NOVEL FROG Mob 5.17
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Mob 5.17
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
A thought preceded everything else. [Inventory.]
His mouth opened, lips forming the first letter as sparks flared to life in the same palm he held at his side; blue fractals of light already beginning to appear on his fingertips.
His body shifted imperceptibly, leaning forward as he prepared to move.
Bakuda stared back at him, confusion fighting the manic glint in her eyes as she tried to parse the words just now leaving Greg's mouth.
"[Burst]."
Greg Veder launched himself forward, his sword appearing in an outstretched hand and flaring with the same light as the rest of his body. Heat radiating from the weapon in intense waves, enough to raise the temperature of the hallway from uncomfortably cold to stiflingly hot within a single second.
He swung.
The hallway lit up in a flash of red as it made contact, sparing a great many eyes from the grisly sight of the sword slicing cleanly like a hot knife through melted butter, flesh immediately sealing over as super-heated metal passed through it with no resistance at all.
Jennifer Sato blinked as her back hit the ground, confused expression not fading as she blinked up at over a hundred shocked, terrified faces before finally meeting a set of smiling blue eyes staring directly down at her.
A second passed.
Then the screams started.
Quest Success!
"ABB I: Avenge The Fallen" Completed!
Gained Territory: Azn Bad Boys [Brockton Bay]
Gained $500,000
Gained 10 Stat Points
Gained 5 Perk Points
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
April 21, 2011
3:54 AM
This was not what he expected.
Really… it wasn't.
Handing his reappropriated smartphone to one of the older women that he knew wasn't ABB, the instructions he gave her had been explicitly simple and remarkably clear: "Call the cops."
Three words.
An identical amount of syllables.
No way to misconstrue any of that.
Or so he had thought.
What part of 'call the cops' was not understandable? Greg did his best to fight a frown, bright lights flaring in his face amid the noise of sirens and so much commotion around him. Vans of various types filled the streets in front of the storage facility; multiple red-and-white ambulances, a couple armoured trucks from the Brockton Bay Police Department, several heavy-duty assault tanks of the PRT in gunmetal black with mounted containment-foam sprayers, and the simple white vehicles emblazoned with logos that Greg knew belonged to the local news…
News vans… Greg found himself stifling a groan of infinite frustration as he cast a tired gaze over at the crowd of over-eager reporters clamoring for attention like a class full of kindergartners; each one of them armed with microphones, cameras and enough caffeine to give them the energy to be this wide-eyed and chipper at 4 AM in the goddamn morning. The idea of having to stand in front of cameras and answer questions in any coherent way when he felt like death warmed over.
This just wasn't the time for all this.
Multiple pairs of small arms had wrapped themselves around Greg's torso, embracing the teenage boy as tight as they could manage as their heads nestled into his chest. There was a desperation to all of it, a simple unwillingness to let go that made the whole thing seem a lot less like hugs and more like children desperately clinging to a safety blanket.
Sadly enough, that wasn't an inaccurate description.
"... Please… please don't make me go…"
His eyes squeezed shut at the sound of that small voice, the stinging in his eyes forcing him to blink rapidly as several others chimed in with pleas along the same lines. The smell of chocolate stood out to him, Greg sighed, breathing in the sweet scent as he remained helplessly bound by their embrace. Sticky hands hugged him even tighter as he allowed them the chance, likely leaving brown hand-prints all over his already stained armor.
The chocolate had been a spur-of-the-moment idea when he tried to calm the frightened girls inside after they witnessed Bakuda's fall. He had been saving them in his [Inventory] to satisfy his own cravings last week and as an emergency reserve of sugar, but Greg realized that the few dozen chocolate bars would be better served being used to help the traumatized young girls. Honestly, giving away all his chocolate barely made a dent in his sweets stash anyway; Greg had enough confectionaries stored away to murder a diabetic pothead several times over.
He didn't have to think about it much after that. It felt better for the kids to get something sweet to help make them feel a little bit brighter than for the sweets to simply remain in stasis. Watching them tear into the chocolate had actually done a lot to lighten the grim mood, for himself and even for those who hadn't wanted any. Their young eyes had lit up brightly at the taste of sugar, a familiar sensation bringing life to bruised and dirty faces that had looked closer to animals recently locked in cages than the children they were supposed to be.
Even now, with Greg having taken several bottles of water and a few fresh washcloths from his [Inventory] to wipe their previously grimy faces, the youngest ones still seemed to act like skittish animals. They stayed close to the older girls, as all of them occasionally shied away from the adults in uniform before they were led away for treatment. It seemed that they feared everything at the moment, even other women. Letting out a low breath, Greg turned his gaze up at the few EMT's waiting with blankets as well as the remaining horde of other girls behind them shooting him understanding looks as they were escorted away. He blinked away tears again and nodded at them, mouth silently forming the words, 'I got it.'
It took him more effort than he expected to pull himself away, the young girls continuing to press up even closer to him the more he tried to ease away from them. Despite it, he was finally able to pull back enough to look all four of them in the face. "Okay… see… I..."
Greg held back a sigh as he was met with quiet whimpering, tiny hands still trying their best to maintain their grasps on the cloth parts of his armor. His hands reached out, hands grasping on to the shoulders of the little girl right in front of him, an elfin brunette named Alice.
"Look, these guys… these nice guys and gals…" He gestured haltingly in the direction of the still-waiting EMT's, forced to blink away a sudden frown as yet another camera flash went off in his eye, "they're gonna help all of you out. Get you all checked out and… uh… uh, Jesus… They're gonna get you to your families." He stretched his mouth out into a smile, quietly hoping that the expression didn't look anywhere as strained and insincere as he felt it did. "You miss your mommies and daddies, right?"
He was met with nods from four crying faces.
"And you trust me… right?"
More nods, little heads moving even faster now.
"Good… 'cause they're are gonna take good care of you, okay? They'll help you get home..."
He let out a relieved sigh at the muted "okays" he received, not bothering to pull back again as the four girls came in for another hug. He ignored the flashing lights and general babble from the media not too far from him; a wall of bodies threatening to break past the enclosure in their eagerness if not for the police maintaining the barrier.
CHA + 1
The sudden pop-up received a similar level of attention.
This wasn't the time to worry about any of that.
A minute later, Greg Veder finally stood up, one arm in the air as he waved goodbye to the last of the rescued girls. He sighed again, exhalation almost turning into a full groan as the door finally closed behind them and the vehicle began to pull away.
He let out a sigh, shoulders slumping as police officers made their way past him in and out of the building, escorting handcuffed men and women who had been woken up or dragged out unconscious after being laid out by his gauntleted fists. Gazes turned to him as they passed – their expressions flickered through curiosity, wariness and some actual fear – but on the whole, the boys and girls in blue continued to ignore him as he stood aside on the curb outside the storage facility so they had the space to do their jobs. Greg paid them as much attention as they did to him, thankful that the initial stand-off was long over.
Really, this whole thing could have gone much worse. His initial introduction certainly hadn't done much to endear him to the police force nor the gathered PRT and Greg hadn't felt much desire to try that hard in the first place.
After all, did walking out in grimy, blood-stained armor really make the best impression when met with a host of armed men with the itchiest of trigger fingers? Of course not.
Had it been the best idea to have carried the legless body of a violently screaming, college-age Japanese woman over his shoulder as he walked outside? No.
When asked (read: screamed at) about what happened to the girl's legs by the heavily armed police and PRT, should he have simply gestured with the weapon in his hand and responded, "Oh… yeah. That? Me," instead of almost anything else? Probably not the best choice, no.
Then again, maybe the tension wouldn't have been thicker than freshly-poured concrete if he hadn't walked outside to meet them with a fiery, glowing sword still in his grip. Not the wisest choice, but the sheer aesthetic…
All joking aside, he honestly hadn't put much thought into actually holding the weapon; Greg simply had no intention of being caught unaware again. Did that mean he planned on cutting off more legs if the situation arised?
...Maybe.
Despite all that, everything seemed to have turned out well enough. He had handed Bakuda off to the PRT – while staring into the muzzles of multiple rifles with as dry an expression as he could manage – and after explaining exactly who she was and what she had in the building, the men in black body-armor had quickly change their tune. The PRT and the cops's bomb squad switched their priorities from him to the actual bomb threat still on the ground, while multiple units of Brockton Bay's Police Department swarmed in to deal with the ABB situation inside. There were still several PRT troopers who stuck around, though, ready to shoot him if he so much as twitched in their direction.
Most of the questions – and boy, were there questions – stopped there. The PRT accepted his explanations – as much as he was willing to give, anyway – with a shrug, and kept their weapons ready regardless. He doubted the reason for that was because they were actually satisfied with what he told them. Odds were that the PRT had standing orders not to antagonize any cape that wasn't declared a villain. Still, Greg found that it didn't matter why they had stopped grilling him for answers, so much as the fact that they did.
The wary looks, though… not so much.
Besides, Greg suspected that the armored-car-mounted foam-sprayer being subtly angled to idle in his direction wasn't a coincidence. The blond cape breathed deeply, feeling the energy swirling within him as he idly watched the police haul yet another sullen ABB gangbanger out of the storage facility.
Lights flashed from behind multiple police-cordons and hastily erected fences, the media continuing to take pictures and video of each new criminal emerging from the Super Dollar Self Storage. From the moment Greg had walked out of the repurposed storage facility, the cameras had continued to roll, viewfinders fixed on him as he stood his ground amid the dozens of former captives being gently escorted into a small fleet of awaiting ambulances and police vans.
Between the police and PRT shouting orders and reading each ABB gangbanger their rights, the reporters clamoring to be heard as they waved their microphones around in his direction and the reporters facing cameramen as they spoke to their viewing public, Greg couldn't decide which group was loudest.
He stared blankly as someone approached him, a figure in a familiar set of black padded armor with the letter 'PRT' stenciled across the chest in big, white lettering. The officer trotted over from the group that was currently considering the best way to restrain the parahuman paraplegic, but with a posture that displayed more than a bit of…
Well, Greg wasn't sure what it was but it didn't look all that positive.
There had been some complicated looks tossed his way as the state of Bakuda's lower body became apparent to them and the sight and stench of burnt human flesh elicited more than a few indistinct curses from those brave enough to get close enough. This officer likely had another set of questions along that line, if Greg had to guess. The blond sighed loudly, his bored expression tinted with a hint of annoyance as he faced the approaching PRT officer. Let's get this over with.
"I didn't kill her," he found himself remarking preemptively, speaking quickly to stave off the question from the PRT. The man paused at the sudden start to the conversation, standing almost frozen in place as he seemed to focus on Greg from behind his black visor. "She wasn't dead when I gave her to you. I know that."
The officer only shook his head, seeming less perturbed with Bakuda's situation than he did with how Greg handled it. He guessed this one happened to be in charge of a unit or something. There was ornamentation on the armor's shoulder that seemed like they signified rank. A lieutenant, he supposed. "But didya have t-"
"Yes."
Again, he couldn't see the lieutenant's face, concealed as it was by the full-face helmet, but judging from the way he and several other nearby PRT troopers tensed up, twitching for their weapons, Greg's hissed response was clearly not well-received.
"I mean…" Greg struggled with policing his tone, trying to keep his words from being harshly clipped from the immense stress and withered patience he felt in his bones.. "Look… she had a detonator system set up in her boot. One twitch in the wrong direction and the whole city would have gone up, including the bombs in that storage locker. Killing her would have done the same: she claimed she had a dead-man's switch. I didn't have a lot of options."
He paused to wince, unintentionally letting out a rattling breath through the nearly-healed hole in his neck. "So, yes. Yes, I did have to, officer."
The police officers close enough to catch Greg's words shared a look of confusion between themselves while the gathered PRT seemed to take it in stride. The lieutenant gave Greg a hesitant nod before directing some of his men with a slew of jargon and codes he could only assume made sense to other PRT troopers. He couldn't help but blink, but the only phrases he really understood of those barked orders were "bag up", "Tinker tech" and "pair of legs".
Greg's own mouth opened instinctively as he found himself wrestling with the idea of telling the PRT troopers that they were not going to find said pair of legs anywhere inside the building. Said struggle lasted about as long as it took him to realize that would mean explaining his [Inventory], and he didn't have the energy nor inclination to do so. So, the blond stepped out of their way and sank back against the wall. He'd let them figure it out on their own.
Another sigh left Greg's lips, stifling a yawn. The armored cape regretted not taking off the very moment he caught sight of the cavalcade of cops, troopers, and reporters lurking behind them. Not like they could have stopped me, anyway.
"...What about her boots?"
Greg was pulled from his weary thoughts by the new voice, this one far less gruff than the PRT lieutenant. He leveling a bored gaze at the kevlar-vest wearing BBPD officer. The man was visibly disconcerted by Greg's bluntness. "What about 'em?"
The officer shot him another confused glance, now distinctly frowning as he stared at Greg. "How in the hell do you set off bombs with a pair of boots?"
The teenager found himself nodding along to the question – it was a good question, he'd admit – but the answer was simple enough. The blood-splattered cape shrugged as best he could given the state of his neck and replied, "Tinkers."
Annoyingly, the officer didn't find that response satisfying enough. "Really? That's what you're going with?" He scoffed openly, clear signs of annoyance as he continued to stare. "Tinkers? Is that really all you have to say about what you did?"
The blond tensed. "The boo-"
"I heard about the boots!" The cop interrupted sharply, openly scowling at the teenager in a dirty costume. "You couldn't have removed them after you knocked her out or something?" Other BBPD officers nearby purposely averted their eyes as he shot them questioning looks, but he could see the unease in their faces too. But as Greg looked away to the other cops, the policeman before him got more incense and just kept going. "You had to just hack off her legs and burn her too? Don't think I didn't catch all those broken bones and smashed faces either. Almost half a dozen probably stuck in the ICU for weeks. You brutalized those people. Some of them badly enough that they'll never recover properly!"
Is this guy really…
"And?" His hands tightened at his sides as he turned to match the police officer's stare. "Why do you care?"
"I care because it's my job," the officer bit back, tapping the silver badge on his chest.
"You mean stopping the bad guys?" Greg took in a sharp breath through his nose, eyes narrowed into thin slits the more he spoke. "The same job I did for you? Where do you get off telling me what to do?"
The man fought for words, expression darkening as he shot Greg a look that crossed the line from distaste all the way over to visible contempt. "You think I just go around breaking bones and mutilating people? I'm a cop. I enforce the law. That means I take people in for doing stuff like that because that's what the law entails. I don't leave people half-dead and broken, vigilante."
Greg blinked, mouth forming a flat line. "Are you going to arrest me, officer?"
"Ye-!" The policeman was taken aback, about to answer one affirmatively, as he so clearly wanted to, but something kept him from saying so, biting it back to spit out the truth. "...No."
"Then why are we talking about this?" the blond growled despite himself, mouth open in a grimace. "And by the way… those weren't people. They were human-traffickers." The officer visibly tensed as Greg took an unintended step forward, his blue eyes flashing unnaturally behind his helm. "Now, are we done with the questions or what?"
The kevlar-wearing man flinched a second time, scowling in defiance. But after what felt like an eternity, quietly and hesitantly raised his hands in defeat, stepping aside to let Greg pass by.
Teeth grit angrily, Greg spun on his heels and began to walk away, mood worsened by the unpleasant encounter and the increasing clamor of the press as they noticed his attempt to retreat from the scene.
Talking to me about what I shouldn't have done? Like he was there. Like any cops were there! Who the hell d-
His thoughts were interrupted as was his attempt to subtly escape the scene was with the sudden realization that someone was standing in his way. It drew him out of his funk only to sour his mood even further. He felt a sudden rush of annoyance and frustrated exasperation snapping out, "Okay, what do you want no-"
Just like his thoughts, his next words died quietly on his tongue as Greg stared up at the figures in front of him on the sidewalk. The sudden pick-up in the clamor from the media made sense now.
A cape stood barely a meter or two away; an attention-grabbing, male figure well over six-feet-tall and clad like a Greek warrior ready to lay siege to a futuristic Troy. He sported heavy, golden-bronze armor with white accents and a hoplite-style helm that left a small portion of his face visible – but did almost nothing to hide the sight of his bright white teeth open in a charming smile – in addition to the similarly Spartan-esque faulds that draped from his hips. His powerful, muscular arms were protected by a pair of golden vambraces thrumming with electric might and a small circular plate on his left arm. A small spear was fastened to his back, and for a few moments, his armor hummed like a livewire. He must have been half-asleep; how else could he have missed the approach of a man whose flying boots crackled with lightning?
The cape's name jumped into his head the second Greg laid eyes on him. Dauntless… And then a blur vibrated into sight and solidity beside the hero. Greg recognized the lanky figure in a skintight red suit with white racing stripes down the sides as well, but only as an afterthought to the rising star of the Brockton Bay Protectorate …and Velocity too.
The teenager felt his heart jump in his chest, the impulse of a fan-boy nearly taking over his thoughts as he gawked at the cape in front of him – the same one that launched a thousand-and-one Battle Board arguments after some of the details of his powers had finally leaked onto the forums. "The hero to replace Hero" — that's what they called Dauntless ("they" being every nerd and cape-geek online).
His mind came to a shuddering stop, brain-meat seemingly unable to conceptualize the fact that words were anything more than just mouth-noises. Greg did nothing more than stare at the hero standing before him, eyes occasionally flickering over to the much less impressive form of Velocity, the red-clad cape basically as interesting as the walls he stood just a bit away from.
"Hey there. Prodigy, right? Sorry… Sir Prodigy. Wouldn't want to get that wrong. I'm Dauntless, by the way," he added, placing a palm on his chest in introduction. As if anyone in Brockton Bay would ever be so brain-dead as to mistake him for another cape.
"Velocity here, how's it going, kid?" Velocity followed up from behind him, announcing himself in a somewhat-reedy voice that perfectly fit his lanky frame.
Greg paid the speedster very little attention as the gold-armored hero stepped forward, voice hitting that perfect midpoint between impressively deep and approachably warm, one hand offering a handshake. "It's nice to finally meet you."
Greg blinked. He stared at the open hand for a moment before glancing at his own with a sudden feeling of disquiet. Filth, grime and blood; his gauntleted hand a mess of stains embedded so deep that Greg knew he'd have to flood the suit with the [Dragon Blood's Gift] to get it all out, and even then he'd need to scrub it vigorously, just to feel clean enough to wear it again. He knew without even looking that his face was a visible mess even with the helm in the way, lines of dried blood visible around his mouth all the way down to the wound to his neck. Greg was a mess, yes, because he had been busy.
He had been fighting but...
Greg looked back up and stared, eyes almost narrowing as he gave Dauntless a once-over. The cape was seemingly untouched, from head to toe: not a single speck of dust, grime or debris on his person. His armor glowed enough under the streetlight for Greg to make out it's immaculateness. The teen's disquiet edged into angered frustration as he turned a suspicious eye on Velocity and noticed that the speedster seemed very much the same, despite the haggard, five-o'clock shadow on his jaw - a costume that looked comfortably worn and well-used, but clean and spotless all the same. They even had the gall to smell faintly of floral shampoo!
When he didn't respond to their introductions, the two heroes exchanged a look, and then moved on to talking to — or rather at — Greg to make some kind of conversation, but it all went in one ear and out the other. Greg was simply too exhausted by the ordeals of the last few days and his annoyance at their audacity to actually be clean when he was an absolute mess to pay attention to what they were saying.
His hands tensed at his sides again, something dark worming its way up his throat. Where were these guys?
The blond was suddenly aware of the media's presence again as a mass of reporters had made a beeline towards where Greg and the Protectorate Heroes stood; the allure of three different capes gathered there was too much for any one of the news crews to resist. Especially with Dauntless present, who had to be the main draw.
For all that Greg was an unknown (as well as a possible threat, given some rumors) and Velocity a long-time member of the Protectorate, Dauntless was Brockton Bay's rising star. His reputation shone brighter than his costume, brightening the night like a bolt from the blue. It was easy to see from the way Dauntless carried himself, even at this early hour, how others could be impressed - the man possessed a soft-spoken gravitas that reassured the heart which complemented the thunderous power he brought to protecting civilians in battle.
Still, as Greg found himself face to face with that, he couldn't help but notice how quickly his initial feelings of awe and admiration began to fade, leaving him largely… unimpressed.
He blinked again, annoyed as microphones were shoved in his direction and questions were thrown at him and the Protectorate capes from all sides by the crowd of reporters, flinching imperceptibly from the flash of some cameras snapping photos and the glare of flood lights that had been erected for the news-crews filming Live on the scene while he wasn't paying attention.
I just had to come outside, huh? Couldn't have just left out the back or through the roof like a smart person would have. He glanced up at Dauntless again, envious of how the cape could so effortlessly look like he'd just walked off of the cover of 'Hero Beat' or 'Power Week' magazines as he seemed to laugh at some personal joke he made to Velocity, the other cape nodding as his visor remained locked on Greg. Jesus Christ, the things I'd do for a sarcastic Tony the Tiger sound effect button. The mileage I'd get out of that thing.
"–ind catching us up on the whole thing?"
Huh? Greg shook his head again as he caught the last few words of whatever statement Dauntless had been directing towards him, thoughts going down another trail as both capes waited there. Oh, they want me to talk. Out loud. To the reporters. Uh...
Greg hadn't really heard the question nor the context, but it felt supremely awkward to just admit that. He had to come up with something quick, but all he could think about was how awkward the mood was because he wasn't saying anything. So he just let the silence stretch a few seconds more, feeling a slight sense of trollish delight as Dauntless' smile grew strained under the bright flash of camera lights.
Finally, though, he decided to cut the moment short before Dauntless could take the chance to start up again. "Sorry, what was…"
He paused to yawn, an entirely unintentional interruption born of honest exhaustion. But part of him caught the twitch in Velocity's expression at the way Greg stretched and covered his mouth in the middle of the first sentence he'd spoken to them this entire time. The more vindictive part of Greg hoped the cameras had caught that, but he doubted it. "Umm... yeah, what'd you say again?"
"No need to apologize to me. I can see you've had a long day." The smile behind the golden helm brightened, and when Dauntless stepped forward with an outstretched hand, Greg was floored by the honest empathy he could see in the cape's eyes. There was a sense of weary understanding and sympathy that he hadn't expected to find, and Greg had to wonder if it had always been there but only now was he close enough to notice it. "We've all been there."
Greg didn't need to look before returning the handshake with a firm grip, wearing a bright, eager expression that felt painfully insincere in the face of the shining cape's smile. "Yeah. Just doing my part, I guess."
"Isn't that the truth? Right, Velocity?"
The cape in red thumbed his helmet as the attention turned back to him, and gave the cameras a thumbs-up as he responded with a flatness in his tone that seemed almost-rehearsed. "Couldn't have said it better myself, Dauntless. Teamwork and effort."
Dauntless flashed another smile, but unlike before, Greg could sense the enthusiasm was a little forced. Now, the armored cape was scanning the crowd of reporters around them, pausing for a moment at each camera as he kept pumping the younger cape's hand. "As heroes, we all have to do what we can to keep our city safe."
Oh. That was different. He couldn't help the slight disappointment at the change in tone. But it was odd how Dauntless had switched to talking loudly and enunciating slowly and clearly. Was… was Dauntless being fed lines? It was possible - both their helmets could easily be concealing earbuds where some Protectorate employee was having them. But… why?
The flash from the cameras around them answered Greg's unspoken question. The annoyance, frustration and exhaustion of the days past returned once more, and Greg could only grit his teeth to keep it from leaking into his appearance once more. So, even the Protectorate were slaves to the media, just like the politicians in the government. Had GStringGirl been right when she posited that all heroes in the Protectorate were the result of a marketing department? Slaves to the PR that came from being heroes? That it wasn't the powers that made them heroes, but the fact that they looked good using them? Was that why Dauntless and Velocity looked so goddamn clean!?
Fuck that.
"Indeed," Greg pushed a bit of ham into his voice along with his best faux-Shakespearean accent, doing his best to match Dauntless' level of false-enthusiasm as he smiled into one of the many cameras. "All of us have to do at least that much, right? All of us. No matter how long, exhausting or dirty the job is, keeping the people safe comes first."
Greg shrugged his shoulders and glanced between Dauntless and Velocity before turning to face yet another camera. " I mean, could you imagine… what…," the younger cape leaned back, a wry grin sneaking onto his face as he let out a laugh that was equal parts exhaustion and actual humor, "... what kind of heroes would just let somebody do all the work for them?"
CHA + 1
Please tell me that means what I think it means.
There was an odd tension in the air after Greg spoke, a smattering of mutters passing through the crowd as they caught the implication. Velocity had a flat expression, and a pained expression flashed across Dauntless' face before it vanished under his professional veneer. But he paused for a moment, seeming to change gears as his head tilted, almost like he was listening to someone. The hero paused for a moment.
Not even a full second later, his head seemed to bob in an almost imperceptible nod, Greg raising an eyebrow as the Grecian cape leaned in closer.
"An excellent point."
Letting go of his gauntleted hand, the other armored cape clapped him on the shoulder in (what Greg assumed was supposed to be) a fatherly manner. "That's exactly why the Protectorate — and by extension, the Parahuman Response Team — would like to offer our thanks to you for your assistance in bringing down certain elements of the ABB today, Prodigy." Dauntless paused again, glancing to the side for a moment to stare at nothing before he continued speaking again, only with his voice slightly more stilted than before. "W-with the entire Protectorate mobilized and stretched thin across the city, there are situations where, sometimes, younger heroes – still just kids – get it into their heads that they must take on problems that are a bit out of their league. They have to be careful not to bite off more than they can chew."
The gathered media and even a few police officers who had drawn near, let out a little laugh as Dauntless unsubtly gestured in Greg's direction, drawing attention to his appearance — the horrid wreck of dirt, blood and grime that was the remainder of his armor and costume — with a half-hearted wink from behind his helmet. Greg simply stared back at him, expression on his face looking as if someone had shit on his hotdog and called it chili. "Even then, it's times like this that the Protectorate is appreciative of the next generation of heroes doing what they can."
Assist?
Pick up the slack?
Do what they can!?
Greg felt like throwing the words back in Dauntless' face and tearing off his helmet so he could scream into it and give whatever asshole was making one of Greg's favorite heroes feed him such bullshit what for. Yet, even as his anger burst to life… it also faded away just as quickly, Greg's shoulders slumping as he swallowed the rage down, holding it under control before Gamer's Mind could get the chance. The anger didn't fade as he let the words go, but it was enough for him to keep his face blank and his gaze focused. His fingers loosened, fists falling into open hands at his side as he did his best to bite down whatever imagined retort he knew would only hurt him or Dauntless more than it would the PRT puppet-masters behind the hero.
I'm supposed to just let them do this to me? Where were they when Bakuda was running amok, blowing the city to hell? Where were they Oni Lee almost killed Shielder… when those girls were locked up for weeks… when Emma was hurt… when Mom...
Greg exhaled softly, simply nodding along into the camera as he watched Dauntless flap his gums some more, imagining just how many times this guy had gone along with something like this before; something so blatantly fake and attention-stealing. There had been rumors that Armsmaster wasn't Dauntless' biggest fan, for some reason, but Greg had never paid that crazy idea much attention.
Looking at him now, though, Greg could understand exactly why a straight-shooter like Armsmaster would be annoyed with Dauntless. Taciturn and direct, Greg could only assume the veteran cape disliked Dauntless for being so willing to spew this kind of bullshit for just because the PRT said so. What about me, though? Do I have to just grin and bear it?
WIS + 1
Yeah… I know. He shook his head yet again as he stared back at Dauntless, camera lights still focused on both of them. This is the city's best. The next Hero? He's a strong cape, and an awesome fighter, I've seen the videos… but does the guy have an original thought in his head?. The exhaustion Greg felt the longer he stood there, sandwiched between Dauntless and Velocity, couldn't be put into words.
Another part of him couldn't help but notice how both of them only seemed to show up after all the ABB had been corralled and all the girls he had rescued were out of sight. For the first time that night, Greg began to wonder if anyone outside of the Protectorate or PRT had even seen most of the fight between him and Lung after things had gotten truly out of control. The smoke and explosions might have blinded most of those camera drones L33t had buzzing around, for all he knew.
Could any one of the Protectorate – or even Dauntless in particular – have stood over Lung's mutilated body and claimed to have done most of the work after bailing out the kid who had "bitten off more than he could chew?" Would they have done that if he had stuck around back there? Could they have taken credit for Lung's defeat while he was still standing over Lung's own body?He sighed again, watching Dauntless ham it up for the cameras like a superpowered game-show host, before turning back to Greg.
"Representing the Protectorate," there was that phony, half-hearted grin on display again, "I'd like to once again thank young Prodigy for his efforts today, and for his bravery, in spite of facing threats he was unprepared for. No matter how much we'd like to think so, no hero can do everything on their own. So, Prodigy…" The teenage cape did his best to push away his anger down as far as he could, looking up at the cape he once looked up to; the parahuman hero who had been forced to talk down everything Greg had done over the last few days, "...would you like to say anything to the people at home?"
Dauntless gestured to the three closest cameras in front of them, simply watching Greg now as he awaited his response.
Greg turned to glance at Dauntless' red-suited teammate, the speedster having gone along with this entire mess of a public conversation like a trained parrot. He turned once more, eyes narrowing as he turned to face the cameras themselves. It felt like hours before the expression on his face shifted into anything approximating a smile but he managed it somehow, looking directly at the nearest camera.
The cape now known to the world as Prodigy grinned with a slightly impish – albeit somewhat, tired – undertone to his smile.
"What can I say..." he paused, aerokinesis deepening his voice as he raised his gaze, "except…"
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
April 21, 2011
Gregory Lucas Veder raised a hand over his face, turning his head as the sun began peeking over the horizon, announcing the beginning of a new day to a battered city. He squinted as rays of sunlight assaulted his unprepared eyes, deepening the heavy frown he wore even further as he was struck by the natural radiance of the dawnstar scattering beautiful colors across the sky with the paintbrush of a god.
Morning already… He thought to himself, shaking his head slightly. Why that thought deserved a scoff, Greg wasn't really sure. But he didn't let that prevent him from letting out a sound of wearily distinct exasperation.
It may have been a new day for Brockton Bay, in more than one way, but it felt like the same-old song to Greg. He hadn't slept, after all. The sight of thick smoke on the horizon stood out as the sun began to inch ever higher, exposing the heavy cloud of smog that still choked a good portion of Downtown. Sirens occasionally rang out from place to place, their wailing growing more and more distant as Greg continued his slow trek. Life was beginning to return to the Bay, from what the teenager could feel in the way the city moved as he hobbled through his hometown's various neighborhoods. Things seemed to be settling down in the last three hours in a way that was dramatically different from the four days preceding it. The city was waking up from a nightmare, and struggling to remind itself that those horrid dreams were in the past, and it had a new day to look forward too.
If only Greg had that optimism. The city was waking up from a nightmare, and struggling to remind itself that those horrid dreams were in the past, and it had a new day to look forward too.
If only Greg had that optimism.
Meandering through back-alleys and side-streets, backroads and rooftops as he made his way through the city had told him enough. Police cars, ambulances and those white shuttle-buses that had been everywhere the previous day were a constant sight, almost impossible to miss as they sped through nearly every major road through the city. Every one of them had something to do – though all of them served much the same purpose, really: picking up and dropping off people at varying locations, whether that was one of several police stations, multiple hospitals, or any one of dozens of neighborhoods.
The streets were awash with activity, yet still a fraction of what it would have been if today had been a normal morning. Firefighters were still busy hosing down half-burned-out wrecks and handling rescue work alongside EMTs while policemen arrested looters attempting to capitalize on the chaos while they could. Would-be gangsters prowled about, seeking opportunities to seize power, as the powers-that-be tallied the damage and plotted what moves they could make next.. Hordes of people who had fled the city in fear were beginning to trickle back, coming home to pick up the pieces of the lives they had abruptly dropped and left behind in the days before.
Brockton Bay was beginning to feel more like herself again.
If he was still in costume, Greg knew that he would have been out there trying to see what he could do to assist. But now wasn't the time for that. He was in casual clothes again, a dark blue shirt and a pair of comfortable jeans made up his cunning disguise: just another totally average teenager. Pulling off superhuman feats of strength and prowess in the public eye while dressed like all the other normal people wouldn't have been the best of ideas. More than that, though, Greg simply couldn't find it in himself to help because, well… he was tired.
Dead tired.
Not so much physically, but...
It said a great deal about his fatigue when the blond couldn't find it in him to hold his head up straight, his neck feeling weaker than a newborn baby's as he trudged along through his seemingly empty neighborhood. Each limb felt like it was made of concrete, hundreds of pounds lashed to the bones of his arms and legs, dragging him down and slowing his movement. Above all else, Greg felt like simply collapsing face-first onto one of his neighbor's lawns and sleeping for an eternity.
That, or until someone poked him back into consciousness with a rake.
He'd been in this state since he had rocketed away from Dauntless, Velocity and the mob of reporters that had surrounded them, the last dregs of adrenaline fading from his body as he pressed himself up against the side of a filthy alley wall to catch his breath several blocks away. That feeling of sheer exhaustion hadn't faded in over three hours, long enough for Greg to trudge his way around the city on a meandering path towards home.
Staring up into the brightening sky again, Greg shook his head at just how quickly everything had gone by. The previous day had felt short… much too short for the events that had transpired. Three supervillains in, like, twelve hours; something like that belonged in some stupid fantasy he would have dreamt up a year ago, one that Sparky would probably roll his eyes at, but later they would laugh about when they thought back about how stupid he sounded before arguing about other stupid things, like whether Jane Hinley from English was secretly from Mars or something.
His mouth quirked up at one side in nostalgic mirth before falling again as he let out a tired sigh, eyelid drooping under the rising sun as he turned the corner onto an eerily familiar street. What difference did it make, anyway? Doing all that…
It felt pointless, honestly.
Like it didn't ever matter.
Oni Lee… A stupid decision but at least he had softened the guy up enough for someone else to claim the takedown. Still, it didn't really change the fact that Lee had just been an excuse to dump everything he was feeling - all the anger and frustration he had at the time - onto an acceptable target. Beating him probably wouldn't have made him feel any better than losing to him had, most likely. And venting his emotions in a fight like that hadn't made him feel any better, not really.
Lung… Another mess, that much was true. A bigger target, too, one that felt more like he was attacking the reason behind all this pain than some ninja-mook following orders. Even with that, though, Lung hadn't been the cause of all this. Lung was pretty much just another big punching bag, albeit one that actually made him feel like he was getting somewhere. He had felt better after Lung. Beating him had felt…so goddamn good. But it hadn't been enough.
Bakuda… Greg's fist tightened at his side, his breathing hitching for a second. She had started all of this, throwing away so many lives for no real reason. He just couldn't understand why she had wanted to do any of the horrible things she had done to the city and its peoples, and he doubted Bakuda would ever have told him… no matter what he did. She was the villain here; the crazy mastermind responsible for ending so many lives….
And yet, when he had cut her off at the knees, he hadn't felt much of anything. Certainly nothing that lasted...
The moment before felt almost exactly the same as the moment after, only afterwards it was Greg looking down at her as she lay their, screaming, writhing in agony. He hadn't felt any different from before. There was the satisfaction of finally being done with his Quest, of having finished what he had set out to do… but feeling of achievement was lacking. Getting all of those girls out of there had been the only thing that left him with any real sense of accomplishment, but even that had faded far more quickly than he had expected.
What was even the point of all this? Greg stopped where he stood, knuckles white as he squeezed his fist tight enough to almost hurt. He knew what he did was important, because of course it was important. It was of vital importance that he had stopped the ABB as best he could, and crippled it so thoroughly. That was important. It had to be.
But the question still rang like a church bell and echoed through his mind, ringing even louder as he stood in front of the white-painted walls of his family home.
It was frighteningly unnerving just how out of place Greg felt as he stood in front of the Colonial-style house. He had lived there for longer than he could remember. He recalled everything about it; the paint, the windows, the pointlessly ornate wind chimes hanging from the porch…This was home.
A key appeared in his fingers, blue motes of light falling away as he slipped it into the doorknob, twisted, and pulled open the door. It made no sense that everything still looked the same, a testament to the family that had lived there for so many years, of the child who had grown up within its walls, and all the work and care and attention it's occupants had paid it. And yet...
It was missing something.
The person that made it feel exactly like it should.
Stepping into the foyer, Greg turned to stare at the mirror that hung in front of the coat closet. An almost-unrecognizable face stared back at him, a shock of blond hair atop a face stained with grime, dirt and blood several layers deep. For a moment, Greg simply glared at his reflection, primal anger welling up in his chest with a scalding heat that made him want to scream, rage and cry. Instead, he shut his mouth tight, teeth clicking from the suddenness of his action, a current of exhaustion and embarrassment replacing all the anger he felt.
Angry for what? He asked the filthy figure in the mirror. Angry at yourself? You did the right thing, right? You saved people. You stopped bad guys. So what are you angry for? Greg stared bitterly at himself, the feelings of impotent fury giving way to bitter shame at his own selfishness in the face of everything else. Why does it feel so fu-
"G-Greg?"
He jumped back, head slamming against the front door as his jaw dropped in surprise. At the very same moment, he watched someone leap up from the living room almost as quickly, then freeze in place as they stared back at him.
Hope flared to life, but with it came fear – a deeper breed, and not one he could simply soldier on past. Unwilling to believe the illusion in front of him, Greg Veder crushed his eyelids as tightly as he could, keeping them closed as he let out several long, shuddering breaths, mouth forming silent words. He remained that way, struggling to breathe or form words, even as his ears still told him everything he knew to be a lie; his name repeated in that same, painfully familiar voice over and over, each time getting louder and making it harder for him to ignore it. Please, please, please…
Who was it, who would do something like this? Was there some villain lurking in his home, purposely trying to bring up the worst thing they could just to bring him down? Or had he simply lost it over the last few days as he had worried about for a while, and his mind was finally admitting it by showing him delusions he knew were impossible.
Make it stop!
He didn't move, though; unwilling to open his eyes or take so much as a single step as he tried to convince himself that he was still imagining all of this. The doorknob remained right behind him, yet his hands stayed ramrod still by his side.
This isn't real! It's all in my head...
Greg Veder didn't move an inch.
Not when he heard slow footsteps approach him, his name louder than ever.
Not when those footsteps became hurried and his name was shouted out loud in a voice that he could swear he knew better than even his own.
Not when familiar arms wrapped themselves around him, deep sobs sounding off right next to his ears.
"-s' okay, sweetheart. It's okay," that familiar voice spoke again. Greg barely heard anything amid the shuddering sobs and the sounds of open bawling. "Mommy's here. I'm never gonna leave you again. It's okay."
Against his will, he found himself tightly holding the figure that couldn't be real, sinking into the embrace of the illusion that he desperately wanted to be true. A hand patted his back, rubbing the spot behind his shoulders as deep sobs continued to sound through the confines of the house. The sensation of hot liquid trailing down his cheeks made him realize exactly where that crying sound was coming from, and his eyes stung with the burn of tears as he came to that realization. "It's okay, Greggie."
"M-" The word seemed stuck in his throat, choking on a sob and unable to get out. Breathing heavy and stilted, Greg Veder opened his eyes again with a monumental force of will, equal halves of him warring for and against the idea. Cascading blonde hair, longer than he remembered but otherwise the same, pressed up against his face as he sunk down into the hug. Her warm, beautiful face smiled sadly at him, and her brilliant eyes brimmed with happy tears.
"M~mom."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
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