「Worm: A Parahuman Story」 was a popular game, the young man knew. The open-world, sandbox title had captivated gamers and critics alike, offering a thrilling, immersive experience that felt like stepping into a living, breathing world. Within months of its release, it had gained a cult following. Players from all genres flocked to it, lured by its depth and near-limitless versatility.
He’d heard of a streamer who treated it like a glorified cooking simulator, ignoring the core gameplay to play as a chef. And it wasn’t an isolated case. Others, too, focused solely on niche aspects like fishing or running a business, yet found the game so rich and engaging that it became the sole focus of their streams. All of them were hooked.
So, when he decided to kickstart his streaming career with this game, he expected to ride its wave of popularity. What he hadn't anticipated was how quickly he'd catch on. His first stream was nothing special, really. But now, just a few hours into actually playing the game (and not just customising his character), his viewer count had steadily climbed, now comfortably sitting in the hundreds.
It was surreal, honestly, seeing a steady trickle of viewers pop up every time he glanced at his monitor.
> eth: this is funny asf, keep it up lol
>
> Zackman2k12: lol, this is fun.
>
> Crista20: I am horrified…
>
> Sleepless1990: Poor NPC-kun
>
> WildStrand: oooh boy.
>
> ⁺₊✧
“Th-thanks for the 200 Gems, N-nyabot!” he spluttered out, still not quite used to the idea that his viewers were already willing to support him. Then another soft ping alerted him to another generous donation.
> ⁺₊✧
“Wow! Thank you, uhhh... Fem─uhhh, FemBoisRTruLuv for the 500 Gems.” He felt himself begin to blush.
On the screen, his female character was steadily mowing through the random mobs in the diner—knife flashing, kicks landing with a satisfying thud. The sounds were surprisingly unsettling though: a chorus of high-pitched screams from the victims punctuated the frantic, rapid-fire sound of the knife plunging into their flesh. The way the NPCs even begged and pleaded for their lives, crying out in pain and anguish, made the whole ordeal feel so much more real than anything he'd ever played. Incredible attention to detail. But very, very distressing to listen to through his headset's speakers.
Maybe he'd opt to lower the volume a bit.
> -ˋˏ [Miss Sugar just subscribed for 1 month!] ˎˊ
> Miss Sugar: Blow me a kiss!
A louder jingle made him flinch, and he took a stray hit. He hurriedly tapped a button, moving away before addressing the notification.
“W-wow! A subscriber! Th-thank you, Miss Sugar! Uhh, I really appreciate all the support... and, um, thanks to everyone else watching. It's kind of a new thing for me, but I promise to try and put on good streams, and um, continue to do my best for you guys.”
A little sheepish, he blew a kiss towards the camera and immediately regretted it, wishing he could vanish into thin air. What was that? The tips of his ears burned, and he knew his face must be beet red.
> Miss Sugar: Cute~ ♥
Another hit. Crap. Too distracted—it’d be more than embarrassing to die to weak mobs like this. He really didn’t want his first impression to be a poor one.
He quickly flicked through his Quick Inventory, finding the food items he needed, then began eating with a tap of a button. His health bar slowly filled up, the numbers ticking upward as he stuffed his face full of random food he’d pilfered while exploring. Luckily, the diner had food items lying around everywhere, giving him plenty to refill his reserves.
His HP ticked over to a safe level, the red border of his screen vanishing. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Whew, that was close.” It was a shame he was running low on items to immediately restore his FP though. A few more uses of Shukuchi and this whole thing would've been over a lot faster. Still, he'd used it enough that the mobs were starting to thin out. The ones remaining had low enough HP that he could probably finish them off with one or two normal attacks.
A woman tried to run, stumbling towards the door. He quickly switched to his gun, target locking onto her with a few flicks of his right joystick and firing. The bullet took her in the back, and she went down.
> Sassassin: if everyone's dead no one will know you did it trust me
>
> Octopuppy: at least you didn't let that one run, u let so much wasted xp get away
>
> NyaBot: please dont kill the kid!!!!!
>
> Sinner6969: 500 gems if you wipe out everyone
The pained screams and begging was disquieting. The sight of blood and bodies slumped over tables, the sounds of the knife plunging into the flesh, all of it was making him feel uncomfortable. This had seemed so much better of an idea in the past.
> KlarkCent: can you do something that doesn't involve killing pls this is disturbing
>
> Sassassin: shut up
>
> Killer_Noodle: lolololololol
>
> FemBoisRTruLuv: go watch a dif streamer then
“T-this isn't going to ruin the ending for me, is it?” he asked, a little concerned. His eyes flicked back and forth between the chat log and the carnage unfolding in front of him. “No s-spoilers, but I-I'm not like, ruining anything am I?”
> NyaBot: nyat gonna happen
>
> Miss Sugar: I don't think there is a TRUE ending
>
> Rai_Terr: no spoilers, but from the few people i've watched get to some sort of ending, I haven't seen a single repeat. even if they're somewhat similar, there's always a pretty big variation
>
> Killer_Noodle: this game is crazy lol how is it so different for everyone
>
> Sincubus: so many dif starting maps too
“W-well, I guess that's a relief.”
> Rai_Terr: there is an ENDING though, but its up to u how to get there
>
> PerkyCat: lololol youre going to get so hunted down by the whitehats for this
>
> Sinner6969: 500 gems if you burn the place down
He finished off another mob, their body crumpling into a heap. A few left.
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< HELPFUL TIPS! >
To swiftly recover lost Health, FP, or Stamina, seek out a bed and rest. Resting not only restores vitality but also clears most debuffs and status effects. Note, however, that persistent conditions may require specific items or skills for remedy.
Important: Resting at a bed designates it as your active spawn point! In case of death, you will respawn at this location. Plan ahead and choose your resting spots wisely before embarking on your journey.
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╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗
CHAPTER THREE
Robin Swoyer (Velocity)
╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝
Where did it all go wrong?
That question haunted Robin Swoyer as he sprinted through Brockton Bay's more squalid streets; the dark alleys, the abandoned warehouses, the dilapidated buildings. It echoed in his mind with every pounding power-enhanced step, every ragged breath, and every frantic beat of his racing heart.
How did things escalate so quickly?
It had all started innocently enough. The Protectorate was contacted by the BBPD about the city's latest regenerating—or cloning, as some argued—Cape, whom they designated Silver.
(The name wasn’t very original, Robin thought.)
Miss Militia, being the closest hero on patrol, was dispatched to investigate. They hoped for a peaceful first contact: a few questions, some minor negotiating to convince her to submit to testing, and maybe even a friendly offer to join the local Protectorate branch. The usual.
Sure, the suspected mentally-imbalanced Cape (not his words) was also wanted for interrogation regarding her suicide— Public Disturbance , the PRT called it, since she was presumed to still be alive—but it was hardly anything worth getting worked up over. The girl, young as she was, probably suffered from a bad Trigger Event and had no idea what she was doing. That was the working theory at least. And if it was true, they were the best equipped to deal with her and the fallout from whatever trauma she experienced.
Even Armsmaster and Director Piggot, some of the biggest hardasses he knew (though he'd never say it out loud), agreed: this was going to be a simple case of ‘rescuing’ a girl before she did something else foolish. Better for her own safety too, no doubt, considering she went around unmasked just begging for the city's gangs to hunt her down.
Personally—and, really , he wasn't alone in this—Robin wanted to know what the heck the girl's powers were.
After her jump , she left behind a bloodstain that simply wouldn't disappear. They tried everything: pouring water, applying chemicals, scrubbing furiously. It was all in vain. The gory evidence remained, like a mark seared into the concrete. That alone raised a few eyebrows. But the really notable thing, the one that drew everyone's interest and concern alike? Whenever someone approached, a red-tinted, ghostly figure of the girl would materialise on the rooftop from which she jumped from and leap off.
Again, and again, and again, and again .
The girl's macabre phantom kept jumping , locked in an endless loop.
It was a gruesome, borderline nightmarish spectacle: an apparition that would appear, walk to the roof's edge, and just drop . Body broken, limbs mangled, and her face, her poor, bloody, mutilated face—it was a sight that made Robin's stomach turn. Everyone else’s too. Then, a few seconds later, she'd reappear atop the building, unscathed, and start the cycle all over again.
Truly horrifying.
So far, the only way for it to stop was to leave the area around the bloodstain. And given the location's civilian foot traffic, the looping phantom was quickly becoming a major headache. A vomit-inducing, traumatic, very public headache.
Robin had seen the recordings. He'd been there. It was... disturbing. Though he hadn't personally witnessed a Gray Boy loop, the girl's apparition was an awful, twisted reminder of one.
That was not a comparison he made lightly.
More than one person in the PRT and Protectorate wanted to know how that related to her regenerative—more like resurrection —ability. At the same time, like the majority of the public, they also wanted the haunting ghost gone.
But that was supposed to be it. In and out, one of the team's finest (and most amiable, as far as he was concerned) would swoop in, talk to the girl, and convince her to submit to questioning and testing. Persuade her to get rid of—or figure out a way to deal with—her ghost-thing too. Then the PRT would give her a slap on the wrist and a stern warning, and everyone would walk away happy. Easy.
Simple.
That was the plan .
And while no one expected for everything to be perfect , not with the girl's obvious instability, they were still taken completely off-guard when things went horribly wrong.
Should they have been more cautious? More alert? Perhaps they were too complacent, too optimistic. Whatever the reason, when things went wrong, it all happened so quickly.
In his skin-tight costume, Robin moved as fast as he could, a heavy blur of red and black speeding across the city's dingier back-alleys. The world around him stretched and warped, a surreal kaleidoscope of distorted colours and shapes. A mere glance was enough to make probably anyone nauseous.
Not him, though.
His Breaker state encased him in a physics-defying cocoon of immunity—no nausea, no disorientation, no vertigo. It was as if the world slowed to accommodate his heightened senses, his eyes processing information with a clarity that defied the speed at which he moved. His mind handled the strain effortlessly, his reflexes operating in perfect sync with his accelerated body. Yet, for all the superhuman agility, there remained one thing he lacked: enhanced stamina.
Contrary to public perception—and he allowed them to maintain that misconception—for him, being a speedster wasn't a bottomless well of instant energy. Racing at breathtaking speeds and being immune to the bone-crushing, organ-shattering forces his power-enhanced movement generated didn't spare him from the harsh realities of physical strain and exertion.
His power, though great, had limits.
In his altered state, he maintained a walk, jog or a sprint throughout. The speed was variable, not constant. That meant his muscles still tired and used up energy just like everyone else. No matter how much he trained and built up his body, his endurance and his capacity to keep up the pace were nowhere near infinite.
And after a few minutes of running near full-tilt, even with the benefits of his Breaker form, the strain on Robin's body was palpable. His lungs seared with each inhale, muscles ablaze with the effort, and his heart thundered relentlessly against his ribs. Each breath came out in heavy, ragged pants, his body straining for oxygen, and the air burned his throat with each gulp.
Still, it wasn't enough to make him stop.
Before Miss Militia had even neared where the Cape was supposed to be, the BBPD informed them of the changed situation: the officer who had found the girl by chance had apparently become distressed and the police Dispatcher requested immediate assistance.
That was just the beginning.
As one of the fastest capes in Brockton Bay, Robin had been swiftly dispatched to answer the call. He had wasted no time, racing across the waters surrounding the Protectorate ENE Headquarters and hurtling towards the girl's reported location. He was halfway across the city when an update came, hitting him like a punch to the gut: the Cape had turned violent, the situation was spiralling out of control.
He ran faster then.
Moments later, the BBPD and PRT were inundated with a surge of calls regarding the situation: a dead police officer, a homicidal Cape, gunshots, civilian injuries... deaths. The situation wasn't just escalating. It was already rampant and unchecked.
Faster.
Faster!
FASTER!
Now, he pushed past the familiar signs tingling through his body. His legs were hot, calves and thighs feeling as if they were aflame, but Robin refused to slow his pace. An urgency pulsed through his veins, relentless and desperate, like a drumbeat driving him forward. People were dying. Innocents. Kids. They needed his help, and he couldn't waste any more time. He had to reach them. Had to save them.
So he forced himself forward, every stride a battle against the subtle twinges of pain. His joints ached, muscles strained, and a burning, stinging sensation laced his limbs, but he pushed on.
He was almost there.
From shabby alleyway to shabby alleyway, from abandoned warehouse to decaying, rundown apartment block, from derelict buildings to decrepit shops, the scenery passed by in a blur until he reached the more affluent parts of the Bay. Then, the cityscape whipped past him, buildings, cars and street lights melding into a continuous streak of light and shadow. He zigzagged through narrow alleys, dodged around obstacles, and weaved through the traffic and pedestrians that crossed his path.
A few honks blared, a few angry voices shouted, and the occasional person pointed or gave him an incredulous look as he streaked by. Robin ignored it all, his sole focus on reaching the crime scene as fast as possible.
The distant wail of sirens echoed in his ears, the high-pitched whee-whee-whee of the BBPD's patrol cars and the lower, deeper tones of the PRT's armoured transports growing steadily louder from somewhere behind him. He paid them no heed either, sprinting towards his destination and the mayhem he knew awaited him.
Chaos.
Bloodshed.
Death.
Robin saw it all when he reached his destination. The place was a massacre. Bodies lay scattered, blood pooled on the cracked asphalt, the air thick with the stench of iron and smoke. The scene looked ripped from a nightmare, a horror movie, or a battlefield.
So many bodies. So much blood. So much carnage. All in the span of mere minutes.
Stolen novel; please report.
It was horrific.
And the worst part? He looked to be too late.
Had any even been able to run away?
Robin slowed but didn't stop—stopping meant letting his body catch up with the exhaustion, and that was a risk he couldn't take. He let his hasted perception of the world wash over the scene, drinking in the details and cataloguing every little bit of information.
Nearby, an officer lay motionless, scarlet blood oozing from the grisly hole in his head. Another police officer was slumped closer to the diner—this one had suffered a worse fate, his face and neck a gory mess from what looked to be cuts and stab wounds. Both officers had been wearing standard tactical vests, yet they had been killed so easily, their equipment doing nothing to stop the girl.
A little further ahead, just by the diner's entrance, three more people lay on the ground: two men, one woman. All unmoving. All with multiple, gruesome knife wounds: deep cuts, jagged slashes, stab wounds, puncture wounds... it was like the girl—Silver—had literally hacked and slashed her way through them, uncaring and unflinching as her blade bit through skin, muscle, tendon and bone. A splatter of crimson decorated the floors and nearby furniture, and blood pooled beneath the bodies.
There was no saving them.
Rushing in, Robin found the diner in shambles: smashed tables and chairs, broken glassware, bullet holes, pools of blood, and bodies, bodies, and more bodies.
Dead bodies. Mangled bodies. Shot, broken, mutilated, shredded, gored bodies. All of them people who'd simply been at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The stench of blood, sweat, gunpowder and piss permeated the air, a coppery tang of fresh gore filling his nose.
Some of the civilians were slumped on the floor, others half-sprawled over broken tables or fallen chairs. One was even dangling out a shattered window, his torso impaled on the jagged glass. Even more were sprawled in the open, their corpses shot or torn and brutalised, and their lifeblood pooling around them. There almost wasn't a single surface without some kind of bloodstain or piece of torn, severed flesh.
The slaughter was overwhelming.
Monstrous.
And yet, he pushed through it. He had to. Scanning the area, he searched for any other sign of life, any more survivors.
Robin had found the cause of the massacre in a corner, hunched over a panicking woman on a table, a kitchen knife in hand, ready to plunge the weapon down into her victim. A man behind her was already dead, his throat slit open, dark blood trickling onto the floor. Had he tried to protect his partner, only to die?
A small boy was curled up in a ball on the floor on the opposite side, sobbing uncontrollably. He was one of the only survivors, though it was impossible to tell how the young child was still alive, given the sheer brutality of the other victims.
...Was that his mother, dead on the floor just a short distance away?
That was the sight that brought him up short.
Robin's heart pounded, blood rushing through his veins. His mouth went dry as anguish twisted his stomach. A cold weight settled on his chest, tightening his throat. His limbs felt leaden, rooting him in place. He tried to breathe, but his breath caught in his lungs.
He was too late.
Too late.
Too late.
No other thought entered Robin's mind as he rushed in before the murderous criminal could stab her victim, a defiant snarl escaping his lips. One breath. Two. He was a blur, fists smashing into Silver's body in quick succession. Three breaths. Four. His fists moved faster than the eye could follow, and while his Breaker state robbed his punches of raw strength, the sheer speed and volume were enough to stagger her.
Five. Six.
He didn't stop, not for a moment. Each strike was a whispering gust, a relentless pressure that gnawed at the girl's defences. Seven. Eight. The punches kept coming, consistent and unyielding. He aimed for her core, her chest and abdomen. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. His fists hammered away, driving the villain back in mere moments, forcing her away from the crying woman sprawled on the table.
Fourteen.
His trained blows landed with the rapid-fire staccato of a machine gun. He even aimed for her hands, yet the knife refused to fall, staying clamped tightly in her grasp despite the constant barrage. Robin gritted his teeth.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
It didn't matter.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
He didn't need to make her drop the knife. As long as he could hold her attention, keep her focused on him, the woman would be safe.
Twenty-four. Twenty-five.
Backup was coming, Miss Militia would soon arrive, and he had to last until then.
Twenty-six.
Silver seemed to finally react. She slashed at him widely, swinging the kitchen knife in a wide, erratic arc. It was a wild attack, and he easily slipped underneath the swing, the knife whooshing past him harmlessly.
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
More wild slashes. Robin sidestepped, the knife whizzing through the empty space he had occupied a moment ago. He came around, throwing a quick jab, catching the girl on the jaw. Twenty-nine. He darted away from her, staying just out of reach. Her strikes were too wide, too easy to dodge. Thirty. He kicked her in the gut, his leg a blur as he moved faster than she could react.
Thirty-one. Thirty—
The girl vanished. His foot swung through empty air. Robin blinked, then gasped. An odd sensation passed through him, a strange, tingling numbness. It felt like a thousand needles piercing his skin, like a burning chill injected into his veins. He staggered, his movements halting.
What...?
The moment he stopped, exhaustion hit him full force. His limbs felt heavy, fatigue settling in like lead. His eyes burned and stung from salty sweat, and his breath came in short, laboured gasps. Every part of his body felt bruised, battered, and strained. Each breath dragged fire through his lungs.
Worst of all, the sudden wave of fatigue robbed him of the energy and momentum that had powered him through the last few minutes, draining him of everything in an instant.
It was only his years of experience and training that allowed Robin to react to the girl's next attack. His eyes widened as the knife sliced at his back. He twisted, the blade shredding his costume and cutting into the skin beneath. Not much, but enough to draw blood. A searing pain lanced across his left shoulder. Robin grunted, gritting his teeth as he lurched forward. He turned just in time to see a second slash coming and jerked his head back, barely avoiding the knife as it swept through the air in front of him.
He cursed.
“What are you doing? I'm innocent,” Silver suddenly protested, voice emotionless. She stared at him, her gaze as blank and vacant as her tone. “I haven't done anything wrong,” she added, the words coming out in a monotone.
Mechanical.
Empty.
Did she really think he’d believe that?
A shudder ran through him. Her lifeless delivery made his skin crawl. She was soaked in blood, her face blank, her eyes empty, her tone flat. The contrast was jarring, a tableau of horror painted in the starkness of her emotionless words. The knife in her hand gleamed with fresh blood, a crimson blade dripping with the evidence of her deed. Yet, she was eerily detached, like a puppet reciting lines. The sight and sound of her chilled him to the bone.
She looked like a demon: a bloody, emotionless, soulless demon. It sickened him. He had dealt with villains and criminals before, had seen them kill and maim and brutalise people, but there was just something about this girl that seemed so much worse.
“You’re sick ,” Robin spat. “A monster.”
Inhale. Exhale.
“Put down the knife, Silver,” he said, voice firm. He struggled to control his breathing, fighting to keep his voice level and steady. Just a bit longer. Then he could rest. Muscle failure was creeping up on him, but he had to last a little longer. “You're under arrest.”
“I’m Seraph,” the psychotic Cape replied, backing away slowly, ignoring his demands. (What was she doing?) Fried chicken suddenly appeared in her free hand. “Not Silver.” She took a few bites, and the whole thing was gone, only to be replaced by a second helping a moment later. And then a third.
Robin's mouth twisted, his expression hardening. “Is this a joke to you?” he hissed, unable to stop himself. “This isn't a game!”
“What are you doing? I'm innocent,” the girl said again, as if repeating the same phrase over and over would make it true. “I haven't done anything wrong.”
Insane. Utterly insane.
He'd heard enough. Recovered or not, Robin was done wasting his breath. In an instant, he was across the room, punches and kicks flying again.
Silver didn't get another word out. Yet with his speed dropped, body battered, and stamina all but exhausted, Robin wasn't quite able to land as many clean hits as he had earlier. The girl seemed to dodge far better too, sidestepping, backstepping and even rolling to the side to avoid his blows. Briefly, he wondered if she had a Thinker power too. She fought too well, and his attacks were landing too infrequently for someone with enhanced reflexes and perception.
Not that his attacks weren't without success. Even if he wasn't able to hit her as much, his fists and kicks still connected, grazing her cheek, slamming into her chin, striking her arm or torso. And those attacks were not without effect despite the lack of power behind them. Tables and chairs cracked. Glassware shattered. All from the girl’s wild flailing and dodging. She staggered and stumbled, and more often than not, he knocked her off balance, disrupting her footing.
Why hadn't the girl used her disappearing act again?
He pushed that thought aside. It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, he'd take the opening. He pressed the advantage, keeping her on the defensive, keeping her preoccupied.
Robin was a flurry of fists, a tempest of feet. Punch, kick, punch, kick, jab, kick, hook, uppercut, kick. He never stopped, his assault a continuous, ceaseless, unforgiving wave of violence. He drove the girl back, and when she went to eat again, he was there to stop her, his fist crashing into her stomach. Again, and again, and again until she reeled.
His vision darkened and narrowed, black creeping at the edges, and his lungs burned with every breath he drew. The world felt cold, his arms and legs stiff, and his entire body ached. He couldn't keep this up for much longer, not at this pace.
But that was fine.
He was the vanguard, the first line of defence, the first responder.
He didn't have to beat her. He didn't have to win.
All he had to do was delay.
Something changed, he noticed. The girl turned and ran, bolting towards the door. His feet were a little too heavy, his movements a little too slow, and his mind a little too addled, and he stumbled, unable to cut her off before she could reach the door.
Shit.
Three gunshots rang out, sharp and deafening. A window shattered. The girl lurched, hit.
Miss Militia.
Finally.
Silver halted abruptly, stumbling and collapsing to the floor, her legs folding underneath her as she collapsed. Thud. Her body hit the ground, limp and lifeless. For a moment, Robin just stood there, watching her. His chest rose and fell, his breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.
Moments later, the girl's body disintegrated into black particles, fading into nothingness, leaving behind a small pile of items.
It was a strange collection. A handful of coins glinted amidst her bloodstained knife and half-eaten food, including fried chicken. There was scrap metal, a small figurine, a child's toy car, small bags of white powder, a bottle of soda, a dirty newspaper, and various other odds and ends. Junk, mostly.
Where did all that come from?
“Haah... Haah... W-what?” Robin panted out, his voice hoarse, his mouth dry. “Haaah...”
Shaking his head, he focused on something more important: the death of the girl. He hadn't expected Miss Militia to go lethal immediately. No— wait . Robin spotted the rubber bullets scattered on the ground a few steps away. Ah. How did that kill her, then?
The full gravity of his burnout crashed into him all at once, and he staggered, his vision spinning. The fatigue weighed on him heavily, his muscles feeling stiff and unresponsive. He couldn't feel his arms and legs, couldn't feel his fingers and toes. Robin stumbled, his knees giving out. He fell, hitting the floor, and his ass landed painfully on the hardwood.
“Argh...” he groaned.
Damn it. He didn't think he'd ever pushed himself so hard before.
The adrenaline rush was wearing off. Now, all he felt was utter lethargy, the pain and muscle-failure setting in with a vengeance. Even the cut on his back was throbbing with an intense sting, and he couldn't quite pinpoint if it was bleeding or not. Somewhere in the distance, Robin heard the faint sound of sirens, growing louder by the second.
From where Silver had disappeared, a puddle of blood was left behind, spreading slowly on the wooden floor. He didn't think she had been injured that badly, so how? The crimson pool must've considered him close enough though, because much like the previous bloodstain the girl left behind, this one too summoned a red-tinted phantom that replayed the last few seconds before her 'death'.
“Velocity! Are you okay?”
He looked up to see Miss Militia rushing towards him. His vision swam, the woman's form wavering and blurring. The sound of her boots hitting the ground were a distant, rhythmic thumping in the back of his mind.
“Velocity!”
Robin blinked, his mind finally registering her words. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled, lips dry and throat parched. “I-I'm fine,” he managed.
Then, without warning, he vomited.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Out of costume, Robin limped out of the shower room, still exhausted. The soft thumps of his crutches echoed around him as he made his way to the meeting room. His body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Several times. He hadn’t even made it back to the Rig on his own; he had collapsed and woke up in a bed, surrounded by PRT medical staff checking him for major injuries.
Thankfully, there were few wounds. Plenty of muscle strain and tears from his mad sprint around the city though. He was grateful Panacea was scheduled and willing to give him a healing session later. He couldn’t bear the thought of a long, painful recovery with a new serial killer Parahuman on the loose.
A caustic mix of guilt, disgust, and self-loathing churned within him, a vile, nauseating cocktail. The sensation was so strong, he felt bile rise in his throat.
He hadn't been conscious for the aftermath, but from what little he heard, the whole thing was a mess. The police, the PRT, the public—everyone was in an uproar. No one wanted a wannabe Slaughterhouse Nine member running loose in their city, killing people with a smile on their face. The body count was high, and Robin felt guilty for not doing more, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault. He had spent nearly an hour under the scalding water, trying to wash away the filth clinging to him, and another hour just sitting on the bench in front of the mirror, trying to find the motivation to get dressed.
The boy's face—one of the only survivors—flashed before his eyes, and his stomach roiled once again. Robin could still see the child's terrified expression. The desperation, the horror, the fear—they were all etched into his mind. It was a visceral, vivid image, so potent it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it.
If only he had been faster...
If only he had been stronger...
If only he could've saved more people...
So many things he could've done. So many regrets.
The meeting room came into view, a sterile, brightly lit space that felt both oppressive and hollow. Robin hobbled inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He was one of the first to arrive. To his surprise, Assault was already there, sitting alone without Battery by his side.
Robin nodded in greeting and took a seat next to him. The chair creaked under his weight, its metal frame groaning in protest. He sighed in relief as the pressure lifted off his aching feet. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant, the faint hum of the ventilation system the only sound breaking the silence. He leaned back, feeling the cool, hard surface of the chair against his sore muscles.
“You look like you've been through hell,” Assault said, grinning. “Feeling alright?”
Robin smiled back weakly. “Yeah, I'm doing alright.”
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Robin looked up to see Assault giving him a sympathetic look. “Don't blame yourself. You did your best, and that's all anyone can ask of you.”
“But—”
Assault gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Robin fell silent.
“Sometimes, you can't save everyone. Even if you become the fastest man alive, you're still only human.”
Robin sighed, slumping back in his chair. The room felt colder, the walls closing in around him. He knew Assault was right, but the knowledge did little to ease the gnawing guilt. The faces of those he couldn’t save haunted him, their silent accusations cutting deeper than any wound.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that seemed to mock his failure. His body ached, every muscle a reminder of his limits. The quiet of the room lasted only a few minutes before the rest of the Protectorate started filing in, taking their seats and exchanging hushed conversations. Robin watched them idly, lost in thought.
Director Piggot entered the room moments later, trailed by Armsmaster, both their expressions grim.
“We've got a new threat in the city,” the Director said as soon as she entered, striding to the front of the room. Her tone was cold and hard, her gaze piercing as she looked at each person in turn. “And she’s already shown she’s willing to kill indiscriminately. So the gloves are off. I want to know everything about this Silver character. We can't afford to let another situation like this happen again.”
Robin noticed the absence of the Wards and felt a small measure of relief.
“Velocity,” Director Piggot continued, fixing her gaze on him. “Give us a rundown of what happened. What can you tell us about the girl?”
He swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wished he had grabbed some water before the meeting. He took a deep breath, the scent of coffee and sweat lingering in the air.
“She called herself Seraph,” Robin began.
“Like an angel?” Assault interrupted, disgust evident in his tone. “A fucking angel that kills innocent people?”
“Assault,” the Director warned briefly, no real heat in her voice. “Not now. Continue, Velocity.”
The man raised his hands in mock surrender.
Robin closed his eyes, visualising the events with stark clarity. Then, he took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to recount everything he knew or saw, starting from the very beginning, when it all started.
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< HELPFUL TIPS! >
Pay attention to the cooldown timers on your Skills. Using them strategically can turn the tide of battle, but over-reliance can leave you vulnerable.
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Sipping from a glass of chocolate milk, the young man controlled his character to fish on the edge of a quay. The day-night-cycle had finally surrendered to darkness, and the moon shone brightly on the shimmering water. His old fishing rod—one he randomly found while exploring the city after dying to his run-in with the 'law enforcement'—bent and twitched; the controller buzzed in his hand, signaling a bite. He quickly pressed a button and reeled in the line, and he snorted as a boot emerged from the water before being put into his Inventory.
“Aw, dammit. I don't seem to, uhm, be getting any luck here,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn, but failed. It was late. He'd been streaming for hours, and his eyes were starting to feel heavy.
Stretching his stiffened muscles, he twisted his torso and rolled his shoulders. “Uhm, you know, chat,” he began, addressing his viewers through tired eyes, “I'm thinking it might be time to call it a night soon.” Another yawn interrupted him.
The chat box on the other monitor started to flood with comments, all begging him to stay on.
> Octopuppy: nooooooo
>
> NyaBot: one more hour! no, two!
>
> HandsomeGoose: aw, gooodniight
>
> Sinner6969: more more more
“Oh, uhm, t-thank you,” he replied, his pale cheeks blushing. “Y'all are very sweet.” Adjusting his glasses, he cleared his throat softly. “B-but I really should wrap things up. It's late, and... umm, I've been at this for quite a while now.”
He had.
Since his unfortunate death at the diner, he'd spent several more hours exploring the city, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and generally just trying to learn more about the place. It was fun. He intervened in another mugging, this time saving a man and earning EXP. Fought some random mobs that aggro'd on him for some reason. Found a fishing rod. Helped settle a turf dispute for a homeless man. And completed a quest for a drug dealer to collect owed money.
That latter task was probably the most important since it seemed like it would lead to more Quests. Already he had someone he could buy drugs and medicine from to restore his character's FP, with potential for more opportunities ahead.
Altogether, he'd not only regained his lost Level but also accumulated enough XP to edge closer to Level 3.
He did have to run away from the police a few times though. It appeared that there was an ongoing manhunt for his female avatar; even some of the random civilians around the city refused to interact with him and simply started screaming for help or running away.
A problem for future-him, he figured.
“But, uhh, before I do turn off the s-stream, let me say thank you all again for joining me today. It's been fun. And... um, you've been a very lovely chat. Thank you for the all the donations and subscribers too. Really. I-I'm just a small streamer, and, uhm, your support means a lot.” He gave a lopsided smile, feeling the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. “Th-thanks, and I'll see you guys tomorrow.”
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◢✥◣
CHARACTER UPGRADES LOG
◥✥◤
[LEVEL]: 2 → 1 → 2
[SKILL POINTS]: 1 → 0 → 1
ATTRIBUTE SCORES
[CON]: 10
[STR]: 10
[DEX]: 10
[INT]: 10
[WIS]: 10
[CHA]: 11 → 10 → 11
NEW SKILLS!
✦ MAGIC MISSILE ✦
RANK: 1
TYPE: Active
RANGE: 120
FP COST: 50
COOLDOWN: 5 seconds
EFFECT: Unleash a shimmering dart of concussive, arcane energy towards a target within range. Upon impact, the target suffers 20-50 damage and has a 5% chance of becoming stunned for 1.5 seconds. This skill unfailingly strikes its target.
[SKILL POINTS]: 1 → 0