Yamo arrived home just as the sky finished dimming into that comfortable evening blue that made the house lights feel warmer than they actually were.
He kicked off his shoes, balanced the pizza box like a professional, and stepped inside.
"I'm home," he called out.
"In the kitchen!" May replied immediately.
Yamo walked in, setting the box down on the table. Ben looked up from his chair, newspaper folded in half, glasses sliding slightly down his nose.
"Long shift?" Ben asked.
"Normal shift," Yamo corrected. "Which is worse."
May smiled sympathetically and started clearing space on the table. "Anna was helping again, wasn't she?"
Yamo paused. "…Yeah."
Ben and May exchanged a look.
"She wasn't always like this," May said gently. "When she first started coming around, she was polite. Helpful. Always asking what she could do."
"Yeah," Yamo muttered. "Then one day she woke up and chose chaos."
Ben sighed. "Her father came by last week. He looked exhausted."
"She should visit again," May said carefully. "Maybe seeing us more often would help her calm down."
Yamo froze mid-bite. "Let's… not rush into that."
Before May could respond, Yamo turned toward the hallway and raised his voice.
"PETEEEER! COME HERE!"
A few seconds passed.
Then another.
"…Peter!"
"I'm coming!" Peter yelled back, followed by hurried footsteps. He appeared holding a thick science book, eyes still half-locked onto the page. "What?"
"Food," Yamo said, pointing at the pizza. "And also I missed you."
Peter blinked. "…Okay?"
They sat down, and as Peter started eating, Yamo studied him quietly. The way he hunched over his plate. The way his eyes kept drifting back to the open book.
'Tomorrow,' Yamo thought. 'Tomorrow everything changes.'
He leaned back slightly, chewing slowly.
'I wonder… will he get organic web fluid, or will he have to build it himself?'
He knew the movies, a few comics, and a couple of the animated series. The first few had organic webs. After that? Cartridges. Always running out mid-fight. Always the worst possible timing.
'If he has to make them himself, I'll need to keep an eye on his supplies.'
Ben noticed Yamo staring. "You alright, kid?"
"Yeah," Yamo said quickly. "Just thinking."
Peter squinted at him. "That's never a good sign."
Yamo grinned. "Relax. If something explodes, it won't be tonight."
They laughed, the tension easing just a bit, and for a moment, it felt like any other evening.
Yamo took another bite of pizza and thought quietly,
'Enjoy it. This is the last normal night for a while.'
After everyone finished eating and the boxes were cleared away, Yamo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach, pretending he wasn't already calculating how much energy he'd burn today.
"I'm heading out again later," he said casually. "Extra shift at the construction site."
May looked up immediately. "Again? You already worked today."
"It's just for a bit," Yamo replied quickly. "I usually help there on and off on Sundays anyway. They're behind schedule. Need to finish painting the house."
Ben frowned. "I thought they had enough workers."
"They did," Yamo said, scratching the back of his head. "One of the guys injured his back. His sons were playing rough with him, and… yeah. Bad timing."
May sighed, worry written all over her face. "You don't have to carry everything on your shoulders, you know."
"I know," Yamo said, smiling lightly. "I'll be fine. Promise."
Peter glanced up from his plate. "Don't stay out too late. We've got the Oscorp trip tomorrow."
Yamo nodded. "I won't."
They accepted it. They always did. Ben returned to his paper, May started washing dishes with a worried look, and Peter drifted back toward his books like gravity pulled him there.
Yamo stood up and grabbed his jacket.
'Sorry,' he thought quietly. 'That was a lie.'
There was no construction site tonight. No painting. No injured worker.
But there was something waiting for him and it wouldn't wait until morning.
Yamo went into his room and quietly closed the door behind him.
The space was small, barely more than a converted pantry, but it was his. He knelt down and reached under the mattress, pulling out a thick sock that sagged heavily in his hand.
Quarters. Hundreds of them. The collected weight of his vending machines, emptied and refilled day after day.
He set it aside and opened his backpack, unzipping a hidden inner pocket. Folded bills slid out—carefully stacked, counted again and again. Cash from the machines. Money he earned, managed, and reinvested himself.
Then came the last stash.
A plain envelope taped behind a loose panel in the wall. He peeled it off, opened it, and counted silently.
Once. Twice.
A little over three thousand dollars.
Every dollar was his. Money he had saved slowly, deliberately, keeping only what wasn't needed at home and giving the rest to Ben and May whenever things got tight. No shortcuts. No tricks.
It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things. It wouldn't change the world. It wouldn't even change New York.
But it was everything he had.
He stacked the money neatly, pressed it flat with his palm, and exhaled.
'This is it.'
Once he used it, there would be no pretending anymore—no quiet buildup, no safety buffer.
He slipped the money into his bag, zipped it closed, and sat there for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of home—the clink of dishes, Peter muttering to himself over some complicated formula, the house settling around them.
'Sorry,' he thought softly, not out of guilt, but resolve.
Tonight wasn't about saving. Tonight was about moving forward.
Yamo stepped outside the apartment and lifted off once more, landing lightly on a nearby rooftop.
Up here, the city felt distant. Quieter. Like it was holding its breath. He walked toward the ventilation units and pulled a backpack from where he had hidden it some time ago, tucked away for this exact night.
He changed without hesitation.
(See book cover)
Black pants with sharp orange stripes along the sides. A familiar black shirt, worn enough to feel like part of him.
Over it, the upper gi of a martial artist—short, practical, something that reminded him of old karate uniforms, of Goku's gi. A blue belt followed, tied tight around his waist.
Then the necklace.
Cold steel settled against his chest, heavier than it looked. Etched into it was a single kanji—the same one stitched onto the arm of his jacket.
悟.
Yamo glanced down at it for a moment.
'Awakening… realization… understanding earned the hard way.'
Not talent. Not destiny. Not being chosen. Just like his favourite character, Vegeta.
Just surviving long enough to get it.
Fingerless black gloves slid over his hands. He pulled on the jacket—black, orange, and blue, hooded, urban, practical.
The kanji stood out in black and white, simple and deliberate, like a quiet statement rather than a symbol meant to be admired.
Finally, the face mask. Kakashi-style. Not to look cool. Just enough to mask his face
Yamo checked himself once, then nodded.
"I may not be wearing a costume like Petey will soon," he muttered, fingers brushing the steel at his chest, "but it's my first step into this world."
He stepped to the edge of the roof, city lights spreading endlessly below him.
Tonight was the beginning.
Yamo took flight.
Not the slow, controlled kind he used when he didn't want attention—this was fast. Brutal. Purposeful.
White ki wrapped around his body like a second skin, tearing through the night air as buildings blurred beneath him.
Wind screamed past his ears, pressure pushing against his chest as New York shrank into lines and lights.
In less than a minute, he dropped.
**
He landed in one of the darker parts of the city, where streetlights barely worked and the air smelled like rust and old concrete.
No cameras. No pedestrians. Just a massive steel door embedded into a warehouse wall that looked abandoned enough to convince anyone to stay away.
Yamo walked up and knocked. Metal scraped. A narrow slit slid open.
"Password," a rough voice barked from inside.
"Humans are the inferior race," Yamo replied flatly.
A pause.
"…Membership card?" the same deep voice asked.
"I don't have one," Yamo said. "No referral either. But I brought money. Twenty-five hundred."
Another pause.
"It's twenty-eight hundred now."
'Shit.This guy is skimming for sure'
Yamo didn't argue. He pushed the folded bills through the slit. A moment later, the door groaned open.
He stepped inside.
Light hit him like a punch.
Stadium lights flared on all at once, bleaching his vision white for a second before the shapes came into focus.
A massive underground hall stretched before him, packed with noise, steel railings, and a central ring surrounded by shouting silhouettes.
Then someone stepped into view.
A man.
Nine eyes.
They blinked independently, all of them locking onto Yamo at once. His grin was wide and wrong, like it belonged to something that enjoyed paperwork and suffering in equal measure.
"Welcome, dear sir," the man said smoothly. "To MMM — Mutant Money Matches." He gestured theatrically.
"I see you're a new member. Before registration, we'll need confirmation. Please show any deformities… or demonstrate your abilities."
'I can see it in his eyes,' Yamo thought. 'He doesn't believe me. Good thing I came prepared'
Without saying a word, Yamo turned around and pulled down his pants just enough to reveal his tail.
A brown, muscular long monkey tail.
It twitched once, then snapped to life, coiling smoothly around the man's wrist before wrapping back around Yamo's own hip, fully controlled, precise, alive.
The nine eyes widened.
"Alright, sir," the man said quickly, raising both hands. "No further verification required."
He produced a card and handed it over. It was crimson. The color of old, dried blood.
"Your membership card." Yamo took it, already scanning the room.
"Good," he said. "I want to fight. And I want to bet on myself. When's the next match?"
He looked toward the central ring. Two men were fighting.
One formed shimmering soap bubbles between his hands—each one popping with the sound of a hammer striking metal, shockwaves rippling outward.
The other's skin hardened in patches, stone crawling over his arms and shoulders as he blocked and countered.
The crowd roared. Yamo smiled slightly.
'Yeah… this'll do.'