Brockton Bay was a shithole of a city. Rampant crime and a flagrant disregard for even the most basic sense of order had left it a dying, crumbling mess of broken dreams, half-finished construction projects, and gang tags that felt more permanent than the streetlights.
But even here, I still believed — stubbornly, maybe stupidly — that being good was its own reward.
I gave a wave to the old Taiwanese lady who lived in my apartment block as I tossed the last trash bag into the dumpster. She was getting on in years (not that she'd ever admit it), and the broken elevator made the stairs a nightmare for her. Since the landlord couldn't be bothered to fix anything, I decided to offer my services instead
"Free labor and good karma, all in one trip to the dumpster. Call it the Good Guy Two-for-One Special." I grinned as I started my trek to work, a skip in my step and a song in my throat. (One I wisely kept to humming — Brockton Bay wasn't ready for my shower-concert vocals.)
The crowd thickened the closer I got to downtown, and I had to weave through the press of tired commuters and sharp-eyed hustlers. Relief came when I slipped into a side alley, my usual shortcut. Risky, yeah — Brockton Bay shortcuts came with gangs, muggers, and the occasional knife in the ribs — but I was running late. And really, I didn't feel like getting chewed out by my boss for the high crime of helping another human being this morning.
I happily ignored the reek of uncollected trash as I wove through the alley, careful not to scuff my uniform. The shortcut wasn't exactly scenic, but it beat pushing through the main street. At the chain-link fence that made this path so unpopular, I grabbed hold, hauled myself up, and vaulted over with a bit of effort.
I landed with a small stumble, bounced back to my feet — and froze. Three thugs were waiting on the other side, leaning against the wall like they owned the place. Merchants, by the look of them.
I sighed and lifted my hands in surrender before they decided to clock me just for breathing wrong.
"Can we not do this? I'm late for work, already behind schedule, and, uh, I forgot my wallet." Total lie, of course. I didn't even own a wallet. Cash lived in my shoe, where Brockton Bay muggers were least likely to check.
"Don't care if ya don't got a wallet. You're givin' us somethin', or we're gonna pop you."
I flinched as he waved the rusted, probably-about-to-misfire gun like it was a toy.
"All right, all right. I've maybe got a few dollars in my pocket, but please stop waving the gun around." Not likely to work, but worth a shot, bun not intended (that's a fucking lie it's totally intentional).
He puffed up at me doing as he said, but the moment I told him what not to do, his face twisted into anger. My eyes locked on his hand. His finger — shaky, twitching, terrible trigger discipline — curled in. Pulled back.
Time slowed.
I didn't hear the bang. I felt it — like a kick in the nuts but also nothing like that. One moment I was humming on my way to work, the next my life was flashing before my eyes because some drugged-out dumbass couldn't keep his finger steady.
Fuck my life. Couldn't have been saving a school bus? Or a family from certain death? Hell, I'd take drowning while pulling a puppy out of a river over this.
Still, as the reel of my life spun past, I realized: I didn't regret a single thing. My life wasn't perfect, but damn it — it was fun.
I'd been a fucking saint compared to most people I knew. Hell, I could probably flat-out murder someone and still come out ahead of a few of them. (Looking at you, boss.)
I helped anyone who needed it — or even just wanted it. Not because I was a pushover, but because my gramps had a saying I'd taken to heart more than anything else I'd ever heard:
"Life sucks for everyone. Doesn't mean you have to make it worse."
Simple. Straightforward. Basically just a fancy way of saying don't be a dick, but it stuck with me. It became my personal motto.
I could see the bullet getting closer. (Which shouldn't be possible, but hey, let's not worry about that right now.) As it drifted into arm's reach, something cracked in my head.
Parahumans trigger when the pressure breaks them — when the world shoves too hard and they split. Powers as a participation trophy for suffering.
This… wasn't that.
I wasn't cracking under despair, or collapsing under trauma. I was shoving so hard on my own brain, forcing it to think at speeds it really shouldn't, that something inside me broke — and tried to fix itself by bleeding fire through the cracks.
Out of the corner of my eye, a blue glow swelled brighter and brighter. Without thinking, I reached for it — for something that hadn't existed a second ago.
The bullet, barely an inch from my chest, froze midair. A blazing blue aura wrapped around it, cocooned in a perfect sphere of light, momentum completely stolen (suck my dick Newton).
Time sped back up—though not all the way. I watched as the thugs slowly realized what was happening, their wide eyes locked on the blue glow crawling across my arm. The light carved itself into intricate patterns, etching tattoos into my skin. It didn't hurt, but I'll admit, seeing my arm light up like a rave was freaky as hell for a moment. That fear quickly melted into awe when I looked back at the bullet still hanging in the air.
"Fucking wicked."
I reached out and poked it. The moment I touched it, the glow snapped out, and the bullet clattered harmlessly to the floor.
"CAPE!" one of the thugs screamed, before the sound of shuffling feet filled the alley. They bolted like roaches in the light.
I didn't bother chasing them (too much effort). My focus was on the glowing tattoos — my very obvious new identifier. I flexed my arm, twisting and stretching the skin. The marks moved with me, perfectly smooth, like they were part of me. No distortion or snearing.
That's when the crack hit me again. This time it wasn't fire through the skull — it was a flood. Schematics, designs, blueprints that didn't make sense. Guns with too many barrels, shields strapped to belts, grenades that could apparently create ion singularities.
"…Sorry, fucking what?" Total bullshit. But you know what? I was gonna roll with it.
"I'm a fucking superhero now!" I shouted, pumping a fist to seal the deal.