The first thing I felt was pain.
Not the sharp, immediate kind that hits you like a freight train. No, this was deeper—a dull, throbbing ache that sank into my bones, my muscles, my everything. It was the kind of pain that didn't just hurt; it reminded you that you were still alive, whether you wanted to be or not.
My eyes snapped open, and the world swam into focus. Dirty. Broken. A cracked ceiling stared back at me, stained with watermarks and peeling paint. The air smelled like mildew and rust, heavy with the weight of neglect. I was lying on something hard—a mattress, maybe, though it felt more like a slab of concrete beneath a threadbare sheet.
Where the hell was I?
Instinct kicked in. I bolted upright, my hands flying to my stomach where the Behemoth's horn had torn through me like I was nothing. My fingers brushed against torn fabric and skin—raw, tender, but not bleeding. The wound was there, a jagged mess of flesh, but it was knitting itself together, slowly, painfully. The familiar hum of my Ring of Fortification pulsed faintly under my skin, working overtime to keep me in one piece.
A grunt came from behind me.
I didn't think. I reacted.
My body twisted, legs swinging off the bed—or whatever this was—as I dropped into a fighting stance, fists raised, heart pounding. The Behemoth fight was still fresh, burned into my nerves like a live wire. Every shadow felt like a threat, every sound a prelude to another attack.
But it wasn't the Behemoth.
It was Leomon.
He stood there, all eight feet of him, golden fur catching the dim light filtering through a shattered window. His massive arms were crossed, his wild mane framing a face that was all sharp edges and quiet intensity. Those piercing blue eyes locked onto me, steady and unreadable.
Relief hit me first—then the pain came roaring back.
"Gah—!" My hands shot to my stomach again as a wave of agony buckled my knees. I hit the floor hard, one hand braced against the filthy ground, the other clutching my gut like I could hold myself together. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one a reminder of how close I'd come to dying.
"Easy," Leomon rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the haze. He took a step forward, his heavy paw landing with a soft thud. "Your wounds haven't healed yet. That ring of yours is doing a damn good job, but it's probably the only thing that kept you alive."
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to look up at him. "Where… where are we?"
"Abandoned apartment," he said, gesturing vaguely at the room. "Found it near the fight site. Figured it was better than leaving you out in the open."
I nodded—or tried to. The motion made my head swim, and I pressed a hand to my temple, willing the dizziness to pass. The room was a wreck: busted furniture, a sink overflowing with grime, walls pockmarked with holes. A far cry from Marcus's place, but it was shelter. Barely.
I shifted my weight, wincing as another spike of pain lanced through me. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.
Inside, though, something felt… off. Looking at Leomon—tall, serious, radiating strength—it was hard to reconcile him with the small, playful Elecmon I'd known. The goofy little guy who'd zapped me for fun, who'd bounced around like a hyperactive kid. That Elecmon was gone, replaced by this towering warrior. It wasn't bad, just… strange. Like I'd lost something without realizing it.
Leomon's eyes narrowed slightly, studying me. "I'm fine," he said, his tone clipped. Then he stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "But are you? You nearly died out there, AJ. If it wasn't for the Digivice reacting to our bond—if I hadn't transformed—you'd be dead."
His words hit harder than the Behemoth's horns. There was no anger in them, not really—just a raw, heavy upset that made my chest tighten. He wasn't wrong. I'd been reckless, charging in like I was untouchable, like nothing could stop me. And I'd paid for it.
I forced myself to sit back against the edge of the mattress, my hands dropping to my lap. The pain was still there, gnawing at me, but it was the guilt that stung worse. Leomon was right—I should've been more cautious. The Behemoth wasn't some street thug I could punch out or a warehouse I could burn down. It was a force of nature, and I'd treated it like a punching bag.
My mind drifted back to the recent power upgrades. Fire God Slaying Magic. The ice variant I'd woven into it. They'd made me feel invincible—hell, they'd melted titanium and frozen a monster solid. I'd started thinking I could take on anything, that the dice rolls were just handing me wins without consequences. But that wasn't true.
And then there was his warning.
The god who'd reincarnated me into this world—he'd said it clear as day: "This power can help you, but it can also harm you." I'd brushed it off back then, too caught up in the thrill of it all—the armor, the flames, the chaos. I'd thought I could handle whatever came my way. But the Behemoth? That was a wake-up call. The dice didn't care about my confidence. They'd summoned that thing just as easily as they'd given me strength, and I'd almost died because I forgot that balance.
I looked down at my hands, still trembling slightly from the strain. "You're right," I muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I got complacent. Thought I was unstoppable. And it nearly got us both killed."
Leomon didn't respond right away. He just watched me, his expression softening a fraction. Then he let out a low grunt and sat down on the floor across from me, his massive frame making the room feel even smaller. "You're not invincible," he said simply. "None of us are. But you've got guts, partner. And that's something."
I managed a weak smirk despite the ache in my ribs. "Guts don't mean much if I'm dead."
"They do if they keep you fighting," he shot back, his voice steady. "You didn't give up out there. Even when that thing had you pinned, you kept going. That's why I'm here—why we're here."
I met his gaze, and for a moment, I saw it—that spark of the old Elecmon buried in those fierce blue eyes. The loyalty, the trust. It hadn't changed, even if his form had.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Guess we're stuck with each other now."
Leomon's lips twitched into a faint grin, showing a flash of those sharp canines. "Damn right we are."
I leaned my head back against the wall, letting the silence settle between us. The pain was still there, a constant reminder of how close I'd come to the edge. But so was Leomon—solid, real, and a hell of a lot stronger than I'd given him credit for.
I wasn't invincible. I'd been an idiot to think otherwise. But maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to be. Not as long as I had him watching my back.
Third person POV
The dim light in the abandoned apartment flickered as AJ leaned back against the wall, still catching his breath from their earlier heart-to-heart. Leomon, however, seemed to take the quiet as an invitation to strut his stuff. The towering beast-man straightened up, puffing out his broad chest until his golden fur practically gleamed with regal pride. He tossed his wild mane back with a dramatic flourish, his blue eyes glinting with a smugness that hadn't been there before.
"You see, partner," Leomon began, his voice booming with all the gravitas of a self-proclaimed lion king, "now that I've evolved into this magnificent form, you don't even need to fight anymore! Why risk your puny human hide when you've got me?" He smirked, crossing his massive arms. "Just do what all those other Digidestined weaklings do—hide behind me and let the King handle the battles!" To drive the point home, he reached down with one oversized paw and gave AJ's head a patronizing pat, nearly knocking him sideways. Then came the laugh—a deep, roaring guffaw that rattled the cracked windows and sent a puff of dust cascading from the ceiling.
AJ froze, his eye twitching like a live wire. The nerve of this guy! One evolution, and suddenly he thought he was Simba on steroids? "Oh, you think that's funny, huh?" AJ snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. He lunged forward, swinging a wild kick at Leomon's shin—only to have it bounce off like he'd attacked a brick wall. Undeterred, he followed up with a flailing punch, aiming for that smug face. Leomon didn't even flinch. With a lazy yawn, he extended one beefy arm, planting his palm on AJ's forehead and holding him at bay like an annoyed older brother dealing with a hyperactive kid. AJ's fists whiffed through the air, his legs kicking uselessly as Leomon chuckled. "Nice try, cub! Maybe stick to cheering from the sidelines next time!"
That did it. AJ's face flushed red, a mix of embarrassment and pure, unfiltered rage. "Oh, I'll show you sidelines, you overgrown housecat!" he snarled, fumbling in his pocket for his Digivice. His fingers closed around the glowing device, and with a wicked grin, he jabbed a button. "Let's see how you like this, Your Majesty!" A blinding flash erupted, swallowing Leomon in a swirl of golden light. His towering form shrank in an instant, the proud warrior replaced by a familiar, pint-sized figure. Elecmon blinked up from the floor, his red fur ruffled and his big ears drooping as he realized his predicament.
"Uh… oops?" Elecmon squeaked, his voice a far cry from Leomon's commanding rumble. AJ loomed over him, his shadow stretching across the tiny Digimon like a vengeful giant. Before Elecmon could bolt, AJ pounced, pinning him to the grimy floor with a triumphant cackle. "Gotcha, sparkplug!" he crowed, grabbing Elecmon's chubby cheeks and squishing them between his hands until the little creature's face looked like a squashed tomato. "Forgive me! Forgive meeee!" Elecmon wailed, flailing his stubby legs in a frantic dance of surrender. His pleas were muffled by AJ's relentless cheek-squashing, and a spark of static fizzled from his ears in protest—only to zap AJ's fingers, earning a yelp and a glare. "Oh, you wanna play dirty?" AJ growled, doubling down on the squishing as Elecmon's whines turned into a comical symphony of regret.
Tony's POV
The Atlantic stretched out below me like a big, wet welcome mat, glinting under the late-afternoon sun as I cut through the sky in the Mark LXXXV. I was somewhere between "too far from New York to care" and "close enough to smell the smog," cruising at a leisurely Mach 2 after a long day of playing galactic babysitter. Western Sahara had been a mess—rebels with their grubby hands on some scavenged alien tech. I'd been sipping espresso in Paris, charming some investors, when the call came in. "Hostile situation," they said. "Alien guns," they said. So, naturally, I suited up, jetted across the Mediterranean, and spent the last six hours dodging plasma bolts and lecturing sand-covered lunatics about why reverse-engineering extraterrestrial toys is a bad idea. The situation was diffused, the rebels were zip-tied, and I was ready to call it a day. All I wanted now was a shower, a burger, and maybe a solid eight hours of pretending the world didn't need me.
Then the HUD flickered, and P.L.A.T.O.'s crisp, British-accented voice piped up in my ear. "Sir, I'm detecting anomalous energy readings emanating from the vicinity of Mutant Town, New York."
I groaned, tilting my head back against the suit's cushioned interior. "You've got to be kidding me, P. I just clocked out. Shift's over. Donezo. I'm dreaming of a cheeseburger and a nap, not another crisis. Can't someone else punch the clock on this one?"
"Apologies, sir, but the readings are… unusual," P.L.A.T.O. replied, unfazed by my whining. "Would you like the details, or shall I queue up your relaxation playlist instead?"
"Fine, hit me," I sighed, flicking a wrist to pull up the data on my HUD. "What are we looking at? And please tell me it's not another wannabe dictator with a stolen Stark prototype."
"Negative, sir. The energy signature doesn't match any known technological profiles in our database," P.L.A.T.O. said, overlaying a jagged waveform across my visor. "It bears faint similarities to both mystical emissions—think Doctor Strange's hocus-pocus—and high-frequency radiation, but it's neither. This is an entirely new cocktail of weird."
I raised an eyebrow behind the faceplate. "Magic and radiation? That's new. Usually, it's one or the other—Strange waving his sparkly hands or some idiot cracking open a gamma reactor. Anything in the archives that even comes close?"
"Negative, sir," P.L.A.T.O. replied smoothly. "This is uncharted territory. No prior records match this signature."
"Fantastic," I muttered, tapping my fingers against the armrest controls. "So, what, we've got a radioactive wizard throwing a tantrum in M-Town? That place is already a dumpster fire without adding glow-in-the-dark chaos to the mix."
"Status update, sir," P.L.A.T.O. interjected. "I've also detected minor seismic activity in the same area—low magnitude, but consistent with a localized disturbance. Unfortunately, the infrastructure in Mutant Town is, shall we say, suboptimal. No functional cameras or sensors within a five-mile radius. We're flying blind unless you investigate."
I smirked despite myself. "Blind, huh? Guess it's a good thing I'm a genius. How long to get there?"
"At full thruster output, approximately fifteen minutes," P.L.A.T.O. calculated, the HUD flashing a flight path that curved sharply toward NYC.
"Alright, divert power to the thrusters," I said, leaning forward as the suit hummed with a surge of energy. The ocean blurred beneath me as I kicked into high gear, the G-forces pressing me back into the seat. "And while you're at it, ping Vision and Danvers. Tell them to meet me in the air over M-Town when I arrive. But—but—make it clear: no rushing in without me. I'm not in the mood for surprises today, and I'd rather not scrape them off the pavement if this turns out to be nastier than we think."
"Message dispatched, sir," P.L.A.T.O. confirmed. "Shall I prepare the suit's diagnostic suite for an energy analysis upon arrival?"
"Yeah, do that," I said, eyes narrowing as the coastline of New York crept into view on the horizon. "Let's see what kind of freak show we're walking into this time."
15 minutes later
Fifteen minutes later, I was hovering over Mutant Town, the suit's thrusters humming as I slowed to a stop. The skyline was a jagged mess of crumbling tenements and flickering neon—charming, if your definition of charm included tetanus and despair. Vision phased into view on my left, his crimson-and-green form shimmering like a ghost in the wind, while Carol Danvers blasted in on my right, her golden glow cutting through the dusk like a flare. The three of us hung there, a floating triangle of firepower, staring down at the mess P.L.A.T.O. had dragged me into.
"So, what's the situation, Stark?" Carol asked, crossing her arms mid-air. Her voice had that no-nonsense edge, like she was already itching to punch something. "You drag us out here for a mutant bar fight, or is this actually worth my time?"
"Patience, Danvers," I said, tipping my helmet toward her with a smirk she couldn't see. "Got an alert from P.L.A.T.O. about some funky energy readings spiking out of M-Town. Think magic meets radiation with a side of seismic hiccups. No footage, no witnesses—just a big fat question mark. Figured I'd call in the big guns before I stick my nose in it and regret it."
"Intriguing," Vision murmured, his synthetic voice calm as ever. "Shall we proceed?"
"Yeah, let's take a look," I said, dropping altitude. "P.L.A.T.O., keep the scanners hot. I want every wavelength, every particle—don't miss a thing."
We descended into the heart of the fight site—a deserted stretch of cracked pavement and half-collapsed buildings that looked like they'd been abandoned since the Nixon era. At first glance, it was quiet. Too quiet. No scorch marks, no debris, no signs of the chaos I'd expected. Just… normal. Except for the giant, dead thing sprawled across the street like a rejected movie prop.
"Holy hell," I muttered, hovering closer. The monster's corpse was massive—thirty feet of muscle and fury, frozen mid-roar. Half its body was charred black, the other half encased in jagged, icy tendrils that shimmered with an eerie blue flame. It was like someone had hit it with a blowtorch and a cryo-chamber at the same time. "P.L.A.T.O., scan it. Vision, you too. I need answers yesterday."
Vision floated forward, his eyes glowing as he swept the area with his own sensors. "The structural integrity of the surrounding environment appears… pristine," he said, tilting his head. "On closer inspection, the materials—concrete, steel, glass—exhibit properties consistent with recent formation. As if they were fabricated moments ago."
"Brand new?" I echoed, frowning behind the faceplate. "That's not creepy at all. What about Gigantor here?"
"Scanning now, sir," P.L.A.T.O. chimed in. Data streamed across my HUD—biological markers, energy signatures, the works. "The entity's physiology is extraordinary. Dense musculature, reinforced skeletal structure, and an internal energy output exceeding 1.2 terajoules. Its cellular composition suggests rapid adaptation—possibly evolutionary—mid-conflict."
"English, P," I said. "How tough was this thing?"
"Very," P.L.A.T.O. replied dryly. "Its energy reserves rival a small nuclear reactor. And the icy flames? A fusion of thermal and cryogenic properties—capable of both burning and freezing simultaneously."
Carol drifted closer, eyeing the corpse with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Let's see what this stuff feels like," she said, reaching out toward the flickering blue flames on the monster's side. Her fingers brushed it—and she yanked her hand back with a hiss. "Ow! Son of a—okay, that burns. How does ice burn?"
"Badly, apparently," I quipped, zooming in on her hand via the HUD. No visible damage—her Kree-enhanced skin could handle worse—but she was shaking it out like she'd touched a stovetop. "Guess it's not your standard freezer burn. Vision, theories?"
Vision hovered over the monster, his cape fluttering slightly. "The dual-state energy suggests a sophisticated manipulation of matter—perhaps a localized phenomenon tied to the readings you detected. As for its sudden appearance, it may have been summoned or spontaneously generated."
"Summoned?" Carol said, raising an eyebrow. "What, like a magic trick? Who's pulling rabbits this big out of a hat?"
"And why's the area spotless?" I added, gesturing at the suspiciously intact street. "This thing's torn to shreds—burned, frozen, gutted—but there's no collateral damage. No fight marks. It's like someone hit the reset button on everything except the monster. How does that even happen?"
"Perhaps a temporal anomaly," Vision suggested. "A reversal of entropy in a confined radius—"
"Nope," I cut him off, shaking my head. "Time travel's too messy, and Strange would've felt his wizard senses tingling if someone rewound the clock. Next."
"A reality manipulator, then," Vision tried again. "Someone with the ability to restore the environment post-conflict—"
"Still too convenient," I said. "We'd see residual energy, not a clean slate. And this thing—" I jabbed a finger at the monster—"didn't just wander into M-Town unnoticed. Radar, satellites, hell, even a traffic cam should've picked it up. So what fought it, and why's it a ghost town now?"
"Maybe it wasn't here long," Carol offered, folding her arms again. "Teleported in, got trashed, and someone cleaned up the mess before we showed. Fast response team?"
"With this kind of power?" I snorted. "That's not a team, that's a demigod with a broom. And no one's that good at hiding a brawl this size."
Before Vision could float another theory, a low rumble cut through the air. We turned as three armored SUVs rolled in, their matte-black paint stamped with the unmistakable SHIELD eagle. They screeched to a halt, kicking up dust that shouldn't have been there on a "brand-new" street. Doors slammed open, and agents in tactical gear spilled out, weapons at the ready but not aimed—yet.
"Great," I muttered, switching to external speakers. "The spooks are here. Guess the party's officially started."
AJ's POV
It'd been a few days since I dangled Councilman Everett over his own roof and tangoed with a Behemoth that nearly turned me into shish kebab. Time drags when you're patched up but not whole, so I was back at Marcus's place, pitching in at his repair shop when I wasn't too sore to grip a wrench. Marcus has a knack for fixing anything with an engine—cars, bikes, even the odd toaster—and I've been his extra set of hands, fiddling with spark plugs and dodging his rants about my knack for trouble. It's grunt work, but it keeps my mind off the bruises.
When I first limped back after the Behemoth fight, looking like I'd lost a cage match with a bulldozer, Marcus took one look at me and slapped his forehead so hard I thought he'd dent it. "What the hell, AJ?" he'd groaned, snagging a giant wrench from the shop bench. Then he was after me, chasing me around the garage like a pissed-off dad with a rolled-up newspaper—half-joking, half-ready to whack some sense into me. "I'm tired of you pulling this reckless crap! What'd you do this time?" I'd ducked behind a rusted Ford, grinning through the pain, and gave him the CliffsNotes: a monster popped up, I fought it, barely walked away. He'd squinted, skeptical. "How'd something that big just show up?" I shrugged it off. "Probably some mutant's power gone wild." He let it slide—good thing, too, 'cause I wasn't about to spill the dice-rolling truth. Not yet.
Since then, I'd been taking it easy. Hung out a couple times with Jazz, our mutual buddy who's as tight with Marcus as he is with me. Jazz fancies himself a rapper, and he'd dragged me to the shop's break room to play some of his tracks—gritty beats and rhymes about street life. He's got flow, I'll give him that, but he's a better drug dealer than he'll ever be an MC. Still, I'd kicked back with a soda, nodding along while he bragged about "blowing up." It was a nice break from the chaos, but it couldn't drown out the itch building in my chest. That restless hum from my power had been nagging me for days, begging to be let loose.
I'd been shoving it down. After the Behemoth? No thanks. I was scared I'd roll the dice and summon something worse—something I couldn't handle. Elecmon had nearly died saving my sorry ass, and I'd been too wrecked to do more than pass out. The power was starting to feel like a double-edged sword, sharp enough to carve up my enemies but just as likely to slit my own throat.
I paced my tiny room above Marcus's shop, boots scuffing the creaky floor. The walls felt tighter every day, boxing in my doubts. Every step twinged my still-healing gut—a souvenir from the Behemoth's horn—and I couldn't shake the guilt. Elecmon had put his life on the line because I'd been too cocky, too weak to finish the fight solo. What kind of partner lets that happen? I'd been waiting for Spider-Man to hit me back about the Kick warehouses—nothing yet—and the longer I sat still, the louder that power buzzed, like a storm trapped in my ribs.
I stopped, fists clenched. Enough. I couldn't keep pacing around, scared of my own shadow. This power was mine—part of me, for better or worse. I'd faced down Everett's corruption, torched Kick stashes, and beat a monster that should've flattened me. I wasn't some punk hiding from fate. Whatever came through those dice, good or bad, I'd deal with it. I'd have to.
I snatched my jacket, climbed out the window, and hauled myself onto the shop's roof. The night air was sharp, slicing through the haze of M-Town's distant noise. I stood there, staring at the jagged skyline, and sucked in a breath. The pressure in my chest flared, alive and impatient. Fine. Game on.
I shut my eyes, let the energy surge, and activated it. The sound of dice rolling clattered through my skull, loud and mocking, like the universe was daring me to blink. Whatever came next—blessing, curse, or another damn monster—I'd face it head-on. No more running.
16-13 – TYPE MOON - Clarent: Brilliantly Shining Royal Sword - Described as "more dazzling than any silver", it is an ornate, sparkling white silver sword adorned with splendid decorations, acting as a symbol of kingship denoting the right of succession of the throne. It will grant user a 50% boost in all stats, also it also has great cutting power, it can also protects the users soul, the owner of this sword can unleash its true attack the clarent blood arthur when they are determined or angry enough. The user can summon/dismiss clarent as per their liking.
A weight materialized in my hand—heavy, solid, alive. I looked down, and there it was: a sword. Not just any sword, either. The blade was long and sleek, silver gleaming under the moonlight, with a faint red hue pulsing along its edge like blood trapped in steel. The hilt was ornate but brutal, wrapped in dark leather that fit my grip like it'd been forged for me. Clarent. The name burned into my skull, along with what it could do. My body hummed as the power took hold—every muscle, every nerve felt sharper, stronger, like someone had cranked my stats up by half. Fifty percent more juice in every swing, every step. I flexed my arm, and it didn't just feel good—it felt right.
The sword wasn't just a beefed-up cutter, though. Its edge sang with a cutting power that could slice through damn near anything—steel, stone, maybe even the Behemoth's hide if I'd had it back then. I swung it experimentally, and the air parted with a low hiss, the blade leaving a faint shimmer in its wake. But there was more. A warmth pulsed from the hilt, wrapping around me like a shield—not my body, but something deeper. My soul. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't just here to fight; it was here to protect me, to keep the core of who I was intact no matter what came at me.
Then the kicker landed: Clarent Blood Arthur. The sword's true attack, a beast of red lightning that'd unleash hell when I was pissed off or dead-set on something. I could feel it simmering in the blade, waiting for me to tap into it—determination or rage, take your pick. It was like the sword knew me, knew the fire I carried, and was ready to turn it loose when I needed it most. I smirked, spinning the blade in my hand. Double-edged sword? Sure. But this one felt like it could cut both ways in my favor if I played it smart.
The only problem now was that I didn't know how to use a sword, right now in my arms it was just a piece of magical metal, and my current powerset of fire god slaying magic worked with my arms, this is a conundrum for later though as there was still a charge of my power waiting and it was refusing to go away so I dismissed Clarent and pulled the trigger and let it flow.
The sound of dice rolled once more.
6-20 – One Piece – Seimei Kikan - is a technique that grants the user complete control over all of their body parts and bodily functions, even parts that cannot normally be controlled like hair. The user can also control their involuntary functions, such as digestion. Due to a Nat 20 roll, its power is boosted and user can change their body however they like required they have the sufficient body mass.
Seimei Kikan was a technique from One Piece, the name flickered through my head—letting you control your body down to the smallest detail. Hair, muscles, digestion, even your freaking metabolism. Base level, it's freaky enough: speed up healing, shift your weight, make your hair a weapon if you're creative. But a I think I got a boosted version, juiced up beyond the norm. I could feel it rewriting me, fine-tuning every cell like I was a machine built for war. Healing kicked into overdrive—cuts and bruises fading in seconds, not hours. My senses sharpened to a razor's edge; I could hear a rat skittering two blocks away, smell the oil stains on Marcus's shop floor through the roof. Strength, stamina, reflexes—all dialed up.
I was still getting a feel for my new trickswhen a faint beep cut through the night. I blinked, glancing down at the Digivice clipped to my belt. The screen flickered to life, and my eyebrows shot up. A message. From Spider-Man. "Meet me at the old water tower off Flatbush Avenue," it read. "Come fast." Flatbush was a quiet stretch of Brooklyn, far enough from M-Town's chaos to stay off the radar—perfect for a low-key meet. My pulse kicked up a notch. After days of radio silence, this was it. I grinned and activated my Black Knife armor. The obsidian plates wove over me, light and tough, locking into place like a second skin.
I took off, leaping from Marcus's roof to the next, my boosted stats and Seimei Kikan's precision turning each jump into a damn near-perfect arc. Rooftops blurred beneath me—gravel crunching, wind whipping past—as I cut through the city. I was excited, no question. Spider-Man had to see it my way; Kick was a plague, and we could end it together. But a nagging voice in my head kept me grounded—he could still say no. He's got his own fires to put out, his own city to save. I'd pitch it hard, but I'd be ready if he bailed.
It didn't take long to reach the spot. The old water tower loomed ahead, a rusted relic perched on a squat, abandoned warehouse, hidden from the street by a tangle of overgrown lots. Spider-Man was already there, sitting on the roof's edge, feet dangling over the drop. His red-and-blue suit caught the faint glow of the city lights as he motioned me over with a casual wave. "Come sit," he said, voice muffled by the mask but warm enough. I dropped beside him, legs swinging, Clarent's weight a comforting thought in the back of my mind.
"Look at that," Spidey said, pointing at the New York skyline stretching out before us—towers of glass and steel glittering like a jagged crown. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yeah," I agreed, taking it in. The city sprawled wide and wild, a mess of beauty and grit. "She's something else."
"Every once in a while," he went on, leaning back on his hands, "I like to sit up here and just… clear my head. Too much going on down there, you know? Helps me think straight."
"That's nice," I said, nodding. "Decompressing's key when the world's throwing punches every five minutes." I paused, then cut to the chase. "So, what'd you think about what I said?"
Spider-Man tilted his head, mask lenses glinting as he looked at me. "Look, I'm usually swamped putting out fires—literally and figuratively. But this Kick epidemic? It's bad, man. I've seen the reports you gave me, and I'm not the type to let something like this fester any longer. Wiping it out takes priority."
I kept my face neutral, but inside? Hell yeah, I was pumped. He was in. "Glad you see it that way," I said, keeping my cool. "What's the plan?"
"First, we've gotta play it smart," he said, shifting to a crouch. "I've scoped out the club—The Blue Orchid—and the Golden Shine Laundromat from the outside. They look normal, like, suspiciously normal. We need to go undercover, poke around inside, see what's really ticking. And like I told you last time, I know some guys. Called in a favor—they should be here any minute."
I opened my mouth to ask who, but a voice cut me off from behind—gruff, dry, and laced with a smirk. "Not like you to ask for help, Spidey. You usually swing solo. What's got you all hot and bothered? And who's the new kid?"
I spun around, and there they were: two figures stepping out of the shadows. The first was all red leather and horns—Daredevil, no mistaking that getup. The second rocked a green-and-yellow suit, a dragon tattoo glowing faintly on his chest—Iron Fist. They stood there, sizing me up, and I felt the weight of their stares even through my armor. Spider-Man had called in the heavy hitters. This just got a lot more interesting.