The city hums under a twilight sky, restless and daring, as if it's been holding its breath for centuries and is finally ready to exhale. That electric tension rolls through my veins—a heady mix of fear and curiosity—pulling me toward the one place I swore I'd never set foot in again. And yet, here I am, standing at the foot of the Sears Tower—this towering "Black Pillar"—with a crumpled note and a stray baseball in my pocket, my head pounding with questions.
This is it. No more running, I tell myself, though a bitter, sarcastic whisper chimes in, What if you screw it all up again?
Yesterday, I spent hours convincing myself I wasn't going to follow through on that cryptic message:
Come to the 107th floor of the Black Pillar. Be one with your powers.
It sounded like a trap straight out of a bad B-movie. Yet, after the disaster at the baseball game—when a stray ball nearly knocked some sense into me, only to reappear in my pocket along with that damn note—I realized I couldn't ignore it any longer. Maybe these A.E.R.Z. folks could help me figure out why I freeze time one minute and lose my shit the next. Maybe they'd get me killed. Either way, I'm out of safer options.
Risk it, Ignis. You've got nothing left to lose, one inner voice urges harshly, while another, more reflective tone murmurs, But what if it all falls apart?
I've been running—running from the voice in my head, from my own mistakes, and from the looming shadow of failure. Now, I'm finally taking a stand. I trudge up the narrow, graffiti-lined staircase that leads to the building's exit, the gritty aroma of downtown Chicago punching me in the gut. Amid the distant roar of a Camaro engine echoing off nearby walls, I catch a fleeting reminder that I've managed to stay ahead of Mickey—if only for a moment.
At least you're ahead for now... but for how long? I wonder, steeling myself as I push on.
Stepping onto Adams Street, I pause. Before me rises the massive structure—an obsidian spike hammered into the skyline, its imposing silhouette slicing through the fading light. My heart pounds in sync with that towering presence, and I swallow hard as I push forward.
This building is the gateway. Once you're inside, there's no turning back, I remind myself, even as a tremor of doubt slips through.
With one final deep, resolute breath, I slip through the revolving doors. The lobby unfolds like a scene from another world: blasts of chilled air slap me, fluorescent lights glare off pristine marble surfaces, and the distant murmur of security guards' whistles forms a low, steady backdrop. Every surface gleams as though untouched by time or human error.
I mutter under my breath,
"Oh, great… all this pristine elegance, soon to be ruined by my own sludge and waste."
A sneering inner thought snaps, You don't belong here anyway, while a quieter voice counters, Get it together. This is your shot.
I edge toward the security desk, half-expecting a guard to bark orders. Instead, no one stops me. I press the elevator button with trembling fingers and watch as the Edison bulbs light up like indifferent beacons. And suddenly, DING.
No turning back now, I think, though a timid whisper inside warns, Maybe you should run…
The elevator doors part with a quiet hiss—surprisingly undisturbed by any guard's reprimand. I tense up, shivering as I step inside. My stomach clenches while the doors linger open, awaiting the usual suited professionals.
I press 107—a floor clearly not meant for random tourists—and the keypad accepts me without protest. As the elevator slides closed, it begins its smooth ascent, whisking me past a hundred floors in mere seconds. My ears pop, and I grip the rail tightly, determined not to dwell on that ever-taunting voice. It's oddly quiet now, almost as if it's watching, waiting to see if I'll chicken out.
I'm not bailing. Not this time, I assert, even as a small, anxious part whispers, But what if you're in over your head?
I take another steadying breath. As the elevator ascends, I find myself reflecting on the journey ahead—each floor a step closer to the confrontation I've both dreaded and needed. The quiet hum of the lift mingles with my racing thoughts, preparing me for the chaos waiting on the other side.
The elevator doors slide open with a damn finality, and I'm violently yanked from my reverie into utter chaos. The observation deck isn't a serene, panoramic haven—it's a goddamn madhouse. Shouting teenagers, half drunk on adrenaline and cheap cologne, cram the space like rabid animals.
Deep-dish pizza slices, smeared with grease and cooled to an unappetizing temperature, lie scattered on a glass table. Flickering monitors cast erratic, distorted light over the room, while a battered boombox spits out a warped grunge track that makes the very air vibrate with raw, unfiltered anger.
Before I can register a thought, a girl with wild, unruly curls storms forward, her eyes blazing with defiant fury. "So, you're the one they sent?" she barks, slicing through the cacophony like a switchblade. There's no polite introduction—just a hard, cold challenge thrown directly in my face.
Great, they already know who I am, I think bitterly, as one inner voice growls, You were always the outsider anyway.
From the corner, a jittery kid in a threadbare hoodie—his leg bouncing uncontrollably like a busted metronome—sneers, "Newbie, what the fuck are you doing on our turf?" His tone drips with mockery and menace, daring me to spill my guts.
I swallow hard, feeling the crumpled note and stray baseball in my pocket like icy anchors. "I got a fucking note," I spit, my voice raw with anger and fear. "It said, 'Come to the 107th floor of the Black Pillar. Be one with your powers.' I'm Ignis—from Parker Springs."
Each word tumbles out, desperate and defiant, as if admitting my origins might somehow ease the sting of being an outsider.
Parker Springs… at least you know where you come from, one inner voice concedes, while another sneers, But they already see you as nothing.
A murmur of disbelief ripples through the crowd. A tall, stoic kid leans against a graffiti-tagged wall, eyebrows arching in silent, icy sarcasm as he echoes, "Parker Springs?" His tone is low, heavy with contempt—as if he can't fathom someone from a backwater daring to step into our territory.
The room's energy is electric and volatile. Overhead, harsh fluorescent lights flicker in time with our rising tension—each stutter a visual heartbeat of anger. A girl with sparks dancing around her fingertips steps forward, her voice low and venomous: "We're not here to give out welcome hugs, alright? We're dealing with serious shit here—glitches, power surges, a meltdown we call Division 0. And if you're here, you're either in the game or you're just dead weight."
Dead weight? Fine. Prove me wrong, I think, clenching the baseball tighter.
Every single eye in that overcrowded room is pinned on me, loaded with judgment and unspoken questions. A guy with dark, unreadable eyes mutters, "Let's see if you can actually handle yourself, or if you're just another fucking screw-up." His words hit like a gut punch, igniting conflicting thoughts—one voice roars, You can do this! while another whispers, Maybe you're really as broken as they say…
Then, as if on cue, the elevator's chime rings out—a single, resonant ding that slices through the clamor with brutal clarity. For a long, agonizing second, everything stutters. The boombox's distorted roar fades to a ghostly hum; the yelling and jeering slow as if time itself hesitates. That one damn ding acts like a trigger—a suspended moment where every chaotic detail hangs, trembling in the heavy, charged air.
This is it. No more running, I think, though a timid inner voice warns, What if you can't handle it?
In that prolonged silence, every eye locks onto me. I can taste the raw mix of sweat, anger, and fear thick in the air. The fluorescent lights, now steady, cast long, harsh shadows, and even the stale aroma of pizza grease and cheap aftershave seems to hold its breath.
I take a deep, steadying breath, my heart thundering like a war drum. "Look," I say, my voice low and laden with defiant determination, "I don't have all the fucking answers. But I'm not here to back the fuck out." I let my gaze sweep the room, meeting fierce stares and knowing eyes alike. "I'm here to figure out why I can freeze time one minute and lose control the next. So either you help me out, or let me figure this shit out with you."
I must be strong—this is your shot, one voice urges forcefully, while another mumbles, But what if you fail again?
For a painfully long second, the room hangs in weighted silence, charged with unspoken decisions and raw adrenaline. Slowly, grudging nods ripple through the group—nervous, half-wary gestures of acceptance. Muted murmurs mix with a few sharp expletives, and even that stoic kid with the ice-cold gaze offers a slight nod. It isn't a cheer, but it's enough to signal I've earned my spot in this twisted circle of misfits.
There's no turning back now, I convince myself, even as a small, anxious thought lingers.
And as I stand there, the echoes of that single, damn definitive ding still resonating in the silence, I know the real reckoning is just beginning. I'm about to dive headfirst into a world where every second might be my last—and where, if I'm lucky, I might finally unlock the power that's been both my curse and my salvation.
Then—a chime, not from the elevator or any machine, but a final, resonant ding that slices through the lingering silence. I turn my head sharply, my gaze locking onto a figure entering through the doorway. His presence, unmistakable and commanding, shifts the entire atmosphere. It isn't my words that have quieted this madhouse; it's the sudden arrival of someone who clearly runs this show.
In that moment, the chaos collapses into an eerie, heavy pause. The shouting, the clattering of pizza boxes, even the distorted beat of the boombox all die away as if time itself hesitated. Every eye in the room—each one brimming with anger, suspicion, and raw tension—fixates on this newcomer. The air thickens, charged with an unspoken promise and the weight of impending action.
This is the pivot—everything changes now, one part of me thinks, while another stammers, Please, don't let this be the end.
The hush isn't born from my defiant declaration; it's the palpable effect of his entrance. That final ding acts as a signal—a turning point that resets the frantic rhythm of our world. In that suspended moment, the room seems to realign: the raw, unpredictable energy of our ragtag crew momentarily unifies, poised for whatever comes next.
For a long, agonizing second, the fluorescent lights cast long, sharp shadows across our faces, and the murmurs of disbelief fade into a collective, anticipatory silence. Then, breaking the silence with a low, measured tone that carries grudging respect and warmth, one of the crew—her usual whispers hardened to a scream—utters, "Damn, Mero, even with that car and powers you can't arrive on time? This ain't rush hour, and it looks like this is your lane to turn." Her voice slices through the heavy quiet; her wild curls bounce with every word, and despite the rough edge in her tone, there's genuine respect in her greeting.
In that charged pause, as every gaze remains fixed on the newcomer, I realize that all the anger, the curses, and the raw adrenaline were building toward this pivot. The silence speaks volumes: we're no longer a scattered bunch of misfits; we're a collective on the brink of confronting the madness of Division 0.
Mero nods slightly, "Echo, how did you greet my guest?" His gaze sweeps over us before settling on me. "I sent you in, Ignis," he states, voice low and steady, "because you've got that fire—even if it sometimes burns out of control. We can't afford half-assed power when Division 0's coming."
His eyes, as cool and unyielding as ever, meet mine in a moment that stretches into unspoken understanding.
A jittery voice cuts in from the edge—shifting from one foot to the other, sneers, "Yeah, well, if you think some newbie from Parker Springs is gonna help us sort this shit, you've got another thing coming." He glances at me with a mix of skepticism and a hint of curiosity, his threadbare hoodie barely containing his restless energy.
Echo fires back sharply, "Shut your yap, Fizz. We didn't send her here by accident."
She fixes me with a challenging glare. "What do you have to say for yourself, Ignis? Parker Springs isn't exactly known for its superhero training camps."
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of the crumpled note and stray baseball pressing down like a verdict. "I—I got the note," I stammer, my voice thick with anger and uncertainty. "I'm here because I need answers. Am I time traveling or something else?"
My words hang in the air, raw and exposed. Before anyone can reply, a quiet voice emerges from the shadows—the silent observer finally speaks. "We're not here to coddle a lost kid," he says, tone flat but heavy with unspoken truths. "We're here because the city is breaking, and if you can't keep up, you're just dead weight."
His gaze is icy, and even Fizz falls silent at his words. Mero nods without hesitation, "Hallow, that's frigid. But please don't make the room colder than it is."
With sparks dancing around her fingertips, another girl crosses her arms and steps forward. "Division 0 isn't some random glitch, Ignis," she declares, voice laced with controlled fury. "It's a meltdown—the culmination of everything this city's been ignoring. You're either ready to fight that, or you're going to get in the way." Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes me, searching for a weakness.
I feel the pressure build, my pulse quickening as my thoughts flicker between defiance and doubt. "Thank you, Meghan."
Mero nods again, his calm cutting through the tension. The room begins to coalesce, but the introductions aren't over yet. Slowly, the remaining crew makes their presence known.
A person hovering near the back, fiddling with the hem of their shirt as if trying to hide nerves, clears their throat and approaches. "I'm Loren," they say, voice barely above a whisper. "Or… you can call me Ren." Their tentative admission earns murmurs of acknowledgment. "And I too am still… figuring out what I do. But I'm with you."
Fizz and Hallow, almost in unison yet clashing—Hallow with a relaxed, "I'd like to see that chemistry" vibe, and Fizz with a sharp punchline that falls flat—mutter, "Once you actually REN—DER. Maybe this newbie will be more useful than you!"
Before Mero can quiet Fizz, a laid-back water guy with a shark-like smile from a window seat leans forward and adds, "I keep things flowing—no BULLSHIT, unlike from Fizzle Ditzel. And if our flow stops—so does everything else." He winks at Mero and me, his easy confidence cutting through the tension.
Across the room, another kid, barely visible and lost in thought as a small object hovers around her hand by some unspoken telekinetic pull, murmurs, "I'm Gray. I move things with my mind… when I'm not too busy overthinking it." Her soft tone carries the weight of hard-won experience.
Leaning casually against a table littered with half-eaten pizza and crumpled notes, a boy in dark attire—possibly in charge of the music—smirks as he chimes in, "And I'm Jinx—wherever I go, shit goes sideways. But hey, that's what makes it interesting, right?" He throws up devil horns and sticks out his tongue, his tone both mocking and oddly welcoming.
Finally, a grease-stained figure steps up from behind a cluttered counter. "Patch here! I fix what's broken," he states in a low, matter-of-fact drawl. "And right now, this whole place is on the brink of shattering. So, you better learn to handle your shit, kid." His blunt words carry the weight of hard lessons learned.
The room, now alive with a chorus of voices and attitudes, pulses with raw anger, fierce determination, and the uneasy camaraderie of a group bound by chaos. Mero's steady presence ties us together—his calm, measured tone cutting through our bitter disagreements like a lighthouse in a storm.
"Listen up, everyone," Mero says, his voice resonating with authority. "Division 0 isn't just some random glitch. It's the fallout of everything we've ignored—our failures, our recklessness. This city is on the verge of tearing itself apart, and if we don't act now, there'll be no fixing it."
He glances at each of us before fixing his eyes on mine with a look that's equal parts challenge and encouragement. "Ignis, I sent you in because I believe you've got something raw and powerful within you. But raw power without control is a disaster waiting to happen. We need you to stand with us, to learn to control that power before it controls you."
A low murmur of agreement runs through the group, punctuated by a few sharp expletives.
Echo's hardened expression softens just a bit, and even Fizz's jittery energy seems to calm. The earlier chaos—insults and clashing voices—dissolves into a silent promise that we're about to face something enormous together. Mero turns to the monitor on the wall, where jagged lines and erratic data display the city's unstable energy—a digital heartbeat of impending catastrophe. "Look at this," he says quietly, pointing to the surging graphs. "This isn't just electrical interference—it's a sign. The glitches, the power surges, the strange time lapses… they're all symptoms of something big. Something that could rip this city apart if we don't get our act together. So what the shit are we to do, team?"
The tension shifts. The fierce energy of moments before is replaced by a focused, dangerous urgency. Each of us feels the weight of the crisis—and the promise that, despite our individual brokenness, we might just pull this together. I take a deep breath, adrenaline still pulsing in my veins. "I don't have all the fucking answers," I say, voice low and steady, "but I'm not here to run anymore. I'm here to figure out why I'm cursed with this power—and how to control it before it fucks me up for good."
My words, raw and unpolished, hang in the air like a declaration of intent, while my mind battles between defiance and fear—I must fight, but what if I'm not strong enough? A thicker silence falls, heavy with unspoken resolve. Then Echo breaks it with a low, gruff smile: "Damn, Mero, good to have you back. We've been waiting on you, and it looks like the tide's about to turn."
Her words, rough as gravel, ease the tension just enough for us to acknowledge we're in this together.
As reluctant agreement murmurs through the crew—each of us a fractured piece of this twisted puzzle—the monitor flickers with ominous data, and the collective heartbeat of our makeshift family grows louder. We're no longer just scattered misfits; we're a force, however fragile, united by the looming threat of Division 0. Mero's gaze returns to me, steady and unyielding. "Ignis, remember this: You're not alone in this fight. We all have our demons, our failures, our own fucked-up pasts. But together, maybe we can stop this shit from tearing our city apart."
His words echo in my mind, merging with the relentless pulse of the city outside—a reminder that the reckoning has truly begun. And as I stand there, every character's presence—Echo's fierce determination, Fizz's jittery resolve, Hollow's silent judgment, Meghan's electric fury, Loren's tentative hope, Finn's cool assurance, Gray's mysterious calm, Jinx's devilish humor, and Patch's gritty pragmatism—forms a tapestry of chaos and possibility.
In that moment, with Mero's steady voice anchoring us all, I know we're no longer just a scattered bunch of lost souls. We're the last line of defense against a storm that threatens to shatter this damn city.
The reckoning has begun, and we're about to face it head-on.
The meeting's clamor finally ebbs into a heavy, almost sacred quiet. We're herded into a cramped conference room off a side corridor of the Black Pillar. One entire wall is dominated by a vast window framing the Chicago skyline—a shifting mosaic of neon bursts and deep indigo night. Outside, the city seems to breathe slowly, as if gathering itself for something monumental. I linger near the window, my eyes tracing the glittering outlines of skyscrapers and the faint glow of streetlights below, caught between longing for something bigger and the cold sting of old scars.
In the glass, I catch a glimpse of Mero standing beside me—a steady, unwavering presence whose eyes reflect a mix of battle-hardened wisdom and quiet determination. For a long, suspended moment, I study his reflection. In his steady gaze, I sense the promise of protection and the burden of responsibility.
"Are we really the heirs to this forsaken city?" I wonder silently mouthing each syllable. "Is it a place that barely notices us, or one that hides us away like a dirty secret?"
A harsh inner voice snarls, You're just another misfit, Ignis. They'll never give a damn about you. Yet, a gentler echo murmurs, Maybe you belong here because no one else ever did.
I lean against the cold metal table at the center of the room, its sticky surface a testament to countless secret meetings. Around me, low voices murmur—a tangled mix of cocky city kids and quietly determined suburban misfits sharing ideas, hopes, and regrets. I absorb snippets of conversation: a group of city kids passionately arguing over reclaiming forgotten neighborhoods, while a cluster of suburban misfits quietly outlines plans to revive long-abandoned blocks. The energy is raw and uncertain—a fragile alliance of ambition and pain.
Mero steps up beside me, moving with the calm assurance of someone who's weathered storms. He leans casually against the window frame, and his eyes catch the city's shimmer, reflecting a quiet intensity. "It's not what you think," he murmurs in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, as if imparting a secret meant only for the two of us. His words are gentle, yet they carry an undeniable command.
I force a bitter laugh. "It never is. City kids act like they've got it all figured out, but back in Parker Springs, we're just waiting for something—anything—to change."
Inside, my conflicting thoughts clash. One voice bellows, Stand up and fight for something real! while another, laden with old wounds, whispers, You're too broken to ever belong here.
Mero's gaze softens my defiant sneer. "We're not here just to talk about what's broken," he says, stepping closer so that his presence almost drowns out the low murmur of the room. "We're here to fix it. This city—it's been bleeding neglect for too long. We are the heirs, not by birth, but by our struggles. Every one of us matters, Ignis."
His hand rests briefly on my shoulder—a touch that's both firm and tender. For a moment, I close my eyes, feeling that touch anchor me amid the turbulent echoes of my past.
Around us, the room's energy shifts. Conversations blend into a new cadence—a mixture of defiant retorts and tentative promises. I lean on the table again, feeling its cold reality, and catch my reflection in a dusty mirror mounted on the wall. I see a face haunted by endless running and crushing failures, yet flickers of defiant fire remain in my eyes.
Maybe… just maybe, I can be more than this, I think, as memories of Parker Springs—every painful fall, every moment of rejection—whirl through my mind. One inner voice roars, Fight, Ignis! Now is your moment! while another murmurs, Be careful—you're already so fragile.
A sudden surge of energy stirs within me—a dangerous, almost familiar force threatening to spill over. For a split second, my vision blurs and time itself seems to hesitate. I clench my fists, pressing my palms against the table's cool surface, battling to rein in the wild current of power.
"Channel it, don't let it control you," I whisper fiercely to myself, as conflicting thoughts tangle inside my head.
Mero's voice cuts through my internal storm. "We're not asking you to change who you are," he says softly, his tone steady and reassuring. "We're asking you to fight with us. To stand together against what's coming." His words wrap around me, blending with the hum of the city outside, and I see in his eyes the raw determination of someone who carries the weight of this broken world.
I take a long, steadying breath, then speak in a low, defiant tone, "Alright, I'll play along. But if this turns into some rich-kid victory parade, I'm out. I didn't come here to kiss Chicago's ass."
The words feel like both a challenge and a confession—bitter, raw, and laced with vulnerability. Mero's eyes soften further, and he gives me a firm nod. "You're one of us now, Ignis. Not because you're perfect, but because you're real. We're all scars and stories here."
I turn back toward the window. The skyline shimmers—a chaotic dance of ambition, isolation, and faint hope. The reflections of towering high-rises and bustling streets blend with my own tired face. For a moment, I let the city's pulse seep into me, and with a dry, defiant chuckle I murmur, "At least if I fall, I'll splatter like a pizza—better than pretending I fit into some high-rise, heir-to-the-throne fantasy."
Inside, one voice laughs with me while another mourns the endless ache of not belonging.
The room falls into a thoughtful silence as I stand there, absorbing the weight of our shared future. Mero glances around, his eyes scanning the crew—a mixture of confident city kids and resilient suburban misfits—and then turns back to me. "Listen, Ignis," he says, voice low and clear, "what happens next isn't set in stone. Your power can be our greatest asset or our worst curse. We need you to help us shape this future. But know this: if you lose control, everything we've built will crumble."
His words hang in the air like a fragile promise—and a dire warning.
I look at the faces around me: there's defiance in their eyes, a willingness to take a risk on a future that might never come. I feel the pulse of possibility mixed with terror, the weight of every misstep and every hopeful dream. I turn back to the window for one last look—the city outside, a living, breathing battlefield of light and darkness, mirroring the struggle within me.
The meeting is over, but the tension lingers like a tangible force. I step away from the window, letting the cool metal of the table anchor me once more. The room's murmurs swell into a low, unified hum, and I feel my resolve harden. My inner voices settle into a fragile truce: one part of me dares to believe in change, while the other clings to the fear of inevitable collapse.
Slowly, I push myself off the table and walk toward the door. Every step echoes in the silence, a promise that this is not the end, but the beginning of something raw and uncertain. I know that with every step I take into this uncertain future, my fate—and that of our makeshift family—hangs in the balance.
I pause at the doorway, glancing back at the room, at the faces that now seem less like strangers and more like a ragged family bound by a shared purpose. The air crackles with the intensity of unspoken plans and dangerous possibilities. I take one final, deep breath, my eyes reflecting a mix of defiance and cautious hope.
"Let's figure this out," I murmur to myself, not as a command but as a promise—a promise to myself, to Mero, and to all of us. With that, I step into the unpredictable chaos of a future we must shape together.