The Chicago skyline was a jagged crown of glass and steel, piercing a canopy of bruised purple and amber as the sun began its slow descent. At the very pinnacle of the Willis Tower, the wind was a living thing—a constant, howling presence that whipped at clothing and stung the eyes. But for Mark and Dick, the height wasn't a threat; it was a sanctuary.
They stood right on the edge, the city sprawling beneath them like an intricate circuit board flickering to life with evening lights. Mark hovered just an inch off the concrete ledge, his cape—if he'd had one—would have been snapping violently. Dick stood firmly on his feet, his knees bent slightly, his eyes scanning the horizon with a restless energy.
Dick took a deep breath, the thin, cold air filling his lungs. He looked over at his brother, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready for the leap of faith?"
Mark let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound nearly swallowed by the gale. "Oh, you are on full 'Ezio' mode today, aren't you? Careful, I don't see any conveniently placed haystacks down there."
Dick chuckled, adjusting the straps of his gear. "Haystacks are for amateurs. I've got gravity on my side."
"Gravity is a harsh mistress, Dick," Mark joked, finally touching down on the ledge for a split second to prep.
The two brothers began to pump themselves up, a rhythmic bouncing on the balls of their feet, a silent communication passing between them that only siblings shared. It was a cocktail of adrenaline and mutual trust. They had done this a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but the thrill of the Chicago drop was something else entirely.
"On three?" Dick asked.
"One," Mark started.
"Two," Dick countered.
"Three!" they shouted in unison.
They charged. Mark launched himself forward, his body cutting through the air like a javelin. He didn't just fall; he dove, arms tucked tight to his sides, embracing the terminal velocity. Dick, however, took a true leap. He sprang from the ledge, his body coiling and uncoiling in a tight arc before he straightened out, plummeting toward the lower tiers of the skyscraper's architectural setbacks.
While Dick was bound by the laws of physics—at least mostly—Mark shattered them. A few hundred feet down, Mark snapped his arms out. The air caught him, and with a sudden surge of power, he leveled out. He didn't just stop his fall; he claimed the sky. He spiraled upward, performing a series of tight corkscrews and barrel rolls that would have made a fighter pilot weep with envy. He soared between the glass canyons, the reflection of the setting sun glinting off his silhouette. He was a streak of light and motion, diving again to skim the rooftops of smaller buildings, the wind whistling a symphony in his ears.
Below him, Dick was a different kind of marvel. He hit the first setback of a neighboring building with a roll that dissipated the massive kinetic energy of his jump. He was up and moving before the dust could even settle. To any observer on the street, Dick was little more than a blur. He was swift, his movements economical and predatory. He vaulted over ventilation units, slid under industrial piping, and used the momentum of one jump to propel himself into a wall-run that defied belief.
He leaped from one building to another, a twenty-foot gap vanishing beneath his boots. He felt the 'flow'—that meditative state where the world slowed down and his body knew the path before his mind could even map it. He caught a flagpole, swung in a dizzying circle, and launched himself onto a glass-faced office building.
For a moment, as he sprinted horizontally across the reinforced glass, he looked up. High above, framed against the darkening sky, Mark was performing a lazy loop-de-loop, effortless and free.
A sharp pang of envy pierced through Dick's chest. It wasn't a bitter feeling, but it was there—a longing for that absolute freedom from the earth. He loved the parkour, the tactile connection to the city, but seeing Mark dance among the clouds made his own struggle against gravity feel… heavy.
He shook his head, clearing the thought. Focus, Dick, he told himself. The ground is where the action is.
He dug his fingers into a decorative ledge, swung his weight, and used the momentum to catapult himself across a narrow alleyway. He caught the rhythm again. He was running on the glass now, his boots gripping just enough to keep him from sliding as he used his horizontal speed to bridge the gap to a brick-and-mortar residential complex. The sheer kinetic energy reminded him of a certain wall-crawler from the comics he used to read as a kid. He wasn't sticking to walls, but he was certainly making them his playground.
Finally, after several minutes of high-octane descent, both brothers converged on the roof of a mid-sized parking garage. Dick landed with a soft thud, rolling to his feet and exhaling a long, shaky breath.
"Well," Dick said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "That was definitely something."
Mark descended slowly, his feet touching the gravel surface of the roof with the lightness of a feather. He looked entirely energized, not a hair out of place. "You're getting faster, buddy. That wall-run on the Prudential building? Chef's kiss."
"Yeah, well, someone has to keep the street-level views interesting," Dick replied, leaning against a concrete pillar.
The peace, however, was a fragile thing.
A sudden, earth-shaking BOOM rattled the garage. The shockwave was followed by a high-pitched whine that set their teeth on edge. Both brothers spun toward the source. A few blocks away, a brilliant beam of crimson light tore through the side of a luxury high-rise, sending a cascade of glass and debris raining down onto the street below. The scream of car alarms and panicked citizens began to rise in a frantic swell.
Dick and Mark looked at each other, the playful banter vanishing instantly. They sighed simultaneously—the weary sigh of two people who knew their evening was about to get a lot more complicated.
"No rest for the wicked," Mark muttered.
"Or the tired," Dick added.
Without another word, they took off. Mark shot into the air, a sonic boom echoing in his wake, while Dick vaulted the edge of the roof, sliding down a series of fire escapes with practiced ease.
—--------------
On the street level, the scene was one of pure, unadulterated chaos. Smoke choked the air, and the smell of ozone and burnt rubber was overpowering. In the center of the intersection, two figures stood amidst the wreckage of several police cruisers.
The first was a mountain of a man. He stood nearly seven feet tall, his broad shoulders making him look like a walking tank. He wore a matte black helmet that concealed his face, paired with a heavy tactical vest and charcoal clothing accented with aggressive red piping. His most striking feature, however, was his right arm. From the elbow down, it was encased in a massive, weaponized canon that hummed with a dangerous internal light.
A group of officers, huddled behind the remains of their cars, opened fire. The bullets struck the giant's chest and helmet, but they didn't penetrate. They simply flattened and fell to the asphalt, leaving nothing but minor silver scratches on his blackened armor.
The man snarled, a low, mechanical sound that vibrated in his chest. "Pests," he growled.
He leveled the hand canon. A red glow intensified at the muzzle, and then a blast of pure energy erupted. The explosion flipped two police cars into the air like they were toys, sending the officers diving for cover.
"Ha! Did you see that?" the man roared, his voice amplified by his helmet. "This is why they call me Killcanon! Nothing stands in my way!"
From the shadows of a nearby alley, his accomplice stepped out. He was much younger, his frame leaner and more agile. He wore a sleek white and black tactical vest, but his head was encased in a peculiar green helmet. It featured a single, massive cyclopean eye that glowed with a sickly emerald light.
"Dude, knock it off," the leaner man said, his voice smooth but edged with impatience. "The SWATS are already rerouting. We need to grab the tech and make a run for it immediately. We aren't here to play target practice with the CCPD."
This was See-More. He was the brains to Killcanon's brawn, though both were considered lower-tier threats by the bigger hero leagues. However, "low-tier" was a relative term when you were holding a laser that could melt through a tank.
Killcanon grunted, but didn't lower his arm. "Let 'em come. I haven't even broken a sweat yet."
Just then, a heavy SWAT transport truck rounded the corner, sirens wailing. The driver didn't slow down, aiming to ram the massive villain.
See-More sighed, the single eye on his helmet narrowing. "I told you, we're on a clock."
He raised his head. A beam of concentrated green light shot from his helmet's central eye. Unlike Killcanon's explosive red blasts, this green laser was a surgical strike. it sliced through the truck's engine block and front axle in a heartbeat. The vehicle screeched, its front end dropping to the pavement as it skidded sideways, flipping onto its side with a deafening crash.
"See?" See-More said, checking a device on his wrist. "Effective and efficient. Now, let's go before—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his green eye tilting upward. A shadow was growing over the intersection, and the sound of a rushing wind was getting louder.
High above, Mark was banking, preparing for a high-speed descent. Behind him, emerging from the shadows of a fire escape atop a nearby diner, Dick crouched, his eyes locked on the two villains.
The brothers didn't need to speak. They had their targets.
"That guy with the handcanon is mine," Mark's voice crackled over their private comms.
"Which leaves the one-eyed wonder for me," Dick replied, his muscles coiling like a spring. "Let's show them why Chicago is our city."