Ten years since that day in the hospital. A decade of service, of sacrifice, of becoming the hero I was always meant to be.

The man I am today would be unrecognizable to the scrawny, weak-willed boy who collapsed on that training field. That boy is dead and buried, his inadequacies burned away in the crucible of my Activation.

I'm standing at attention under a sky that can't decide if it wants to rain or not. The air is thick with humidity, heavy with the scent of freshly turned earth and the acrid tang of gunpowder from the twenty-one-gun salute.

My father's casket gleams dully in the watery sunlight, draped in the American flag he loved more than anything. More than me, certainly. More than my mother, who isn't even here today. She couldn't bear to come, she said. Couldn't face the memories, the pain, the loss.

Bullshit. She just didn't want to deal with the old bastard one last time.

I can't really blame her.

The chaplain drones on about duty and sacrifice, about a life well-lived in service to God and country. I let the words wash over me, meaningless platitudes that don't begin to capture the complicated, bitter reality of Richard Johnson Sr.'s legacy.

My eyes scan the assembled crowd. Rows of somber faces, most of them strangers to me. Old war buddies, fellow veterans, neighbors who probably never knew the man beyond his carefully cultivated public persona. The perfect soldier, the devoted father, the pillar of the community.

What a crock of shit.

Natalie catches my eye from where she stands a few paces back, her face a mask of respectful grief. She's good at this, at playing the part of the supportive partner, the grieving almost-daughter-in-law. It's why I brought her today, why I keep her around at all. She understands the importance of appearances, of maintaining the façade.

Sean's there too, his massive bulk barely contained by the straining fabric of his dress uniform. But he's got my back, always has, ever since that day in the gym when he tried to out-bench me and nearly herniated a disc for his trouble.

The chaplain's finished now, and it's my turn to speak. I stand, straightening my already impeccable uniform, and make my way to the podium. My footsteps are measured, deliberate, every movement carefully calculated to project strength and composure.

I clear my throat, looking out over the sea of expectant faces. They're all waiting for the tearful eulogy, the heartfelt tribute to a great man gone too soon.

They're going to be disappointed.

"My father," I begin, my voice steady and clear, "was a man who believed in duty above all else. Duty to his country, to his fellow soldiers, to his family."

A murmur of approval ripples through the crowd. So far, so good.

"He pushed me to be the best version of myself, to strive for excellence in everything I did. He taught me the value of discipline, of sacrifice, of putting the needs of others before my own."

I pause, letting the words sink in. Let them hear what they want to hear, see what they want to see.

"Without his guidance, his… constant pressure," I continue, choosing my words carefully, "I wouldn't be the man I am today. The soldier. The hero."

My mind flashes back to those endless nights of studying, of push-ups and sit-ups until my muscles screamed, of being told over and over that I wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't worthy of the Johnson name.

"He shaped me," I say, my tone neutral but my eyes hard as flint. "Molded me into the Patriot you see before you. And for that, I should be grateful."

The subtext is there for anyone who cares to listen, to really hear what I'm saying. But from the nodding heads and misty eyes I see before me, I doubt many are picking up on it.

"My father pushed me to my limits," I continue, a humorless smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "And beyond them. He drove me to the brink of death itself, and in doing so, gave me the greatest gift a man could ask for."

Power. Strength. The ability to be more than just another faceless grunt, another cog in the great military machine.

"So today, as we lay him to rest, I want to thank him. For making me who I am. For showing me what true strength looks like. And for teaching me that sometimes, the only way to truly live up to your potential is to be willing to die for it."

I step back from the podium, my piece said. The crowd applauds politely, a few of the older veterans nodding in solemn agreement. They think they understand, think they know exactly what kind of man Richard Johnson Sr. was.

I take my seat again, my back ramrod straight, my face an expressionless mask. The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of ritual and tradition. The flag is folded with crisp precision, handed to me with solemn gravity. The casket is lowered into the ground, each shovelful of earth landing with a dull thud that echoes in the hollow pit of my stomach.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

And through it all, I don't shed a single tear. Because men don't cry. Soldiers don't cry. And heroes, well… heroes sure as hell don't cry, not for bastards like him.

As the last of the mourners file past, offering their condolences and platitudes, I feel something shift inside me. Something cold and hard and unyielding, like a fist clenching around my heart.

My father is gone. The last tie to my old life, my old self, severed and buried six feet under. And with him goes any lingering doubt, any last shred of weakness or hesitation.

I am Patriot now, fully and completely. A symbol of strength, of justice, of the American way. And I will do whatever it takes to protect that ideal, to keep my country safe from threats both foreign and domestic.

No matter the cost.

The cemetery is empty now, save for Natalie and Sean flanking me on either side. They know better than to offer comfort or sympathy. They're soldiers, like me. They understand.

"What now, boss?" Sean rumbles, his voice low and gravelly.

I stare at the fresh mound of earth, at the temporary marker bearing my father's name and rank. In a few weeks, it will be replaced by a proper headstone, another cookie-cutter tribute to a fallen hero.

"Now," I say, my voice hard with resolve, "we get back to work. The city needs us. The country needs us."

I turn on my heel, striding away from the grave without a backward glance. Natalie and Sean fall into step behind me, a well-oiled machine, a team forged in the crucible of countless smashed purse-snatchers and shared purpose.

We have a job to do, a mission to complete. And nothing, not even the ghost of my father and all he represented, will stand in our way.

As we reach the car, I pause, my hand on the door handle. For just a moment, I allow myself to feel the weight of it all. The expectations, the responsibility, the crushing burden of being the hero everyone needs me to be.

Then I push it down, lock it away in that cold, dark place where all my doubts and fears go to die. I am Patriot. I am strength incarnate, justice made flesh.

And I will not fail.

I slide into the driver's seat, Natalie and Sean taking their usual positions. The engine roars to life, a comforting growl of power and purpose.

"Where to?" Natalie asks, her voice carefully neutral.

I consider for a moment, then nod to myself. "The gym," I decide. "I need to hit something."

Sean grins, a feral flash of teeth in the rearview mirror. "Aw yeah, chief. Let's work out some of that aggression."

I don't bother to correct him, to explain that it's not aggression I'm feeling. It's something colder, harder, more focused than mere anger.

It's purpose. Resolve. The iron-clad certainty that I am exactly where I need to be, doing exactly what I was born to do.

As we pull away from the cemetery, leaving behind the last remnants of Richard Johnson Jr., I feel a sense of grim satisfaction settle over me like a second skin.

----------------------------------------

NSRA Power Assessment

Date: September 13th, 2007

Subject: Richard Johnson

Age: 20

Activation Event: Total organ failure during military training

Power Classification:

1. Enhanced Physiology: Johnson exhibits peak human condition across all physical parameters. This includes but is not limited to:

* Strength: Able to lift approximately 600 lbs (272 kg)

* Speed: 100m dash in approximately 9.6 seconds

* Agility: Exceptional balance and coordination

* Endurance: Can maintain peak exertion for extended periods, with a recorded dead arm hang of 90 minutes 17 seconds.

* Reflexes: Reaction times approaching theoretical human limits

2. Accelerated Healing: Johnson demonstrates rapid recovery from physical exertion and minor injuries. This is not a true healing factor but rather an optimization of natural human healing processes.

3. Enhanced Sensory Processing: Subject shows superior sensory intake and spatial awareness, contributing to exceptional physical control and coordination.

4. Optimal Metabolic Efficiency: Johnson's body processes nutrients with maximum efficiency, maintaining peak physical condition with minimal effort.

Control Rating: 7/10

Johnson shows good control over his abilities, likely due to his military training background. Further refinement is expected with time and practice.

Threat Assessment:

Low to Moderate

While Johnson's abilities make him a formidable individual, his military background and apparent patriotic inclinations suggest a low likelihood of becoming a threat to public safety.

Recommendations:

1. Regular monitoring to track potential power growth or changes

2. Consider recruitment for government-sanctioned superhuman programs

3. Provide guidance on legal and ethical use of abilities in civilian life

Assessment Officer: Dr. Emily Brule

Supervising Agent: Special Agent Marcus Tanner