Starting Out
Greg Veder was many things. A coward, a lazy layabout, a procrastinator, and at seemingly random times a massive introvert. He liked to talk and would do so till the cows came home if anyone so much as gave him half a chance.
He was a pubescent, normal teenager. The computer in his room had oft been used for a less than wholesome past time, but a quick history deletion helped keep his mom from grounding him. Again. He had learned from the first time, a ‘good’ boy did not look up such ‘filth’, and certainly didn't set any pics from suspect sites as his screensaver.
All one would find if they were to check its history would turn out the random site hopping of a typical cape follower. PHO, YouTube, a couple webcomics that had sprung up over the years. ‘The Wonder Wards’ was a particular favorite, following a secret sect of under aged capes that participated in battling crimes all without the supervision of the Protectorate. They hadn't updated in over two months, but Greg was ever hopeful.
Something that Greg most certainly was, was a plain, B negative blooded male.
That claim was currently being challenged, as Greg attempted to carry out his morning ablutions. Standing in front of the toilet, his off hand vainly searching for his member to properly guide his morning stream away from hitting outside the porcelain bowl.
Vainly, for as far he could tell it was no longer there.
He peered downwards, blinking blearily through the gunk crusting his eyelashes. Seeing what was and what wasn't currently there, his poor, sleepy mind decided there was only one truly helpful course of action
Seconds later found his mother rushing into the bathroom, eyes wide in barely restrained panic. This expression quickly morphed first to derision, then to a tired resignation.
“Damnit Greg, I do not have time for this,” she groused, covering her eyes and averting her gaze. “It's nothing I haven't seen before, I did change your diapers, but you're getting a bit old to be showing that off to me, aren't you?”
Greg blinked owlishly, hands already in motion to shield his groin.
“I… It was… My junk…” He stuttered, trying to put his dilemma into words. “It's gone…”
His mother, instead of giving him verbal comfort let out a titanic sigh.
“We really don't have time for this,” she reiterated. “You need to hurry and wake up, breakfast is on the table. Eat and brush your teeth, we leave in ten.”
She promptly left, shutting the door with slightly more force than needed. Greg was left alone once more, hesitant to look downwards in fear of what he might find. A slight wiggle reminded him of his ever pressing need to relieve the pressure, his hand finding purchase on a limb he could have sworn had disappeared previously.
“And quit screeching so loud!” His mothers’ voice penetrated the bathroom door, “The neighbors will complain. I told you before, if you upset the Watersons they'll call the cops on us again... Do you WANT to embarrass your poor mother? Huh?”
“No mom…” Greg conceded, the liquid pouring freely in sweet release.
He could hear his mom muttering to herself as she retreated, heading downstairs.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Friggin kid, give me a freaking heart attack why don't you? The neighbors will think I have some sort of secret love child if he keeps yelling like that. He's a teenager, his voice should be getting deeper, not higher…”
Greg finished, quickly flushing and proceeding to wash his hands. Not for any real desire to rid his hands of germs, but for the fear that his mom would smack him upside the head for his slovenliness.
Was it simply a lingering vestige of his slumbering mind? A dream that crept into the waking world, tricking him into thinking his mini me had taken a vacation?
Another quick poke revealed that yes, he still was if not generously endowed, endowed in the strictest sense.
It must have been his imagination.
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School had been fine, if normal. Normal in its own, brutally horrible fashion. The goddess of his dreams, Taylor Hebert, was once more onset on all sides by the vicious bullying campaign from the popular girl trio. Today would have been the day, Greg would stand up and take Taylor's side. The bullies would be taken totally aback, they would lay off forever in shame and Taylor would absolutely want to date him.
It would be awesome.
Except it didn't happen. The trio still bullied Taylor, sure. That was common, an everyday occurrence. Greg had girded himself, preparing to stand up and help her.
Except he didn't. Greg had been metaphorically glued to his seat, mysteriously unwilling to move, to even squeak out a protest to her treatment. His words, unspoken, sank to the depths of his stomach and congealed in a frigid lump. Plans of retorts and actions flashed to the forefront of his mind, only for the perfect moments to pass. Then the less than perfect moments. Then the chances were gone.
He was as he was always, pitiful. Unable to even garner a passing resistance to the trios verbal bile.
It should have gotten better, after the locker incident he thought they might have backed off. How do you top stuffing a classmate in a locker filled with borderline hazardous material? How could tormenting his chocolate haired goddess still entertain them, when they had already raised their ‘antics’ to such heights?
Still they persisted. Still they threw their poisonous words, as if it were perfectly normal. Still Greg continued on, head down. Out of sight, out of mind. Unable to so much as help, to raise alarm to such a horrendous occurrence.
As he walked home, he placated himself with a rose tinted lie.
He’d speak up tomorrow. He’d tell them off, and it would all be better.
Wouldn't it?
Greg felt a cold ball of shame sink into his stomach, filling him with a bitter sadness as he realized it would never change. It would never get better.
Greg was no hero, he was simply Greg Veder.
Coward.
Cowards don't get the girl.
Cowards don't get anything.
To console himself, he deviated from his homeward path and headed towards the local eatery. Fugly Bobs wasn't the healthiest foodery, but what fast food place was, really? It wasn't supposed to be good for you, but it sure was good comfort food.
Nothing like a greasy burger to bury ones self esteem.
What little there was left.
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There was some things that even a copious amount of french fries couldn't help.
Being shot at by a squad of armed nutsos with laser rifles ranked pretty high on that list. It wasn't like he had been looking for them. It wasn't like he had a choice of running away, either. Not unless he wanted to just leave a poor, defenseless little girl to whatever cruel fate await her at the hands of the aforementioned nutsos. Okay, so she was a cape, so she wasn't defenseless, but she really didn't strike Greg as a combat thinker. Thinker powers were impressive, but they could only do so much against lasers.
Greg had almost made it to Fugly Bobs, if he had only been able to get in through the front doors... As it so happened, an errant piece of trash was all that had waylaid Greg's forward momentum, treacherously forcing him into an uncontrolled stumble down a nearby alley. This alone might not have been a tipping point, but Greg's wild attempts to regain his footing led him headlong into the side of a grimy dumpster. Face first, he slid slowly to the ground while his arms groped blindly for purchase.
Finding nothing more than a slick (albeit filth encrusted) surface, Greg promptly gave up and braced himself against the ground. It certainly helped more than touching the disgusting dumpster, that was for sure.
Greg stared downwards, gaze locking onto his outstretched arm. Specifically, the miscoloured flesh that covered said limb.
"I... What?"