NOVEL FROG Grief 7.1b
Grief 7.1b
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Greg paced back and forth in front of the whiteboard, the marker in his hand a blur as he added some notes to the already-full board and sketched out rough diagrams. The warehouse around them was a far cry from its dilapidated state just a week ago. The walls and floors had been power-washed, the grime and graffiti of years past stripped away to reveal the original concrete beneath. The windows, once caked with dirt and cobwebs, now allowed the late afternoon sunlight to stream in, catching the dust motes that danced in the air.
It was still clearly an old warehouse, with its rusted metal beams and echoing emptiness, but there was a sense of new life breathed into the space. Shelves had been removed, opening up the floor, and the walls looked fresher, sporting a new coat of paint. The guys had done good work, honestly, Greg mused to himself, a smirk tugging at his lips. Maintenance and upkeep of this place couldn't be easy, and the refurbishing on such short notice… Note to self: give Glenn a bonus.
"New York... the Big Apple, more like an apple with a big worm in it, and by a worm I mean, these guys," Greg began, gesturing at the whiteboard with a dramatic flourish. "They're a mostly-Chinese criminal organization — well semi-organized at least, they're kind of a mess…"
A loud groan interrupted Greg's opening, the source of it coming from one Axel "Sparky" Ramon, the fifteen-year-old throwing his head back for extra force in the annoyed noise he was letting out. "Oh brother, get to the point!"
A pair of blue eyes shot him an annoyed look. "Rude."
"...Please," Sparky added, his tone only slightly apologetic.
"Fine…" Turning back to the whiteboard right behind him, Greg pointed a finger at the words at the top, "...The Flying Dragons. Wannabe gang coming out of New York. These guys popped up like, four, maybe five years ago, a good bit after Lung tore into all the Asian gangs in the tri-state area, killed a bunch of the old heads and made it a bad idea to do Asian organized crime anywhere Lung could reasonably get to in a day."
Sparky nodded slowly as he took a bite from the box of General Tso's in his hand. He leaned forward on the little couch Greg had dragged over, the coffee table in front of him filled with the rest of their food from Wu's place. The couch was a recent addition, a battered but comfortable thing that Greg had liberated from a curb somewhere. It added to the slowly growing sense of 'home' in the warehouse, a far cry from the echoing emptiness it had been before.
"They've got a few hundred guys. So nowhere near as big as the Empire or the ABB, not around as long nor with the same… 'encouraged recruitment policy'," Greg continued, adding some finger quotes at the end, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "About as big as your usual gangs are, they've got their fingers in all sorts of pies in the boroughs — protection rackets, gambling, drugs, you get me?"
"Pretty simple, yeah," Sparky nodded again as he took another bite, chopsticks held in deft fingers. He seemed more interested in the food than the briefing, but Greg knew he was listening. Sparky always listened, even when he pretended not to.
"But here's the weird thing though," Greg continued, tapping the name on the board so fast the marker ink began to smear a little. "When they do big heists, they never do it in New York. It's like they're trying to keep their home turf clean or something. Probably afraid of ticking off Legend or Lung or both, is the consensus online at least."
He stepped back from the whiteboard, capping the marker with a click. "Now onto the baddies…" Greg began, a grin spreading across his face. This was the part he'd been waiting for.
Greg tapped the first three pics under the title, each one showcasing an image of a white-haired Chinese dude in a red silk shirt with hands that looked really burnt, all black and red with what seemed like open sores that he didn't seem to mind. One pic had him smoking a cigarette, the other had him holding a fireball, the third had him hurling what looked like a hellstorm out of both hands. "Zhuyin, the head honcho, aka David Chen, twenty-four years old, open villain, meaning no mask…"
"And they haven't arrested him?" Sparky asked, clearly confused as he sat up straight, setting his food aside for a quick gulp of orange soda. His brow furrowed as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he put the two-liter bottle of soda down. "Guy's just walking around?"
"Give me a sec." Greg waved the words away, a slight frown on his face at the interruption. Dude always gets ahead of himself. "Anyways, his name means 'Light-in-the-Darkness' or something pretentious like that. It's also the name for the Chinese mythological Torch Dragon, so calling himself that should generally a bad idea when Lung lives a few hours away… but Zhuyin got away with it because he doesn't use the 'long' character in his name, so Lung didn't tear him apart for the disrespect. He's a hundred percent terrified of the guy, by the way"
Greg's eyes narrowed as he stared at the picture, his voice taking on a slightly more serious tone. "Zhuyin was from an organized crime family and was planning to take over eventually when Lung exploded into his life —no metaphor there— killed his parents and wrecked his house with a gas explosion. According to reports, he triggered there, fire-proof and fire-throwing."
Man, Lung was a dickhead, Greg thought, a flash of sympathy crossing his face.
"PHO and other forums tag him as a Hi-Blast, Mid-Brick, Lo-Swift so in PRT terms we're talking a Blaster 7, Brute 4, with a side of Mover 3," Greg continued, his words coming faster now as he got into the groove of the briefing. "He throws around thermobarics that can level small buildings and can shoot across the skyline like a rocket, so an arrest attempt in a populated area is kind of a… bad idea. Dude's albino, you can tell by the pic, but his hands are kinda burnt all the time and it gets worse when he uses his powers. Major threat, I guess, but not like peak-Lung major."
Not someone to mess with, cus he's at least smarter than Lung though, Greg mused. Gotta be to avoid Legend for several years. Can't just go in guns blazing. Maybe some kind of fire suppressant? Or a way to cut off his oxygen supply? Gotta think on it, Greg nodded to himself as Sparky continued eating, eyes fixed on the board.
"Lung-major is like Endbringer-major, brah," Sparky chimed in, his tone only half-joking. "That's not a low bar, what are you talking about?"
"True to that," Greg agreed, shuddering slightly at the memory of Lung ragdolling him like a pitbull even after he had shredded the guy's chest and back with that makeshift Rasengan. He shook his head, dispelling the dark images, and turned back to the board.
"Alright, next," his hand went to three sets of polaroids showing a gray-skinned and heavily scarred man with silver hair, looking somewhat like a human version of a honey badger almost, "we got Jiangshi, aka Matthew Wei, the major muscle of the Dragons and second in command. Rocking the whole undead vibe and also a no-masker… y'know, considering... the Dragons are full of monster capes."
Greg paused, taking in a slight breath. "Anyway… Wei got his powers after being trapped in some nasty industrial accident and is now a walking, talking zombie that can bench press a bus. Parahumans Online rates him as a Mid-Brick with a bit of Lo-Swift. PRT-speak, that's a Brute 4 with Mover 2 on the side. Heals crazy fast, runs kinda fast and throws around cars like they're toys. Also… just doesn't feel pain, which is… unfair."
Tough bastard, Greg thought, eyeing the pictures. But… we don't really need to take him down at all. If he doesn't feel pain, maybe we can use that. He's not that fast. Lure him into a trap or something.
"...Wow," Sparky said, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed and a little disturbed.
"Yeah…" Greg raised his eyebrows as he slapped his hand against another picture, only one this time, of what looked like a Latina girl in a schoolgirl uniform whose entire left side was surrounded by thick black tentacles dripping with a similarly colored liquid. "Next up is Mimic, not a public cape. But imagine a shape-shifting octopus made of nightmares — all black tendrils and creepy vibes. Forums tag her as a Mid-Shift, Lo-Brick combo. That's Changer 4, Stranger 4, Brute 2."
She's gonna be a problem, Greg thought, frowning at the picture.
Sparky tilted his head, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth. "She's not Asian, though?"
The blond shrugged, still staring at the board. "Yeah, I don't get it either."
Doesn't really matter though, does it? he mused. A baddie is a baddie is a baddie.
"Next is their Tinker, Dizhen, who also keeps her real face hidden," Greg continued on, pointing at a girl with bright green hair, and a matching color weirdly-shaped headphone-helmet combo that exposed her eyes and nothing else. "Rumor is her parents wanted her to be a doctor or something and she wanted to be a DJ, so she ended up triggering as a music Tinker. Very on brand for an Asian villain."
Sparky snorted, shaking his head as he reached for another container of food. "Racist much, brah?"
Greg snorted, a grin tugging at his lips. "Hey, I don't make the rules. Villains gonna villain." He tapped the picture again, his expression turning slightly more serious. "For a Music Tinker, she's fucking strong. Villain View and Power Patrol rated her as a Mid-Tech, Mid-Blast, Lo-Brain, Lo-Swift. In PRT terms, that's Tinker 5, Striker 4, Thinker 2, Mover 2. Her tech is all about sound; making it, breaking stuff with it, you name it."
"Sounds like a real pain in the ass," Sparky muttered around a mouthful of chicken. "Pun totally intended."
Greg chuckled, the sound echoing in the empty warehouse. "Nice one." He turned back to the board, his hand moving to the next picture.
"Then we got," he gestured at a picture of what looked like an image of a living shadow with glowing white eyes and a trail of white tears, "Fei ChangFang, aka the Ghost Boy, monster cape like the others, but worse. Whatever happened to trigger his powers, well, he's stuck like that. Didn't lose his memory too, like the boss and second. Glowing eyes, crying ectoplasm, the works. He can pop in and out of existence, taking stuff — or people — with him anywhere up to around a block away. Anyone he tags and ports gets a free ticket to Puke City for a few seconds. Plus, he's got this thing where he can teleport attacks away from him. Mid-Shift, touch type Mid-Warp aka Breaker 5, Striker 5."
Sparky's eyes widened, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth. "How are you supposed to fight him, then?" he grumbled annoyedly, the teenager dropping the empty white carton and going for another one immediately. "Sounds like fucking hax, brah."
Greg let out a slight hum, a grin breaking out on his face as he tapped the marker against his chin. "I'm thinking fire. If it doesn't hurt him, well… He needs to breathe… probably."
Probably, Greg echoed in his head, his grin turning slightly feral.
At Sparky's slow nod, he continued by tapping the board again, this time on the image of a muscular Asian man with bright blond hair — definitely dyed — in all-black denim jacket, tank top and jeans, leaning up against an overturned police car with a long black bo staff by his side, "We got Sun Kwan up next, no mask. Heard of the MMA incident two years ago; amateur fighter triggered in a match while losing badly in a fight people thought was his to win?"
Sparky frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall.
After a moment, he shook his head. "No."
"Well, it was this guy," Greg said, tapping the pic again, the sound echoing in the warehouse. "Real name, Ken Zhou. Literally 'sploded his opponent by accident and apparently went villain with the Dragons. Power is all about boom-y fists from kinetic energy. For some reason, he uses it through his staff — I dunno, maybe it works better?"
Probably some martial arts bullshit, Greg mused, his eyes roving over the picture. Looks like the type to be into that kind of thing. All 'inner chi' and 'harnessing your ki' or whatever.
Greg shrugged, shaking his head as he turned back to Sparky. "Anyway, the more he moves, the more boom he's got stored up. Villain View got him tagged as close-range Hi-Blast, Lo-Brick, Lo-Swift. PHO Wiki is saying Striker 7, Brute 3, Mover 2."
The blond tapped the Polaroid at the bottom of the whiteboard, the image looking like an albino man crossed with both a hyena and a crocodile somehow. "Last member of the Dragons, name… Y-Yang-zay? Yangzee?"
"Yangtze?" Sparky offered, one eyebrow raised as he looked up from his food.
"Probably," Greg accepted with another shrug, his eyes still focused on the picture. "This guy's a straight-across-the-board monster cape, no memory, nothing. Dragons just snatched him up. Mid-Brick, Mid-Shift from V2's boards. Brute 3, Striker 4 in PRT-lingo. Bro's tough enough as is, but he's also got a tongue like a knife crossed with a steel cable. Can stretch it across a street and heals faster than you can cut it. Not top-tier, but definitely nightmare fuel. And also, yeah, he can split his head open to use it."
Sparky sat up straighter, a second container of General Tso's empty and tossed aside. "So, those are all the fuckers we're going to war with."
"No," Greg clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he did so, his blond locks swaying with the motion. "There's a whole 'nother group, from Boston. Kinda bigger dickheads too."
Sparky's eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "What?"
"Yeah… my board-guy only had the records finished for the first group so far," Greg said, gesturing at the whiteboard with a sweeping motion of his arm. Gotta get him to speed that up, Greg thought, making a mental note to light a fire under Seo's ass. Can't go to war without proper intel.
"So… two small armies of capescoming to wreck our shit, not to mention the small army of capes already here with the Empire, who also want to wreck our shit, and we're supposed to sit here with our thumbs up our asses, brah?" Sparky asked.
Greg blinked, the blond removing his jacket and hanging it up on the side of the edge of the whiteboard. "Why that saying, first of all? Second, no. Third, I wouldn't call them armies, that seems a bit much," he said the last word as he removed his t-shirt and placed it with his jacket, standing shirtless in front of the board.
Sparky's eyes widened, his gaze flicking from Greg's bare torso to his face and back again. "Why are you shirtless?"
"We're training. We need to get you stronger, fast," Greg grinned, his teeth flashing white in the warehouse's fluorescent lighting. He flexed, the tightly corded muscles in his arms and chest rippling under his skin. "Time's a-wasting. Strip."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Later That Night
"Parkouuuuur!"
The wind whipped fiercely around him, tugging at his clothes as he rushed forward.
He was practically a blur against the cityscape, flipping and vaulting from one building to the next. His movements were a well-choreographed dance of leaps and bounds, each jump fueling the next. Launching himself into the air, muscles coiling and uncoiling like springs,he built up enough momentum to clear half a block in a single, graceful arc, soaring with the wind at his back.
It was tempting to harness that wind, to channel it and augment his already impressive jumps. He could move faster, reduce the drag, push himself even further into the air...
Very, very tempting.
Greg grinned as he somersaulted through the air, the rush of the wind drowning out the sounds of the city below. His body twisted and turned, contorting into impossible shapes as he soared over the rooftops. He could feel the pull of the wind, the way it seemed to whisper in his ear, urging him to let loose, to embrace the power that thrummed through his veins.
But no, he reminded himself, shaking his head as he landed on the edge of a roof, his feet barely touching the concrete before he was off again. Gotta keep the identities separate. No mixing and matching. That way lies madness... and probably a lot of property damage.
The wind almost sang to him sometimes, his voice carrying when he didn't mean to, his hearing enhanced even further as sound made its way to him when he strained to listen, stuff like that.
But he had rules.
Keeping the identities separate from one another, even in his own head, was a big one. Sure, did it make himself sound a little crazy talking about his identities in the third person?
Yeah, but that was pretty low on the list of crazy things about him now.
Besides, he couldn't afford the heat of Hardkour to fall on Sir Prodigy, the White Knight of Brockton Bay. No, that path was very much of the bad, especially considering Hardkour was wanted for... well, a lot of things.
No, his identities had to talk, move, act and even fight differently, and that meant keeping the powers from crossing streams.
"Like the Ghostbusters," Greg muttered to himself as he ran along the edge of a roof, his feet barely touching the ledge. "Never cross the streams. Bad juju."
Besides, he didn't need White Knight's aerokinesis to have fun.
That was just being greedy.
"Whoooooohooooooo!" Greg couldn't help but shout as he launched himself over a wide street, arms thrown back, body twisting and turning in a display of aerial acrobatics that an Olympian would kill for. His red helmet-mask cut through the air, the white eyes on it staring blankly ahead as his hair flapped wildly from the opening at the top. He corkscrewed through the air, his body spinning like a top, before uncurling at the last moment to land in a perfect three-point stance on the next rooftop.
"Nailed it!" he crowed, throwing his arms up in a perfect "V" for victory. "The judges give it a perfect 10! The crowd goes wild!"
Below him, life in Brockton Bay continued. Cars honked, people shouted, and somewhere, roaming packs of wild dogs barked incessantly. And here he was, above it all. It had been well over a week since he almost lost Sparky, and he hadn't felt this relaxed since.
Even still, he wasn't that relaxed.
After all, the Flying Dragons and the Sky Triad were circling, like sharks smelling blood in the water. It didn't matter if they were here to recruit or to conquer, and it honestly didn't matter all that much.
Either way, it spelled trouble.
Greg wasn't actually sure which of the two they were here for. Seo knew for a fact that they were scouting for something, though. And that was the hard part, planning on two ends meant more variables to handle, more balls in the air, and a Juggling ability wasn't one he had gotten yet.
Note to self: unlock Juggling. "Yet another thing to add to the old skill tree," Greg mused as he balanced on the edge of a roof, his arms spread wide. "Right after 'Not Getting My Ass Kicked by Gangs of Superpowered Assholes'."
Jokes aside, takeover meant war.
That much was both obvious and unavoidable. Anyone with half a brain and just a single working eye could tell you that Brockton Bay wasn't a place that changed hands peacefully. It simply wasn't how things worked here. Not since Allfather first swung his big metal dick into the city,said "Mine", and Marquis took it personally.
And if it was just poaching?
That still spelled disaster in a city like this, already tense as hell. Simply put: two new, rival Asian gangs in a city with thousands of Nazi gang members already looking for a reason to make a move was just a prelude to war, even if they didn't start fighting each other first. Whatever their plans, Greg knew he needed to prepare.
There was only one way this went down and, in that case, he needed to make sure it was short, if not all that sweet. If it's war they want, it'll be short and sharp, he thought with a harsh grin. One-day-war, max. City can't handle much more without breaking under the pressure.
They could not afford a Brockton Games fiasco. Not now, he thought.
Before that, though, Greg knew he needed to make the ABB... Azn Best Boyz? AGG... Azn Good Guyz? AGB... Azn Good Boyz? Gah, fuck it! He thought with a frown.
None of the names stuck.
None of them really worked.
Honestly, none of them were… cool.
With the exception of… He scowled at the thought, eyes narrowing behind the white lenses of his helmet. Gah, fuck it, he thought, deciding to give up worrying about it. He might end up just calling them 'Ronin', after all.
I mean, it's cool enough, right? True, but the only issue is that it almost felt like a copout given the name idea came from a traitor... or maybe I could use the name anyway...
Yuri had meant it as an insult. Out of spite, yeah. Make that bastard eat his wor-
Lost in thought, Greg barely registered a sharp tingle that snapped him back to the present just as his boots touched down on a high railing.
He froze, the buzz running down his spine. "Huh?"
The blond whipped around so fast he literally blurred, both hands tight in gloved fists at his sides. "Who's there?" Both syllables left his lips in a harsh growl as eyes narrowed behind his mask, the teenager fully slipping into his role as an avenging ninja.
The night was dark, but that hadn't mattered to him in months. [Darkvision] came in handy as often as you'd think it would, the power of perfect night vision regardless of the level of darkness, something he never really took for granted.
He didn't even need it right now.
Not really.
"I can hear you," Hardkour called out, his voice echoing across the rooftop. He tilted his head, listening intently. The city's usual nocturnal symphony of distant sirens, barking dogs, and the ever-present hum of traffic faded into the background as he focused on the sound that had caught his attention.
That wasn't just for intimidation. He could hear them, the abnormal sound of purposely quieted human breathing.
It was almost familiar, something he'd grown used to when he had spent days hunting down the members of the gang he now lorded over. It was different from normal breathing, awake or unconscious—the slight hitch at the top of each inhale as they consciously did their best to make each breath shallower, almost like they were afraid to fill their lungs too much.
The exhale was always the real giveaway, though. Instead of the smooth, natural flow of air, it was a series of controlled releases, the person letting out the breath out in tiny, measured bursts, all slightly uneven, a tremor in each one.
Gotcha, he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Can't hide from these ears, buddy. Hardkour raised a hand to the bottom of his mask, pushing up the bottom until the lower half of his face was open to the air. His nostrils flared as he took in a breath.
Sweat… Hardkour realized, but it's faded. And…
He frowned as he noted the faint smell of pork ribs, having spent enough time eating Chinese food in large amounts the last two months to pick up on it easy enough. Oh, I see…
"So, you've been waiting for me, huh?" His clenched fists relaxed, the teenage vigilante crossing his arms as the figure hiding behind the rooftop enclosure flinched, taking in a sharper breath than intended. "What? Tracking me on cameras and figured I'd pass by here?"
A figure slid out from behind the roof enclosure, Greg raising a single eyebrow at him. It was clearly a guy, Greg could tell that much.
A little shorter than he was, the guy was skinny and wearing a form-fitting bodysuit in shades of gunmetal and navy, with smooth gray paneling in segments on top of it. Over his shoulder was what looked like a grappling hook attached to a long and thickly-braided gray rope. He held his hands up, seemingly in surrender. "Alright, alright, you got me," the cape spoke up, voice smooth and understated behind his featureless gray mask. "How'd you know?"
[Analyze].
Slique Lvl 29
Independent Mercenary
Title: Smooth Criminal
HP: 220/220
Power: Friction Coefficient Modulation
Smooth? Rough? He's got it all. A cape with the power over friction, he left the world of amateur parkour behind for the world of professional killing. This smartass treats the city like his personal slip 'n slide, turning skyscrapers into playgrounds and sidewalks into ice rinks. With the power to make you stick like glue or slide like a greased-up penguin, Slique's the guy who'll kill you with a smile under his mask. Just remember, in his world, teamwork makes the dream work... for him to steal all the credit and cash. What does he want with you? You can probably guess.
Hardkour let out a sigh. "Okay, no," he made an X over his chest with both hands. "Listen, Slique… I get that you're probably here to kill me or something but I really don't feel like this right now."
The assassin tilted his head, body language clearly showing his confusion. "How do you know m- Ah, Thinker, huh?"
"Sure, yeah," Greg replied, giving the bad guy in front of him a nonchalant shrug. I'm not doing this, broski.
"I don't really care what you feel like, kid, personally," Slique said, the man's tone casual, almost bored even. He took a step forward, his movements smooth and fluid, like a cat stalking its prey. "It's just the job, by the way, nothing personal."
Job, right, the blond thought, rolling his eyes behind his mask. And that job is probably putting a bullet in my head. No thanks, bro.
"I'm sure," Hardkour shot back aloud. "But I really don't feel you're thematically appropriate to my storyline right now. I'm going for more of a strategy-game, slice-of-life vibe right now. I've had enough property damage for a bit. Maybe we can reschedule for next month, 'kay?"
Seriously, dude, read the room, Greg thought as he started to back up towards the edge of the roof. I'm not in the mood for an assassin subplot. Keeping his eye on the assassin, Greg made to run backwards, already building up speed to dive.
"I'd watch my step…"
His Danger Sense buzzed again, blue eyes widening as the gray-suited cape raised his gloved hand. Suddenly, Greg's feet found no purchase on the roof's edge, the ninja-themed cape suddenly scrambling as he skid uncontrollably, sliding as if the ground was at a steep angle.
"...if I was you."
[Adhesion]!
Mana rushed to his feet as he scrambled across the ground towards empty air, kicking for purchase against a ground that might have well been made of oil.
Shit.
It didn't help.
"Shit!"