Chapter 2: Dreams Beyond the Rank
Champ Johnson had never liked mornings, but he liked them even less when the city smelled like burnt steel and desperation.
It wasn't the Smogline District's fault. The district had charm, in its own way—if you liked pipes that hissed like angry snakes, streetlights that flickered in Morse code, and stray cats who were basically miniature S-rank anomaly users themselves. No, the problem was mornings reminded him of something else: failure. His failure.
He sat cross-legged on the roof of the Rust Station, munching on a slightly soggy breakfast sandwich that had survived Jax's tinkering attempts at "upgrading the toaster." The sun was barely peeking through the brownish haze over Ironvale City. Somewhere down below, Lira's voice echoed faintly, probably screaming about someone misplacing a wrench or, knowing Jax, probably the entire toolshed.
Champ sighed.
The Boy and His Legacy
"You're late, Champ!"
It wasn't Lira this time, though her voice was close enough in volume to shatter eardrums. It was his own reflection in the small puddle on the roof—a kid with messy black curls, bronze skin, and green eyes that had a little too much hope crammed into them.
Hope. That was the problem. His hope had survived his F-rank status. It had survived every single disappointment he'd faced in life. And worse, it was unapologetic.
See, Champ hadn't been born just "Champ Johnson, random F-rank kid." He'd been born as the son of Marcus Johnson, the A-rank hero known as "Titansteel." The man had a reputation for being unbreakable—both physically and morally. People loved him, admired him, and even feared him when they needed to. And for as long as Champ could remember, he had lived in that enormous shadow.
His earliest memory wasn't of birthday cakes or Christmas presents—it was standing at the edge of the city parade, barely able to see over the crowd, cheering for his dad as the S-rank heroes passed by. He remembered the smell of Marcus's armor, the clatter of applause, and the way people's eyes lit up when he smiled. Champ had sworn, right then and there, that he'd be a hero too.
The Problem With Being F-Rank
Except there was a problem. A big problem.
Champ was F-rank.
That one little letter, handed down at birth, had defined his life more than anyone could imagine. F-rank. Weak. Essentially unqualified. The Hero Exams—a grueling, multi-stage assessment of skill, reflexes, and anomaly potential—were impossible for him. You couldn't just train your way into the exam if the GAA decided you were F. They didn't care about determination, or grit, or whether you'd grown up dreaming of saving someone's life. If the scanner said F, that was it. You were a civilian anomaly. Congratulations.
He'd tried, of course. He'd tried everything. Training routines he invented himself, gadget experiments with Jax, late-night study of combat manuals, running obstacle courses through the industrial ruins of Ironvale…
Nothing mattered. Every time, the thought loomed over him: I'll never qualify. I'll never pass. I'll never… be a hero.
It didn't stop him.
A Father's Shadow
Marcus Johnson had died when Champ was twelve. Official reports said it was a "containment breach" during a GAA operation, and that was that. But Champ had questions. Too many questions.
He remembered the night the news reached him. The world had dimmed, not figuratively—literally. Streetlights flickered in what felt like mourning, and his mom had sat silently, staring at the floor, the kind of silence that tells you everything you need to know.
Champ had cried, sure. But then the questions had started: Why wasn't he home? Why wasn't anyone asking what really happened? Why do the GAA reports sound like a fairy tale about a perfect hero?
And that was the moment he decided two things:
He would be a hero. He would do it on his own terms.
No rank. No official approval. No excuses.
Daily Life of an F-Rank Hero Wannabe
Mornings in Rust Station weren't glamorous. The team had missions, sure, but they were "freelance F-rank missions," which usually meant cleaning up after anomalies the GAA didn't care about, stopping petty crime, or occasionally helping a delivery drone that had gone rogue.
Still, Champ loved it. It wasn't the Hero Exams, but it was something. Every fight, every rescue, every little spark of gratitude he received from the people in Ironvale was fuel for his dream. And, secretly, every time he got hurt, he learned. Every failed jump, missed strike, or literal faceplant was data.
He had no idea that this "learning by failure" was actually the first hint of his Mimetic Growth awakening.
The Rust Unit's Role in His Life
Champ had joined Rust Unit two years ago, after a minor scuffle with a local gang of minor anomalies. He had tripped over a trash can, accidentally disarming a bomb, and somehow, by sheer dumb luck and persistence, impressed Lira enough to get recruited.
Being part of Rust Unit was like being on a ragtag team of superheroes-in-training—but without the fame, without the GAA approval, and with way more coffee breaks. Each member was low-rank, yet awakened in their own ways: they had discovered the true nature of their powers and refused to be defined by F, D, or even C ranks.
Champ adored them. They were his family. His teachers. His occasional tormentors. And most importantly, they didn't care what rank he was—they only cared if he could keep up.
"Hey," Lira's voice floated up from below, snapping him out of the memory, "you planning to sulk up there all day, or are you coming down to help clean the generator before it blows again?"
"Coming!" Champ called, scrambling to his feet and nearly tripping again. "I just… I needed a moment. You know, reflective hero stuff!"
The GAA's Cruel Joke
Being F-rank wasn't just socially awkward—it was a systemic wall. Champ couldn't even apply for the Hero Exams. Officially, there was no room for him. He could train, work hard, save lives in secret, but it wouldn't count. There was no ladder to climb. Just… ceilings. Invisible, unbreakable, and imposed by people who didn't care about hearts, only potential outputs.
It was frustrating. Infuriating. And yet… it didn't stop him.
"Maybe one day," Champ muttered to himself, kicking a loose brick off the roof. "Maybe one day, they'll realize that rank doesn't mean everything. Maybe one day… I'll grow past all of them."
He didn't know it yet, but those words weren't just bravado. Somewhere in the marrow of his bones, his Mimetic Growth had heard him.
A Moment of Humor
Just as he climbed down the fire escape, Jax Renner swooped past him, dragging a half-assembled robot that looked suspiciously like a toaster crossed with a tank.
"Champ! Stop standing there being broody! The robot's almost done—if you don't help me, it might achieve sentience and kill us all!"
"Isn't that your goal?" Champ quipped, dodging a stray gear that Jax tossed like a frisbee.
"Not funny!" Jax shouted. "Not. Funny. At. All!"
Kiro, leaning on a railing above them, snorted. "He's right. That is funny."
Ena sighed. "You're all going to get electrocuted by breakfast again. Mark my words."
Champ laughed. Maybe he wasn't officially a hero. Maybe the Hero Exams would never let him in. Maybe the GAA would never notice him.
But as he looked at the Rust Unit scrambling, bickering, and somehow still managing to function as a team, he realized something important:
I may be F-rank, but I have a team, a dream, and—most importantly—a reason to keep going.
And that… that was enough for now.
Later that night
Champ climbed onto a rooftop later that night, staring out at the glowing, polluted city. Somewhere far above, Apex Heroes might have been flying around, keeping the world safe—or keeping it under control.
But up here, on the roofs of Smogline, Champ had something even they didn't: choice. Drive. Potential.
And maybe—just maybe—he could grow into something even the GAA couldn't ignore.
"One day," he whispered to the night. "One day, I'll be more than F-rank. One day, I'll be a hero."
He didn't know it yet, but that "one day" was closer than he thought.