions only when permitted. You may speak freely only when instructed. You may use your powers only under supervision."
She turned on her heel.
"Any questions?"
The bus remained dead silent.
"Good," she said, stepping off. "Then let's begin."
Michael looked at Kaleb again.
Kaleb was pale, but nodded to himself like he was silently giving himself courage.
Michael smiled slightly. This wasn't the perfect world—but it was where the road to one began.
He stood, pulling up his mask, the red eyes glowing faintly.
---
The sixteen recruits stood shoulder to shoulder in the main hall of the Hero Core facility, each now dressed in their standard-issue hero training uniforms—sleek, form-fitting suits made of reinforced kinetic-fiber. Each outfit bore their provisional hero names in bold white lettering across the left shoulder, glowing faintly beneath the hall's skylights.
Masks were required now—symbolic, practical, and psychological. Every mask was different, reflecting early requests or scans made during their application process. Identity was a privilege to be earned, not a given.
Michael's mask—matte black with deep red, angular eyes—covered the top half of his face like a predator's visor. His name DISRUPT glowed in quiet white across his chest.
Beside him, Kaleb—now AMPLIFY—wore a sleeker suit, dark gray with deep navy streaks and a visor mask with layered rings around the eye sockets, mimicking the resonance of sound waves. It made him look more impressive than he felt, but his stance still wavered with uncertainty.
The main hall was enormous, a cathedral of technology. Clean white walls pulsed faintly with moving blue lines—energy streams flowing like blood through a body. Holograms hovered above tables. Transparent elevators zipped silently between floors. Training droids patrolled the upper balconies like hawks. It was everything a kid growing up idolizing heroes would dream of.
Purplex walked ahead, hands behind her back. Her stride was commanding but not rushed. She was in complete control.
"This facility," she began, "houses everything you will need to become what the world expects of you. Training chambers, AI-assisted combat programs, dormitories, simulation pods, med units, a public broadcast room, and more."
Michael suddenly asked. "Broadcasting rooms?"
Purplex didn't stop walking. "Public image matters. Some of you will be media symbols. Others will be invisible soldiers. But you'll all be trained for both."
Another girl—short, fiery-orange suit, name "SPARKLER"—spoke up next. "So… like, are we ranked the whole time or just at the end?"
"You're ranked every day," Purplex replied without turning. "Your performance is constantly evaluated. Hero Core doesn't train hopefuls. We refine professionals. Anyone who falls behind will be asked to leave."
Kaleb flinched beside Michael. Michael noticed, glancing his way.
"Hey," Michael said under his breath. "You alright?"
Kaleb forced a nod. "Yeah, I just… never thought about how public all of this was. I thought it was about helping people, not… cameras and ratings."
Michael's eyes lingered on Purplex ahead, then on the sleek walls around them. He frowned. "Feels a little backwards, doesn't it? Save lives—but don't forget to smile for the press."
Kaleb chuckled nervously. "Guess we're heroes and performers."
Michael didn't laugh. "Makes you wonder who we're saving them for."
Kaleb turned, eyes narrowing behind his mask. "Why'd you sign up? Honestly."
Michael shrugged. "Because I wanted to make the world better. Still do."
Before Kaleb could reply, a new voice cut in—sharp and theatrical.
"Or maybe you signed up because you're good at pretending you care."
Both boys turned.
The speaker stood with two others beside him—tall, golden-haired, sharp jawline, glowing orange-red visor shaped like twin suns. The name "SUNSTRIKE" burned across his chest in bold lettering.
Behind him, a heavyset guy with metal gauntlets—"RIPT"—smirked, while the third, a girl with bright silver pigtails labeled "FLASHZONE," snorted.
Kaleb took a half step back instinctively.
"Oh look," Sunstrike said mockingly, "it's the frequency failure. Amplify, right? They really let anyone in now."
Ript and Flashzone laughed.
Michael tilted his head, unmoving. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
Sunstrike stepped forward, voice lowering. "What, your little sidekick can't handle some pressure? Gonna cry before the first lesson?"
Michael calmly took one step forward.
"Back off."
The laughter faded.
Ript looked uneasy. Flashzone checked Sunstrike's face like she was trying to gauge how serious this was getting.
But Sunstrike didn't back down. He stepped closer, now nearly nose to nose with Michael.
"You think you're better than everyone else, don't you? Second-highest score in the entire entrance exam. Top marks in combat. Best heroism rating. Second only in raw power output."
His voice dripped with resentment.
"Disrupt. What a name. You act like you don't care, but you love the attention. You walk around with that haunted look, all mysterious, like we're supposed to be impressed. You think you're the next Icon or something?"
Michael didn't blink. "You think being loud makes you strong. But all it does is show how scared you are that someone like Kaleb has more heart than you ever will."
Sunstrike's hand twitched, fingers sparking with solar heat.
Before anything could ignite, a sudden flash of violet light surged between them.
"Enough."
Purplex appeared like a ghost, one hand glowing with violet static. Everyone froze. Even Sunstrike.
"I said," she repeated, voice low and dangerous, "enough."
She turned to Sunstrike. "You are not special. You are not above reproach. You are not entitled to anything here. Say one more word, and you'll be on transport back to your district before dinner."
Sunstrike's mouth twitched, but he stepped back.
Purplex faced the group. "This is not a schoolyard. This is the crucible. And the crucible burns the arrogant faster than anyone else."
Silence.
Then she turned on her heel and continued walking. "Rooms are this way."
The group followed in stiffer silence.
Michael stayed by Kaleb's side, quiet again.
When they reached the dormitory wing—a clean, open space with glass-paneled hallways and doors marked with numbers—Purplex finally stopped.
"Room assignments are automatically selected. Choose your roommate now. First come, first claimed."
Kaleb looked at Michael. "You wanna—?"
"Yeah," Michael said, already walking toward room 14. "Let's do it."
They stepped inside. The room was surprisingly nice—two beds, a shared console desk, private bathroom, and a window overlooking the training grounds. Sleek, minimal, but comfortable.
Kaleb let out a breath as the door slid shut behind them. He pulled off his mask and dropped it on the desk. "Man… today was a lot."
Michael removed his own mask, rubbing his face. "Yeah. And it's only day one."
Kaleb sat down on his bed. "Think we'll survive it?"
Michael looked out the window.
"Ask me again in the morning."