This was a great idea.
For the first time in a month, I was able to feel my limit.
After four hours of intense swimming, my “flight muscle,” as Dad called it, was so overstrained that even a slight acceleration made me nauseous.
I didn’t go deeper.
For my first time, the three hundred meters of water above me was more than enough.
Flying away from the shore, I quickly reached my top speed.
It was an impressive number even by the standards of Earth’s best superheroes, but still deadly slow if I really planned to change the future.
The fact that I burned out so quickly showed just how far the current me was from my past self, let alone my father.
However, I was wrong about one thing.
I thought that actively flying would burn through the oxygen in my lungs much faster, but that didn’t happen.
There were small differences, certainly, but they were easily explained by the fact that I was constantly under pressure and experiencing environmental resistance.
That’s not the same oxygen consumption in the blood you’d expect from, say, running while holding your breath.
And so far, it looks like Viltrumite levitation isn’t tied to physiology.
Or at least it doesn’t require active oxygen absorption, which amounts to the same thing, since any organ works by pumping blood and the substances it carries.
But anatomically, I’m no different from a human.
No extra organs, not even increased mass from higher tissue density, which you’d expect from a creature with such strength and durability.
Although a thought occurred to me: how could the Viltrumite ability to levitate instinctively reduce our weight?
That hypothesis is actually very easy to test.
Just study a sample of Viltrumite tissue separately from its host, or after death.
Another effect of underwater training was water heating from friction.
It wasn’t bothering me much yet, especially since I have a very high temperature threshold.
Even if the water around me boils, I’d feel perfectly comfortable.
But this effect could really blow my cover.
If I swam only in that cove where I first entered the water, I think I could raise the temperature in the surrounding area by several degrees.
That’s an anomaly that could attract unwanted attention.
Overall, the workout went about as I expected.
I didn’t even encounter a single shark or sea monster that tried to eat me.
In the end, after swimming to Japan and back a few times, I returned to my cove without incident.
By the end, I was so tired of “flying” that I tried swimming more classically.
It was fun, and I even managed to reach a decent speed, about on par with a high-speed boat.
When I came ashore, I realized I hadn’t brought a towel.
Worse, I hadn’t thought about how I was going to wash off the salt water.
How thoughtless of me.
Wincing from the strain on my “flight muscle,” I lifted myself slightly off the ground and focused on my, let’s call it flight sense.
Hmm, yes, I think I can do this.
Starting at a slow speed, I tried to spin myself as fast as possible, like a centrifuge or a top.
That’s what they call a standing spin in figure skating, I think.
Now *that* was a real test for my stomach.
I nearly threw up, and for a few seconds after stopping, I “drifted,” practically losing all spatial orientation.
Judging by the area of cleared pebbles within a couple meters of me, I went a little overboard with my spin speed.
But at least I shook off all the water, along with the sea salt.
Alright, time to go home before Mom gets suspicious.
***
*** Some time later, the Graysons’ hometown.
***
I didn’t want to come out.
But shit has a habit of not asking whether you want it or not, whether you’re expecting it or want to avoid it for another hundred years.
It doesn’t care.
It just comes.
And these three didn’t care about my opinion regarding their presence in my life either.
Too bad.
Let’s start from the beginning.
It was already the second month since I’d started training my powers, and the third since I’d gained them.
I was getting better at hiding my workouts behind various teenage activities.
For example, rollerblading, a gift for finishing the semester with straight A’s, or just hanging out with my friends, or rather his friends, like William.
But of course, I didn’t just use William as cover for my absences.
At least a couple times a week, I actually hung out with the guys.
And this was one of those days.
We’d just finished showing off at the local skate park, the neighboring district’s, since we didn’t have one of our own.
Proud of our display of toxic masculinity and plain old boyish stupidity, the whole group piled into Burger Mart.
That same dump where I “learned to be a man and earn my own money” in my past life.
And although I don’t remember everything that happened in my childhood, no one does unless they have eidetic memory or suffer from memory disorders, usually age-related, one thing I can say for sure: no one had ever robbed this dump.
This place was such a dump, I’m using that word too much, aren’t I?
But I just can’t describe it any other way.
This place stole the last evenings of my carefree, meaningless teenage existence.
No self-respecting thief would ever set foot here for any reason.
But these three, if they had any self-respect, certainly didn’t show it.
So there we were, sitting in this establishment, minding our own business.
The guys were praising me for showing those older kids from the neighboring district who’s boss.
On the track, of course, I don’t hit children.
When the door bursts open, in walk these three.
The most stereotypical, I’d even say the most cliché imaginable, gangsta boys, straight out of their own paradise.
Baggy hoodies, fake rings, bandanas with painted skulls on their faces.
One had a white balaclava stretched over his black face, and over his t-shirt hung a chain too thick to be gold.
Especially since this loser is robbing a dump like this.
He must be the leader.
All of them held their pistols in one hand, raised above their heads.
Very convenient for aiming, I’m sure.
In short, idiots imitating their rapper idols, picking up gun handling from their music videos.
All of this was accompanied by incoherent shouts with a heavy prevalence of the sound “Yo” and territorial conquest via monkey-like jumping from table to table.
“Empty the register, you fat bitch!” the white-faced one demanded, addressing my former, and hopefully not future, employer.
“And no funny business!”
The guy reacted quickly.
He raised his hands and started sweating profusely, his lower lip trembling.
But he didn’t seem to understand what the robber wanted.
Paralyzed with fear, probably.
It happens.
While the leader tried to get his demands met, his two accomplices ran from table to table, snatching jewelry from customers if they had any, pulling phones from their hands, and demanding cash.
One of them jumped to our table for some reason.
I think it was my mocking look.
He started yelling something about “little white bitches,” even though Shlomo was among us, and he’s blacker than any of these three, a Falasha, an Ethiopian Jew.
The boys were clearly scared.
They started stammering and shaking with fear.
I don’t blame them.
There’s a real gun in the hands of a black racist, and human life is fragile.
No one wants to die young.
William’s friends hurried to comply and put their heads on the table, pulling out their pitiful pocket money.
I should probably do the same and not provoke the bastard.
But then I wouldn’t be able to assess the situation and react in time if one of the idiots lost their nerve.
Besides, I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of this ape.
William either got nervous or just followed my example and didn’t rush to kiss his food tray.
But he did take the money out of his pockets and put it on the table.
A whole five crumpled, trembling dollars.
As much as I loathed these idiot robbers, I wasn’t going to reveal myself for their sake.
It’s not even that I’m vindictive and want this dump to go bankrupt before my parents get the idea to send me here for a part-time job.
That’s not it at all.
Although, I could deal with them quietly if they manage to pull this off and escape with the loot.
“Do you need a special invitation?” the still alive and free gangsta interrupted my thoughts, pointing his gun at my face.
He nervously eyed the cash on our table, probably realizing how stupid it was to demand money from children.
“Better find someone your own size and leave the kids alone,” a calm male voice suddenly said.
It was so startling that it stopped all the noise, moans, and screams.
Everyone looked at the speaker.
He was a provincial-looking guy, a real cowboy, complete with a hat, though not a bumpkin.
He looked a little over thirty, maybe even forty.
Short, with a two-day stubble.
A pretty natural type for America, though being washed out of public consciousness by leftist propaganda in recent decades.
Addressing the robber, he didn’t even bother to look at him.
He didn’t even tear himself away from his food and beer.
Under the watchful gaze of two dozen openly shocked eyes, the cowboy took a bite of his burger, chewed it thoroughly, and washed it down with a demonstrative, smacking gulp of what remained of his beer.
Now there’s an American hero.
And he got what he wanted.
Now no one was interested in the table with the kids, including our gangsta, who quickly used the opportunity to avoid embarrassing himself by picking a fight with a child.
Even the leader forgot about the cash register and the manager.
“Look at this guy!” one of the robbers chuckled.
“You lost your fucking mind, you freak?” our black guy yelled, running up to the man and putting his gun to his temple.
“Sorry,” the man purred, ignoring the gun at his head.
“Are we bothering you?”
“No, not at all,” the white-masked leader replied equally politely.
“It’s just, you see, this might be the last meal of my life, and although the beer here is crap and the patty in my burger is overcooked and tastes like stale oil, I’d still like to enjoy it properly before I beat you up, and, with a high probability, one of us dies.”
“God, this guy is cool!” William whispered in admiration, devouring the man with his eyes.
Looks like he just switched teams.
But it’s hard to disagree with him.
This guy is too cool for this world, unless he has superpowers, of course.
Then he’s just a master of showboating, which is also an important skill for a superhero.
The gangsta holding the gun to the man’s temple hesitated for a second.
He glanced at the leader, waiting for instructions.
Like a predator who freezes when the prey that always ran from it in fear suddenly acts unusual, he felt the dangerous unnaturalness of the situation.
But the cowboy didn’t give the robbers time to think.
He started acting himself.
As soon as the thug with the gun looked away, he jumped up from his seat at the counter.
He pushed the gun away from his head with his elbow and hit the bandit in the face with his empty beer mug with the other hand.
Contrary to movie laws, the mug didn’t break from the impact.
A dull sound of empty objects colliding echoed.
“Freeze!
Sheriff’s department!
You’re under arrest!” he shouted, pulling a pistol from under his jacket and pointing it at the leader.
“Drop your weapons!”
Only now did it become clear that he was actually very nervous and wasn’t a fearless superhero at all.
Just a good actor and a principled cop.
That earned him even more respect in my eyes.
Although his action was pretty idiotic, safer for everyone would be to let the idiots take the money and not put civilians, especially children, at risk.
On the other hand, he only started acting when the robbers accosted those same children.
And judging by his appearance, he’s a regular guy with no superpowers.
He overcame his fear and put his life on the line in a hopeless situation to do his duty and protect the kids.
And now whether I intervene or not directly determines human lives.
Because I doubt everyone here will see tomorrow’s sunrise if I decide to sit it out.