Grief 7.11
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
He adjusted his grip on the discarded train axle, gloved fingers straining against the cold, greasy metal. The thing weighed a ton—literally—and his arms trembled as he forced it upward, breath coming in short, sharp bursts behind his mask.
"Thirteen..."
The axle wobbled slightly as he pushed again, his muscles screaming in protest.
"...Fourteen."
One more.
Just one more.
"Fifteen!" he growled, locking his elbows and holding it at the peak for a split second before letting it crash to the ground with a thunderous thud. The impact kicked up a small cloud of dust, the weight pressing into the dirt and leaving a shallow dent.
Greg sat up on the makeshift bench he'd dragged over earlier, his chest heaving as a faint blue screen popped up in his mind's eye. He grinned, the ache in his arms fading just enough to let him enjoy the sight.
> [+1 STR] (242)
"Hell yeah," he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.
That made a total of five today, after an hour of this. Ten sets of fifteen reps, lifting a one-ton axle in the middle of an abandoned trainyard, and it had gotten him as much progress as a half-hour of regular weights two months ago.
"Fucking crazy," he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief.
The teenager leaned back for a moment, peeling off the domino mask that had been stuck to his face. He pulled a small, red cloth from his inventory with a quick flick of his fingers, the faint blue glow of his power sparking for just a second. Wiping the sweat off his face, he took a moment to let his arms recover, rolling his shoulders to shake off the ache.
"...man," Greg muttered to himself as he finished and sent the cloth back to his inventory, snapping both his domino and his proper red helmet-mask back into place. "I know you're not supposed to lift without a spotter, but who else is supposed to spot me? Glory Girl?"
He froze mid-thought, one hand rising to tap the chin of his helmet. "Actually…"
His mind wandered, unbidden, to a very specific platinum blonde—Glory Girl, superhero Barbie herself, flashing that All-American smile while probably bench-pressing a bus.
Before the fantasy could fully develop, his phone rang, its loud and obnoxious ringtone jerking him back to reality.
He let out a sigh, digging into his pocket and pulling out the phone. Sparky's name flashed on the screen, obnoxiously bold, like the ringtone wasn't enough of a hint.
"Oi, sk8er boi," Greg answered tiredly, playing it up like he just woke up as he tilted his head back and let his helmeted gaze wander toward the sky. "Where'd I say we're meeting again?"
Sparky's voice came through the line, sharp and annoyed. "Are you serious right now? You skipped school to train, and you don't even know where we're going?"
Greg grinned, sitting up fully. "You skipped too, Sparky. Glass houses and all that."
"YOU BEGGED US TO SKIP!" Sparky snapped, his voice hitting a pitch that made Greg almost chuckle.
"I don't recall."
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Greg was on his knees in the middle of the street, hands clasped together in the most dramatic begging pose imaginable. "PLEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
Sparky stood in front of him, arms crossed and expression deadpan, his golden eyes glaring down with the kind of annoyance usually reserved for toddlers throwing tantrums.
"No," Sparky said flatly.
Next to him, Theo raised an eyebrow, cutting in calmly. "Is this what desperation looks like?"
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The blond blinked, shaking off the flashback. "Doesn't sound like me."
Sparky's sigh was audible, even through the static of the call. "You're impossible."
Greg smirked, brushing some dirt off his gloves. "Sensei Greg would never beg his students."
"...kill yourself," Sparky muttered flatly. "And change my fuckin' ringtone!"
Greg's grin widened. "Kill me yourself, you coward."
He hung up the phone with a sharp tap and shoved it back into his pocket, already picturing Sparky's inevitable rant as he stood up from the bench and started walking.
As he rounded the corner of a bunch of turned over train cars, the crunch of his boots against gravel filled the quiet. above him, the skeletal remains of derelict cars cast jagged shadows against the pale midday light. The air smelled like rust and oil, the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes if you hung around too long.
Unable to help himself, his thoughts wandered.
This whole "team" thing… it wasn't just for show.
He'd meant it when he said they needed to train together, to know each other's strengths and weaknesses.
But there was something else, something he wasn't saying out loud.
Taylor's words from the other night still lingered in his mind, heavy and sharp. Everything he thought he knew about Emma, everything he'd believed about her, had shifted.
Mercs and gang wars… shit was changing.
And it wasn't as neat or heroic as he thought it was going to be.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket, a different ringtone, but he ignored it, jaw tightening slightly.
This wasn't just about training.
It was about being ready—for everything.
Greg stood, brushing himself off and stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ached a bit, but it was the good kind of ache — the kind that told him he was getting somewhere.
"All right," he muttered to himself, cracking his neck.
He kicked a loose piece of gravel, watching it skitter across the ground, the sound sharp in the stillness. The faint hum of the city felt distant out here, muted by the sheer emptiness around him.
Then came the familiar sound of feet hitting metal, breaking the quiet like a drumbeat. Greg looked up just as a figure in black made his entrance.
Sparky moved with grace, flipping through the air with a precision that screamed practice. He hit the top of a rusted train car with a solid thud, crouching low for half a second before standing tall like he'd rehearsed the move a hundred times.
Knowing him, maybe he had.
Greg stopped mid-step, watching as his friend straightened up.
Sparky's skills had gotten way better since the first time they'd gone out, back when he'd been all nerves and raw energy. Now? He moved like he owned the space, every flip and landing honed to make what he had look incredible.
And speaking of looking incredible, Sparky's updated costume was fucking legit.
Gone was the cheap tracksuit, the one that looked like it had come straight out of a thrift shop clearance bin. Now he was decked out in gear that could've been ripped from the pages of a comic. The matte black compression jacket had ribbed shoulders and yellow chest accents that looked both sleek and practical. The black cargo pants were tapered perfectly, with reflective, yellow zippers adding just the right amount of flash. His gloves—black, fingerless, with padded knuckles—looked like they could smash through glass without a scratch.
The mouth mask, though? That was next-level.
Matte black with a vertical, yellow stripe and a subtle honeycomb texture. The goggles matched perfectly, streamlined and yellow, with shatter-resistant lenses that caught the faint sunlight. His high-top sneakers were black and yellow too, armored at the heels, because why not.
And to top it all off, he had a lightweight, black hoodie-cape with a yellow stylized "A" logo that somehow managed to look both edgy and professional.
Greg tilted his head, smirking under his mask. "Yo, Apex."
Sparky adjusted his goggles slightly, the yellow lenses catching the light as he turned his head slightly, tilting it in a way that only Sparky could make look vaguely condescending. "Sup... Hardkour."
There it was again, that slight drawl Sparky used when saying his cape name. Greg couldn't decide if it was supposed to be mocking or if Sparky just genuinely hated how the name was spelled.
Probably both.
No appreciation for flair.
Greg stepped forward, glancing around. "Where's..." he trailed off, pausing as he tried to figure out what to call Theo. Godbrother felt a little too impersonal, and there was no way he was saying the guy's real name while in costume, "...the other one?"
Sparky blinked, tilting his head again, this time with a thoughtful hum. "Oh yeah, he does need a name, doesn't he?" he said, almost to himself.
Then, with zero urgency, he raised a gloved hand and pointed behind Greg.
Greg turned, slow and deliberate, until he caught sight of him.
Floating.
Theo was floating.
Like, casually floating.
Greg blinked once, then twice, trying to process what he was seeing.
Theo, his godbrother—the same kid who'd dragged his feet all through Vanguard yesterday like it was a chore—was now hovering at least a dozen feet in the air and moving towards them at a slow, but steady pace.
His godbrother was descending lightly onto a train car opposite Sparky, his movements so casual it was almost unnerving. Unlike his aerokinetically enhanced leaps as Sir Prodigy, this wasn't forceful or showy. No, this was smooth, controlled, effortless.
Theo didn't just land; he drifted, like gravity had decided to give him a pass for the day.
Since when can he do that?
Still, the floating wasn't the only thing worth noticing.
Theo's costume was sharp. Matte silver dominated the look, the robe-like drop-shoulder hoodie giving him a vaguely futuristic vibe. White accents lined the edges, pairing neatly with the high collar and the chainmail-textured compression top beneath.
His joggers were loose but tactical, the white paneling breaking up the silver in a way that made the whole thing look intentional rather than overdesigned. Chunky, high-top sneakers with silver accents completed the look, but it was the mask that stood out the most.
The full-face mask was matte silver like the rest of his outfit, but the LED display on it was the real kicker—a simple white smiley face that seemed to shift slightly, reacting to Theo's expressions even if the guy's actual face was hidden.
"What…" Greg spoke out, his tone flat with disbelief. "You fly now?" he asked, still blinking while his brain was catching up.
"He flies now," Sparky chimed in, nodding slowly as he crossed his arms. "Also, you know, I said the same thing when I saw him."
Greg clasped his hands together over his chest in an exaggerated heart shape, leaning forward like he was about to deliver a Valentine's Day confession. "Twinsies," he said in a singsong, cutesy voice, dripping with fake sweetness.
Sparky didn't miss a beat, flipping him the bird without even looking. "Eat me."
Theo's voice came through his mask, calm and just slightly distorted, which made it all the funnier. "Strictly speaking, It's not flight, per se. It's a three step process, involving limiting my personal gravity, locking my relative buoyancy in place to an extent, and providing thrust in increments using what you termed... 'Mage Hand.'"
Greg squinted at him for a long moment, then made a show of dragging a hand down his mask-covered face. "...You just described flying. Shut up."
Theo shrugged like it didn't really matter. "I've been working on the 'spells' as you called them. Made some rather decent headway."
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"Nice." Greg pointed at him, tilting his head. "Also, sick voice changer."
Theo inclined his head slightly, the LED face on his mask smiling wider. "Thank you."
Sparky leaped from the train car, tucking into a tight flip that twisted him midair before he landed with a solid crunch a few yards away from Greg. The impact sent a puff of dust into the air, settling in his wake as he straightened up with a spring in his step. His body language was practically electric—every movement screamed cocky excitement.
The way his golden eyes practically glowed behind his goggles told Greg all he needed to know—Sparky was grinning like a maniac under that mask.
He couldn't even blame him.
Hell, if he were being honest, Greg still got a kick out of the way his powers let him move. Sure, Greg could almost sorta kinda pull off proper flight when he wanted to as Sir Prodigy with the wind powers, but there was something about running and jumping—feeling the air rush past his face…
Moving like that never got old.
"So, bossman," Sparky said, his tone light and teasing. "What's the training on the agenda?"
Before Greg could answer, Theo hopped down from the opposite car. His palms were turned downward, a subtle shift of energy slowing his descent as he hit the halfway point until he landed gently, smoothly, and almost soundlessly on the gravel, the faintest crunch betraying his touchdown.
"From what he said yesterday," Theo spoke up, the electronic distortion from his voice changer giving his word a robotic edge, "It's teamwork-related, isn't it?"
Sparky rolled his eyes so hard Greg could practically hear it. "I knew that, genius. I was just making conversation."
"Poor conversation starter," Theo countered without hesitation, his mask's LED display flickering into a neutral smile that felt just the right amount of smug.
"Your face is a poor conversation starter," Sparky shot back, crossing his arms.
Theo didn't miss a beat. "Your insults also leave a lot to be desired."
"Not what your girlfriend said last night," Sparky fired back.
"I don't have one," Theo replied, his tone so dry it could've started a fire.
"Oh, really?" Sparky dragged out the words in a sing-song tone, leaning forward like he was about to share some juicy gossip. "I wonder why, fatass."
Greg let out a long breath through his nose, feeling the urge to smack both of them rising rapidly. Instead, he tapped into his aerokinesis, amplifying his voice to cut through the bickering.
"SHUT UP!"
The force of the shout rippled through the air, kicking up loose dirt and sending a faint vibration through the ground. Theo's hoodie shifted slightly from the pressure, and Sparky instinctively straightened up, his posture suddenly far less cocky. Both of them snapped their attention to Greg like scolded kids caught goofing off.
Greg folded his arms, the blank white lenses of his mask making his glare all the more menacing as he dropped his voice lower. "No talking when I'm talking."
Theo hesitated then tilted his head slightly as he started to speak. "But you weren't t—"
Greg turned his head sharply toward Theo, his mask's lenses catching the light just enough to make his glare look more menacing than a featureless glance could be. "The fuck did I just say?"
The aerokinetic push in his tone hit harder this time, making the edges of Theo's robe-like oversized silver hoodie sway ever so slightly.
"Yeah, Theo," Sparky cut in, his tone all mock-sincerity as he jabbed a thumb toward Greg. "The fuck did he just say?"
Greg snapped his attention to Sparky next, his body language rigid. For a second, the other teen actually looked like he might take a step back. Instead, he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, his body language practically oozing my bad.
Greg exhaled slowly, shaking his head. It was something he was still getting used to ever since the first day they met—the slightest comment might set one of them off and then they'd start bickering back and forth like five year olds.
"Idiots, both of you," he muttered under his breath.
Even with their faces mostly covered, Greg could tell neither of them really appreciated the comment. Sparky shifted his weight like he was about to argue, and Theo's mask flickered with a less-than-neutral smile.
But neither said a word, not with Greg still glaring at them like a disappointed dad.
He sighed again, running a gloved hand down his face. "Listen up!" He took a small step forward, his voice steady but edged with the same authority. "Now, what we're going to do—"
BOOM!
The deafening crash cut him off mid-sentence, the sound of shearing metal following immediately after. The noise was so loud it echoed off the train cars, rattling the air and making Greg's stomach drop for a split second.
He flinched, spinning around toward the source of the sound as his instincts kicked into overdrive.
His voice cut through the chaos, sharp and frustrated. "Oh, what now?!"
Blue eyes narrowed, scanning the ruined train car that had toppled over like a drunk giant. The mangled metal groaned under its own weight, steam hissing out of cracks like the whole thing was furious it had been moved.
Then, like some nightmare rising out of the wreckage, a man pulled himself free.
Big guy—real big, like taller than Emma's dad big—with short red hair that practically glowed under the dull sunlight filtering through the yard. He wore a battered canvas jacket over a red shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms that looked like they were big enough to probably bench-press a small car. Dark denim jeans, scuffed brown boots, and a bandana covering his mouth completed the look.
Cowboy chic, except this guy looked like he used cows as weights.
Analyze.
> Walker Lvl 24
> HP: 615/615
> Stampede Stomper
> Trait: Kinetic Momentum Escalation
> Walker's like that old truck in your granddad's barn—starts off slow but turns into a wrecking ball once he gets going. Don't let his laid-back attitude fool you; when he charges, it's a spectacle of escalating destruction. His body can shrug off bullets like they're raindrops, but he needs a good run-up to hit like a freight train. Ideal for smashing through anything from walls to wariness in his path, though he tends to overshoot his mark if he's not careful.
Greg's vision flickered red, that unmistakable tag burning in his mind's eye: Villain. Merc, probably. He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists so hard his knuckles ached.
Theo muttered something under his breath, but Hardkour couldn't hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears.
The guy stumbled a little as he got free, muttering something Greg couldn't make out before standing tall, wiping a hand over his face. He slapped his forehead with a groan loud enough to carry across the trainyard. "Fucking hell… I missed!"
Greg blinked. What? Missed what?
A second voice called out, sharp and smug. "How'd ya miss?"
Greg's head snapped up to see another guy perched on a train car like it was a barstool. This one looked sleeker, his whole vibe screaming high noon outlaw with a flair for drama. A maroon poncho draped over one shoulder, leaving his right arm free, which was probably convenient for the throwing knives strapped across his chest. Or the shiny coins glinting in his holster like they were some secret weapon. His bandana—embroidered gold sunburst over his mouth—caught the light, making him look even more obnoxious.
And that hat? Straight out of a western, complete with a bullet hole in the brim. Analyze.
> Ranger Lvl 21
> HP: 185/185
> Trickster Shot
> Trait: Kinetic Acceleration Vector
> Like the rogue of an old western, with a cocky grin and a trick up his sleeve for every occasion, Ranger's a hard opponent. He can turn anything from a dime to a bowling ball into a deadly missile; though the bigger they are, the harder it is to control or keep them speedy. He's the sniper with a swagger, capable of nailing a shot at 500 meters—wind or no wind. Despite his bravado and tendency to buck authority, Ranger's quick wit and quicker reflexes make him the go-to guy for turning the tide with a well-placed throw.
Who was this guy? Greg's stomach churned as another tag burned red in his head.
Walker shrugged, scratching his head like a cartoon bear. "I dunno," he said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. "Felt charged enough."
"Clearly not," Ranger shot back, the words laced with mockery. He twirled something between his fingers—a coin?—before letting it fall back into his holster with a practiced flick. "Maybe try again without embarrassing yourself."
"Don't tempt me," Walker grumbled, kicking at a piece of debris. "Reckon I could flatten you next."
"Good luck with that," came a third voice, this one cold enough to freeze the air.
Greg's attention snapped to the shadows just beyond the wreckage, where a third figure emerged slowly and casually, almost strutting.
Tall, lean, and wrapped in black, his long duster swayed slightly as he moved. The coat's frayed edges looked like they'd seen every fight this guy had walked away from, and the burn marks didn't help. His gloves were slim, designed for precision, and his hat—flat-brimmed and immaculate—didn't fit the rest of his wrecked aesthetic.
The bandana covering his face was the worst part: faded skull print, like Death himself had decided to cosplay.
All in all… God, these guys are lame. Analyze.
> Texas Lvl 22
> HP: 222/222
> Dry as the Desert
> Trait: Localized Necrotic Decay
> Texas, true to his name, carries the stark relentlessness of the desert. He's the tactician with a touch of doom, corroding anything he gets too close to, be it metal, morale, or meat. With a touch that brings decay faster than the desert sun bleached bones, he's not someone you'd want to shake hands with. With a humor as dry as his method of decay, Texas holds the line, strategically placing himself where he can cause the most wear and tear without turning his team into dust.
Greg's gaze narrowed further, the words flashing red across his vision.
"Oh, great. More of 'em," Sparky muttered behind him. His tone was half-annoyed, half-nervous, and Greg didn't blame him. Last time mercs showed up, Sparky got tossed like a dodgeball.
"Hardkour," Sparky said, his voice sharper now. "Who the fuck are these guys?"
Greg didn't look back. His voice dropped, growing rougher as he shifted into the mindset that came with the mask. "Trouble," he said simply.
Sparky's tone didn't lighten. "Oh wow, that's fucking helpful."
Greg didn't bother with a comeback, his focus locked on the three figures in front of him. His body tensed, every nerve screaming at him to move, to strike first before they could. His fists clenched tighter, the leather of his gloves groaning against the strain.
Trouble didn't even begin to cover it.
Walker, Ranger, Texas. Three against three.
Odds weren't terrible, but with Theo still green as grass and Sparky's last encounter ending in a bruised ego and body, Greg couldn't afford to let anything slide.
The grin that spread under his mask didn't reach his eyes.