At first, Dan assumed it was an accident. The truck had clearly been out of control, as it plowed through the stone pillars and steel doors guarding the lobby entrance. The noise was deafening, a murderous screech of metal on metal and glass breaking into powder. The roof of the building almost immediately gave way, showering the truck's cab in heavy stone and debris. If it had been a person, they would've been buried well past their shoulders.

The vehicle was unmarked so far as Dan could tell. Its cargo trailer was a simple unadorned container, but built for mass transport at over 50 feet long. It had remained mostly intact, though Dan imagined that the contents had been rattled rather badly. He hoped that nothing inside there was flammable. The truck was already hissing in a discomforting manner.

He was the first to reach the crash site, by virtue of literal teleportation, but more volunteers and federal agents arrived within seconds. A familiar receptionist stepped out from in front of the cab, her glasses cracked and hair wildly askew. Her skin was covered in a fine layer of dust, and her eyes were wide. She'd probably just had an intimate encounter with her own mortality.

Dan quickly sat her down on a nearby chunk of concrete and began to examine her for wounds. She seemed fine, more in shock than anything, and he passed her off to a nearby medic before moving towards the truck. More people poured in behind him, and from within the building itself, all working to clear away the debris. What followed was a study in organized chaos.

They began to smell gasoline almost immediately. The truck had sprung a leak, the predictable result of its enthusiastic hugging of concrete and steel. It only spurred people to move faster, digging through the layers of concrete and warped metal. The driver was still alive, several upgrades in the mass of bodies had established that, but he was fading fast.

Dan took it upon himself to deal with the gas situation. He sent his veil skittering along the concrete. His clever power tasted gasoline, and followed its trail across and up, into the fuel tanks. He sent the dangerous liquid into the Gap, rather than risk it catching. He could do little about the fumes already in the air, but he was satisfied he'd gotten the bulk of it.

Next, he decided to check the cargo. Dan wanted to know if the truck was transporting barrels of nitroglycerine or something else completely asinine. His veil pierced upwards, from the fuel tanks into the cargo trailer and... stalled. Dan blinked, as he felt his reserves plummet. Whatever material the cargo trailer was made of, it was incredibly dense, and layered like an onion.

He spun out a thread from his veil, making it as narrow as possible. It slithered through the trailer's walls feeding him incomprehensible information. There was what he recognized as steel, some plastic, iron, some metal bits he'd felt before in gravel. But for every material he identified, there was one he couldn't.

It was at this point, that a random volunteer asked a very important question.

"What the hell was an eighteen wheeler doing over here?"

There were no stores nearby, only office buildings. The nearest highway was probably three or four miles away. The roads were narrow and one-way. Dan could've sworn that the words 'no trucks' had been painted on every single street leading up to here. The truck was hauling a massive cargo trailer, the kind that looks like it should be riding on train tracks rather than concrete streets. What the hell was it doing here?

Little more than a minute had passed since the crash. It felt like like longer, to Dan, but things happened fast in a crisis. The human brain had a tendency to slow down perceptions in times of great stress. Moments stretched into minutes; minutes, into eternity.

The sound of metal creaking and giving way, the sight of a fist tearing through the walls of the cargo trailer, seemed to last for a lifetime. Dan watched as the steel peeled like taffy, sticking to the massive fist and wrapping around it. His veil, still caught in the wall, felt as the material warped and combined, twisted by something unnatural. It flowed up the man's body, molding to his muscles and face as he burst free of the trailer. He slammed down among the surprised volunteers, clad in warped steel, and swung his now armored arm at the closest federal agent, who was scrambling for his pistol.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Dan, more out of reflex than any real forethought, triggered his veil, and dragged the man's armor into t-space. The man, suddenly losing half a foot of reach and several inches of height, staggered long enough for the fed to draw his pistol and empty the clip into the villain's chest.

The gunshots set off a flurry of screams, as the gathered volunteers sprinted for cover. Hot lead splashed across the man's bare chest, the lethal rounds deforming into liquid and doing less damage than paintballs. The fluid metal quickly flowed across his broad shoulders and down his arm. They formed sharp claws on the tips of his finger, and he slashed at the fed without hesitation. The man ducked the blow and retreated backwards, shouting for backup into his radio.

More people began to pour out of the trailer, but Dan was no longer watching. He snapped his veil back to himself, and retreated back to the medical station. A large number of people had peeled off to help with the crash, but the station was still packed to the brim. There were people fleeing the sound of gunshots, but others were milling about, confused and uncertain.

"Villain attack!" Dan bellowed at those bystanders. "Get to cover!"

It was a bit like shouting 'Fire!' in a crowded movie theater. Not the most responsible thing he'd ever done, but it got people moving in a hurry. Dan saw several feds glancing towards the wreckage, where more gunshots were sounding out. They drew their own firearms and charged forward, while civilians scattered like leaves in autumn.

Dan did what had been drilled into him, and dialed 911.

"All lines are currently busy," a robotic female voice said. "Please take shelter and remain on the line."

He cursed, then ducked behind one of the cars that had been left behind as more gunshots erupted from near the FBI field office. Poking his head out, Dan watched flashes of action partially obscured by clouds of dust. He could see the cargo trailer's walls peeling back as the fighting continued, revealing the contents within.

It looked like someone had loaded the contents of a military armory into the trailer. Half a dozen figures moved out of the hole that the first villain had made, most of them dressed in armor that wouldn't look out of place on a SPEAR Team, all bristling with weapons. The question of whose side they were on was immediately answered as they began to casually fire into the crowd of federal agents and fleeing volunteers.

More men followed, these dressed in hoodies, t-shirts, jeans. They wore armbands with the distinct light blue of the Coldeyes' Crew. These men clearly bore combat upgrades tailored towards the theme of their gang. Ice sprang into existence where they walked, forming ramps and shields. One man looked like a frozen golem, encased head to toe. Another breathed out a thick, sparkling fog, almost completely obscuring Dan's vision.

He didn't know what to do. His training said to take cover, let the police handle it, but there were no police around, and the feds were being overwhelmed. His fellow volunteers, while not being targeted directly, were falling in droves to stray gunfire and power use. Dan was about as bulletproof as they were, but the urge to do something was nearly overpowering.

He heard a loud bellow, then the fog and dust were hurled aside by concussive force. Dan felt, more than saw, the shockwave as it shattered the nearby windows and rattled the ground. Combat fell into a brief lull as visibility was restored. Everyone paused, as they reevaluated their situation.

The feds were outnumbered, though not to the extent that Dan had first assumed. It seemed as if the sheer shock of the assault had worn off, and they were beginning to rally. He could make out bodies, lying still on the ground. None of them had come from the trailer. Several wore the same orange safety vests as Dan.

His blood boiled in frustration. He didn't know what to do. Doubtless, the feds had called for backup by now. He doubted that they used cell phones or other conventional forms of communication. The police had to be on their way. As a licensed crisis volunteer, Dan was technically allowed to use his power in defense of himself or others. There was an argument that could be made for him to help.

But teleporting into a firefight did not seem wise.

He squinted, trying to commit every detail to memory. He could see Agent Dunkirk near the entrance to the lobby. He appeared to be the source of the shout that had blown away the fog cloud. There were a handful of agents scattered around, taking cover behind concrete debris, all in various states of health. The ice themed villains had created cover of their own, while the armed goons had spread out, looking for clear lines of fire.

Dan eyed the villains of Coldeyes' Crew, looking for hints at their abilities. He didn't get far, before he spotted a familiar face. Zacarias Gomez was making no attempt to hide his identity. He wore a sleeveless shirt, though his arms were covered up to the bicep in layers of ice, hiding that distinctive tattoo. He spoke in quiet tones to the men surrounding him, while Dunkirk shouted something incomprehensible at the villains.

Dan felt... something indescribable, as he watched the man who had tried to kill him and his friends casually reloading his submachine gun. It was a sort of spreading numbness, starting at the base of his neck and spreading outward. A calm, cool clarity, as Dan realized what he was going to do. What he had to do.

Deep in the recesses of t-space, suspended in nothingness by a tendril of sapphire blue, a small chunk of round steel began to fall.