The ground quaked beneath my feet, each tremor sharper than the last. Four of them moved through the battlefield like they owned it—coordinated, efficient, and sharp. You could tell they were pros, operating with the kind of precision that comes from experience. Still, not a face among them was familiar. That made sense. Most supers who pick the mercenary life don’t exactly crave attention. They stay out of sight, avoid the cameras, and slip under the radar.

Names? Didn’t know them. But that’s part of the fun. When I don’t have the details, I like to take a crack at guessing. Call it a talent. I’m probably better at it than most, to be honest. And let’s face it—if I’m wrong, my names usually end up fitting better anyway.

The leader? Yeah, he was impossible to miss. The way he charged ahead, barking orders, it was clear he ran the show. He barreled forward like a runaway bulldozer, each step sending cracks splintering through the pavement as if the street itself was begging for mercy. Beefquake—that’s what I’d call him—seemed fitting. Why not? He looked like he could smash through walls for fun.

“Harder!” he roared, as if restraint wasn’t even in his vocabulary. Subtlety? Definitely not his thing.

The street groaned under the assault. Sidewalks cracked, cars flipped like toy models, and debris piled up in his wake—a testament to his “smash everything” approach. Windows shattered under the force, showering the scene in glinting shards of glass. Good luck explaining that to the insurance company.

“Lock it down!” Beefquake growled, his voice cutting through the chaos like a battle command.

Icy Spice was already on it—cool as a winter breeze, with just enough edge to feel like she belonged in some kind of super-powered Spice Girls reboot. She moved with effortless grace, completely unfazed by the chaos around her. With a flick of her wrist, frost surged from her fingertips, snaking across the muck monster’s limbs like it had a mind of its own. In seconds, the creature was locked in a sheet of shimmering ice, frozen solid like she’d done this routine a thousand times before. The temperature dropped fast—frost creeping over every surface, coating benches, lampposts, even seeping into the cracks in the pavement. It was like winter had crash-landed in the middle of the battlefield, and she was right in the center of the storm, calm as ever.

Zaperella didn’t need a pep talk. One glance from Beefquake was all it took.

“Now!” he barked.

And she was off—a lightning bolt in human form, crackling with energy as she charged into the fray. Her fists sparked with raw power, each punch unleashing arcs of electricity that lit up the battlefield. The frozen beast spasmed with every hit, jerking violently as if short-circuiting from the inside out. Lightning ricocheted off the ice, amplifying the shock, turning the creature into a grotesque, flickering light show that looked like it might shatter at any second.

It was brutal. It was methodical. It was almost beautiful in its efficiency.

Icy Spice and Zaperella worked in perfect harmony—one locking the monster in place, the other short-circuiting it with pinpoint precision. And then, there was Beefquake. He didn’t waste time with finesse. He was the sledgehammer to their scalpel, the wrecking ball in a perfectly executed demolition. His fists slammed into the frozen muck monster like battering rams, each blow sending shockwaves through the street. Sludge, ice, and debris flew in all directions, a maelstrom of destruction that left nothing untouched.

They weren’t just taking the creature down. They were dismantling it, piece by piece.

High above the chaos, Bug Zapper flitted around like an overcaffeinated mosquito, his wings a blur as he zipped through the air. Quick plasma shots streaked down, peppering the muck monster and adding to the whirlwind of destruction below. He was more than a distraction—his bursts of energy kept the creature off-balance, forcing it to split its focus. He darted in and out of range, never staying still long enough to become a target, just a constant, buzzing menace.

The creature finally reached its breaking point.

With a low, guttural groan, the muck monster hurled a massive chunk of itself skyward. The glob of sludge rocketed through the air like a cannonball, slamming into Bug Zapper’s chest with brutal force. The impact sent him flying, splattering him against the side of a building like an insect caught in flypaper. His wings buzzed in a desperate, useless flutter, but yeah—he wasn’t going anywhere.

For a beat, the battlefield froze—just long enough for everyone to clock that Bug Zapper was officially out of commission.

But the mercs? They didn’t flinch. Not even a second out of sync.

“Spectre Formation!” Beefquake’s voice boomed, and they shifted into a new pattern like they’d practiced this a thousand times. With Bug Zapper sidelined, the team didn’t miss a step. The ground trembled under Beefquake’s charge, shaking loose street signs and sending even more debris tumbling into the wreckage below.

Icy Spice slid into position behind Beefquake, her breath visible in the freezing air as she prepared her next move. The frost spread fast, coating the muck in another layer of ice. Beefquake barreled forward, fists raised, ready to obliterate whatever was in his path. As he swung with enough force to flatten a building, Icy Spice darted around him, sending a bone-chilling blast of cold straight into the monster’s core. The creature froze mid-motion, confused and off-balance, its body stiffening under the icy assault.

Too perfect of an opening.

Beefquake didn’t hesitate. He let out a roar that could probably be heard across town and brought his fist down like a sledgehammer. Ice and muck exploded outward, raining down in disgusting chunks. The impact was so strong, nearby streetlights flickered, and the ground cracked beneath my feet. The whole scene looked like a post-apocalyptic snowstorm—only with sludge instead of snow.

“Shock it!” Beefquake growled, anticipation thick in his voice.

Zaperella was already moving. Her fists crackled with energy as she hurled a bolt of lightning into the cavity Beefquake had created. The electricity surged through the creature, amplifying the shock as it ricocheted off the frozen muck. The monster convulsed violently, like it was being electrocuted from the inside out. Each spasm sent ripples through its gelatinous body.

It was barely hanging on.

Beefquake roared and brought his fist down like a wrecking ball. The ground shook beneath me as if an earthquake had hit. The muck monster didn’t stand a chance. It exploded in a wave of sludge, thick and slimy, splattering across the street like some kind of revolting Jackson Pollock painting.

And then I saw it—beneath the muck and grime.

Skin. Pale, bruised skin.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Well, shit.

The creature—no, the man—collapsed onto the pavement, his body barely holding together under the weight of whatever nightmare had twisted him into… that. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps, each breath a struggle. The layers of sludge that had clung to him started sliding off, revealing patches of pale flesh beneath the filth. His limbs trembled like they weren’t sure how to stop.

The mercs loomed over him, smug, like they were already counting their payday. Just another job well done, easy money.

I actually felt bad for the guy. Whatever had happened to him, it couldn’t have been good. Now he lay there, broken and barely recognizable beneath all the muck.

And then Beefquake, still covered head-to-toe in sewage and looking like he was on the losing end of a mud-wrestling match, stepped forward, his face a mask of pure annoyance. His massive hands flexed at his sides, knuckles cracking as he loomed over the barely-breathing figure.

“This one,” he muttered, his voice thick with irritation, “has caused me so much trouble.”

Without another word, he reached down and scooped up the limp body like it weighed nothing more than a sack of laundry. The man’s head lolled to one side, eyes glazed, on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness.

But Beefquake wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He cocked his fist back, muscles straining, sewage dripping from his arms, his knuckles gleaming in the fading light. “Let’s finish this,” he growled, voice low and full of menace. He was gearing up for the final blow, the one that would end it all.

The guy was barely hanging on, and Beefquake was pulling back, ready to drill him into next week. For a moment, it looked like that’s exactly what was about to happen.

And then everything stopped.

Time froze around me—the chaos, the noise, all of it suspended in place. I moved without hesitation. I was done with Beefquake’s nonsense, and it was time to put an end to it.

The fight was over. The battlefield lay in ruins—muck hanging in the air like debris caught mid-fall, broken glass frozen in glittering patterns across the ground, the cracked pavement a testament to Beefquake’s earlier fury. It was all eerily still, like the world had hit pause right at the aftermath.

When I reached Beefquake, his fist was still cocked, ready to deliver one more blow to a guy who’d already lost.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I grabbed his wrist—firm, but calm.

And then time jolted back into motion.

The force of his punch tried to follow through, but it wasn’t happening.

Instead, the energy recoiled, and I heard the sickening pop as his shoulder dislocated. Beefquake’s face twisted into a mask of pure, shocked agony. The confusion, the pain, the sheer what-the-hell-just-happened look in his eyes was almost comical, but I wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

He tried to yank his arm back, but it was like trying to drag a mountain. Useless.

“What the hell?” Beefquake’s voice cracked, panic creeping into his wide eyes as he became aware of me. He blinked, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. “Who are you? How’d you—how did you move so fast?”

He stared at me, stunned, still struggling to piece it all together.

I didn’t flinch, keeping my voice steady. “Cool your jets,” I said, locking eyes with him, the calm in my tone almost casual. “This fight’s over. That guy’s finished.”

His eyes narrowed, frustration overriding his initial shock. He flexed his arm again, more forcefully this time, trying to wrench himself free. That’s when I tightened my grip—just enough to let him know he wasn’t going anywhere unless I wanted him to.

The message landed. His bravado crumbled, and the color drained from his face as the reality of the situation sank in. He wasn’t in control anymore.

Beefquake tried to switch tactics, a desperation creeping into his voice as he scrambled to explain. “You don’t understand what he—”

But he didn’t get the chance to finish.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Icy Spice spring into action. She didn’t hesitate, her instincts kicking in the moment she saw her teammate in trouble. “Breaker!” she screamed, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. Her hands ignited with an intense, crackling frost, and the temperature plummeted instantly. Cold mist poured from her fingers, and the pavement around her shimmered as frost spread in delicate, deadly patterns. She was a blur of icy precision, closing the gap between us faster than a breath.

Her fists, now coated in thick layers of frost, were milliseconds from connecting, her full strength on display. She wasn’t holding back—this was her at maximum power.

But Beefquake—Breaker, apparently—had already realized what was happening.

“No, Zora! Stop!” he roared, his voice cracking with sheer panic. The urgency in his tone was unmistakable, his face contorted in alarm.

Too late.

She was already on me, her frozen fist arcing through the air, ready to strike.

Time slowed once more.

I could feel the icy sting on the back of my neck, the cold radiating from Zora—right, Zora, I corrected myself—her fist just inches from my face. She was frozen mid-swing, the air around her shimmering with frost, her breath visible in the icy mist that trailed from her fingers. For a moment, I just stared at her, taking in the fierce determination etched on her face. She genuinely believed this hit would put me down.

I sighed internally.

From the corner of my eye, I glanced at Beefquake—Breaker, as he was apparently called now—his face twisted in a silent mix of panic and disbelief. His wide-eyed expression all but screamed, Please, no, as if he already knew how badly this was going to turn out for her. And he was right.

I shifted my gaze down the street. The civilians had evacuated—smart move. The streets were eerily empty now, except for the discarded remains of whatever chaos had ensued before this fight. The mercs were equipped well enough—decent body armor, solid gear. Maybe even good enough to withstand a few more hits.

I’d try to be gentle.

I raised my arm, letting it swing out in a lazy arc, and with the gentlest of backhands, I swatted her shoulder as if brushing away an irritating fly. As soon as my hand connected, time snapped back into motion.

The result was… well, dramatic.

The casual swipe sent a ripple through the air, and Zora—Icy Spice, as I liked to call her—was launched like a missile. One moment she was inches from connecting, the next she was airborne, spinning helplessly down the empty street. Her frosted fists trailed cold mist, leaving a glimmering arc as she rocketed away.

The street went dead silent.

Icy Spice crashed into the pavement with an earth-shaking thud, ice and sparks flying as she skidded across the asphalt. Her body plowed through a parked car with a deafening crunch, the metal buckling like a soda can. Glass shattered, scattering in every direction as the car folded under the force of her impact. She finally came to a stop, groaning from the wreckage, more stunned than hurt.

The street remained completely still.

This time, it wasn’t my doing. No time-freezing, no power surge. It was the pure shock of what had just happened that left everyone speechless.

Beefquake—Breaker—looked between me and Zora, his mouth hanging open, too stunned to speak.

I sighed again, this time out loud. “I did say I’d try to be gentle.”

I turned my attention back to Beefquake, who was still standing there, eyes wide, trying to pick his jaw up off the metaphorical floor. His disbelief was palpable, his bravado deflated like a cheap party balloon. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what had just happened.

“Look,” I said, keeping my tone light as I loosened my grip on his wrist. “I didn’t hit her that hard. Your body armor should have absorbed most of it. She’ll be fine.”

Beefquake—Breaker, whatever—blinked at me, his mouth twitching as he struggled to find the right words. His eyes darted down the street where Zora was beginning to stir, slowly picking herself out of the wrecked car. He flinched slightly, still not quite over the fact that she had just been launched like a human missile.

“If you hit that guy again,” I continued, my voice softening into something dead serious, “you’ll probably kill him.”

He swallowed hard, the last shred of fight in him crumbling under the weight of that statement. His arm went limp in my hand, no longer even trying to pull away. Behind him, the other mercs remained frozen, like they were watching a train wreck in slow motion, unable to look away.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered, finally managing to speak. He carefully lowered the unconscious man back to the ground, his movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid of triggering whatever force I’d just unleashed. His breath was shallow, and his voice wobbled. “What… what the hell are you?”

I let go of his wrist and gave him a crooked half-smile. “Me?” I glanced down at the muck still clinging to my clothes and shrugged. “Just a guy who smells like shit.”

Beefquake blinked, still stunned, still trying to make sense of it all. I gave his wrist one last pat, then turned away. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

I didn’t walk away. Not yet.

I crouched beside the man who had once been the muck monster, now lying in a heap on the ground, curled up in a near-fetal position. His body was a wreck, a roadmap of scars, bruises, and things that screamed “survivor” but not in the proud, heroic way—more like someone who’d barely crawled out of hell. His skin was pale, stretched thin over a malnourished frame, like he hadn’t eaten anything worth mentioning in a long time.

His legs were a mess, crisscrossed with the kind of scars you get from shrapnel or something just as nasty. His back wasn’t faring much better—lined with welts and jagged marks that spoke of a history you wouldn’t want to hear. One particularly gnarly scar above his left hip stood out, the kind of scar that said, You don’t walk away from this without some baggage.

I let out a low breath, taking in the scene. The guy had been through it. His ribs jutted out like they were trying to escape his body, and his arms were loosely wrapped around himself, like he was trying to block out a world that had done him no favors. His breathing was shallow and ragged, but still there. He was alive, barely clinging on.

I scanned the scene, when movement caught my attention. A group of armed guards emerged from the edges of the chaos, stepping forward with the kind of purpose you only get when you’ve been waiting for someone else to clean up the mess. No need for them to hide anymore—they’d let the mercs do the dirty work, and now they were here to collect the prize.

I straightened, watching as they moved in. Medics arrived first, working quickly to bandage the guy’s worst injuries and stabilize him. Their movements were efficient, like they’d done this a hundred times before. The guards helped lift his limp body onto a stretcher and made their way to a waiting van parked nearby.

A few of the guards split off, moving through the scattered crowd, collecting phones and scrubbing any evidence of what had just gone down. The Heights wasn’t exactly a place where people stuck around to film battles, but for those who had? Their footage wouldn’t survive long.

As the medics secured the man in the first van, another pulled up behind it. The back doors creaked open, and I watched as Breaker and the rest of the mercs filed in, their expressions a cocktail of frustration and bruised egos. Zora, still looking rattled from her unexpected flight down the street, staggered in after them. She shot me a look that was halfway between disbelief and something that might’ve been hate. Fair enough.

I caught a few muttered curses from Breaker’s crew as they climbed aboard, no doubt meant for my ears, but I wasn’t exactly losing sleep over it. They weren’t in the mood for round two—and frankly, neither was I. The van door slammed shut with a heavy finality, like punctuation on a sentence they’d rather not have written.

With a low growl from the engine, the first van pulled away from the curb, the injured man inside. The second followed close behind, tires screeching as it melted into the shadows of the city. I stood there, watching the taillights vanish, wondering if the guy would pull through. I hated leaving things unfinished, but this wasn’t my fight.

Not today.

I glanced down at myself and grimaced. The muck still clung to me, a sticky, foul reminder of the chaos I’d just waded through. The faint stench of sewage lingered, stubbornly refusing to let go, like that one bad decision you try to shake but never quite can. Fantastic. Nothing said “ready to meet Alan” like smelling like a sewer.

Just as I was about to move, the familiar hum of city drones buzzed overhead. Great—here came the cavalry. The district sanitation department rolled in like clockwork, trucks gliding through the wreckage with the kind of calm efficiency that felt almost surreal against the chaos. The cleanup crew didn’t waste a second, deploying their robotic minions, which darted about the scene with mechanical precision.

Drones hovered above, scrubbing the street like they were wiping up nothing more than spilled coffee. A few sprayed down the asphalt, others buzzed around fixing shattered streetlights and patching cracks in the pavement. One even brushed past me with a quiet hum, indifferent to my grime-covered presence.

Meanwhile, the goobers—the slimy remnants of the muck monster’s little entourage—were being herded with military precision. They skittered across the street in jerky, panicked motions, only to be scooped up by containment units, wriggling helplessly as they were sealed into neat little containers. By dinner, this street would look like nothing more than a mild inconvenience had taken place. The city was nothing if not good at erasing chaos.

I sighed, watching the mess vanish faster than I had stumbled into it. Time to salvage what was left of the day. A full shower wasn’t on the menu, but a public bathroom? I could probably manage that, scrub off enough grime to look like a functional human being again—at least enough to dodge a complaint to animal control.

After that? Food sounded good. Maybe something touristy, one of those places where the menu has pictures and the drinks come with tiny umbrellas. A bite to eat, a little sightseeing… it’d be a decent enough distraction before dealing with whatever fresh disaster Alan had waiting for me.

I glanced down at my muck-streaked clothes and shook my head. First things first—clean up, grab some food, and pretend today hadn’t been a total disaster.