I ran.
And I ran. And I ran.
The wheat field gave way to dirt roads. The dirt roads gave way to country highways. The country highways gave way to suburbs. And the suburbs gave way to the city.
It was... surreal. Running at this speed, I mean. The world just sort of *whooshed* past me like I was watching a movie on fast-forward. Cars on the highway were moving at a crawl. Pedestrians were frozen mid-step. I could see a woman reaching for her coffee cup, her fingers centimeters away from the handle, and by the time she actually grabbed it, I was already three blocks past her.
I didn't even break a sweat.
Well, that's not true. I was sweating a little. But not like, dying. Not like how Sonic looked before he—
I pushed that thought away.
The really weird thing was that my body felt... fine. Better than fine, actually. When I'd woken up in that wheat field, I'd been a mess. Bruised, bloody, battered. My ribs had been screaming. My knuckles were split open. My back felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
But now? Now I felt... good. Really good. Like I'd just gotten a full night's sleep and a massage and a protein shake all in one.
That Enigma item... It must have done something. Healed me, or boosted my regeneration, or... something. The system didn't explain it, and I didn't have time to sit around theorizing.
All I knew was that the blood was gone. The dirt was gone. The cuts and bruises were faded to faint marks that you'd barely notice in bad lighting. It was like I'd been through a car wash, except the car wash also fixed your engine and gave you a fresh coat of paint.
The only thing it didn't fix was my clothes.
My hoodie was fucked. Torn, ripped, stained with things I didn't want to identify. There was a hole in the left sleeve where I'd caught a piece of shrapnel, and the right side was practically hanging off my shoulder. The fabric was stiff with dried sweat and whatever else had gotten on it during the strip club disaster.
I looked homeless. No, worse than homeless. I looked like a homeless guy who also happened to be a drug addict.
"Great. Just great."
I slowed down as I entered the city proper. Running at 120 km/h through downtown was a good way to get hit by a car... or worse, caught on camera. The last thing I needed was footage of some unknown speedster zipping through traffic ending up on the news.
I dialed it back to a normal jog, then a walk, blending in with the evening crowd as best I could. A few people gave me strange looks—probably because of the hoodie—but most just ignored me.
That was one nice thing about this city. People minded their own business. Mostly.
The neighborhood came into view after another twenty minutes of walking. Familiar streets, familiar buildings, familiar cracks in the sidewalk. I'd walked this route a thousand times, usually coming home from school with my head down and my shoulders hunched, trying not to attract attention.
This time was different. This time, I was the one who didn't want to be seen.
The apartment building loomed ahead. Nice marble lobby, fancy chandelier, gold-trimmed elevator doors. The kind of building that looked like it belonged in the Heights, not in the Flats. But Steph's "elite companionship" paid well enough to afford it.
I pushed through the front doors and headed for the stairs. The lobby was quiet—just the doorman sitting behind his desk, reading something on his phone.
He looked up as I walked past.
"...!"
His eyes went wide. Like, comically wide. The kind of wide you see in cartoons where the character's eyeballs practically pop out of their sockets. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He didn't say a word. Not even the usual "evening, sir" he gave me every time I came home.
I looked down at myself. Right. The hoodie. The holes. The stains. The general aura of "Wtf happened to this kid!?"
I raised my shoulders in a shrug.
"What? I got into a bit of an accident... But I'm fine."
He didn't respond. I kept walking.
The elevator was out of the question. I didn't want to deal with any neighbors seeing me like this. So I took the stairs, moving at a normal pace despite the fact that every fiber of my being wanted to sprint up them at full speed.
I have powers now.
The thought kept circling in my head like a dog chasing its tail. I had actual, real powers. I could run faster than cars. I could move faster than people could see. I was no longer a Blank.
I was no longer a fucking Blank.
I reached the apartment door and slid my key into the lock. The sounds from inside were already audible—shouting, arguing, the usual Blackwell household symphony.
"—I already TOLD you, I'm not paying for your fucking nails again!"
"But Moooooom, they got ruined! Bethany knocked over the acetone bottle!"
"I did NOT! She put it right on the edge of the—"
"SHUT UP! Both of you! I have a headache!"
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The arguing was coming from the living room. Steph was there, still in her silk robe from this morning, looking even more haggard than before. Bethany was waving her hands around, showing off her nails, which did indeed look messed up. Sylvie was on the couch, scrolling through her phone with an expression of utter contempt.
"—and if you think I'm gonna sit here and listen to you complain about your nails when I've been working all night—"
"You weren't WORKING, you were fucking some old guy for money!"
"LANGUAGE!"
"It's true!"
"Truth and manners are two different things, young lady!"
None of them noticed me.
I didn't care. I walked past the living room entrance, keeping my head down, and headed straight for the stairs.
"—I swear to God, if you don't shut up, I'm grounding you for a—"
"Ground me? I'm TWENTY!"
"I'm still your mother!"
"Biologically, maybe!"
I was halfway up the stairs when—
*Creak.*
The third step. Again.
Bethany's head popped around the corner. "Who's—"
I was already gone. Up the rest of the stairs, down the hall, through my bedroom door. I closed it behind me and leaned against it, exhaling.
"Dumb fucking stairs."
I stood there for a moment, catching my breath. Not that I needed to—my new body apparently had stamina for days—but out of habit. Old habits die hard.
[Ding!]
A notification popped up in my vision.
[Parasite (Gen 0) has died of old age.]
[Any uncollected power has been lost.]
"..."
I stared at the notification for a moment. Then I shrugged.
"Expected."
The Gen 0 worm was gone. It had lived its twenty hours, done its job, drained David Collins of 10% of his power, and passed that power on to me. Its life was over.
But it had left behind children.
[Gen 1 ×3 status:]
[Lifespan: 12:04:33 remaining]
[Drain cap: 3.33% each]
[Current drain: 3.33% each (Full)]
Wait. Shit.
"Only twelve hours?"
I looked at the time on my alarm clock. It was already past 7 PM. I'd been unconscious for most of the day.
"I need a shower. And food. And then..."
I trailed off, looking out the window at the darkening city.
Then I'd need to find a new host. The Gen 1s needed somewhere to go—somewhere with power, somewhere I could plant them and let them drain. And I needed more power. D-rank speed was nice, but it wasn't enough. Not for what I had planned.
Or what I wanted to do anyway.
In general, except for S rank and above, the ranking system for heroes followed a steady pattern.
D-Rank can take up to 3 E-Ranks in a fight, C-Ranks can take up to 3 D-Ranks in a fight, and B-Ranks...
B-Ranks can take up, in theory, 9 D-Ranks in a fight.
Of course, those numbers just follow a broad definition, more of a rule of thumb kind of thing but still...
"..."
I pushed off the door and started peeling off my destroyed hoodie. It practically disintegrated in my hands, the fabric so torn and stiff that it barely held together.
"First things first. Shower. Then food. Then..."
I caught my reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, messy black hair. Same old Noel.
"... Tsk."
I grabbed the last clean shirt from my closet—a plain black t-shirt that barely fit anymore—and a pair of jeans that had seen better days but were at least intact. No holes, no tears, no mysterious stains. That was about as fancy as my wardrobe got these days.
"Fuck. I really need to buy new clothes."
With my money stolen and my phone destroyed, that wasn't happening anytime soon. I tucked the clothes under my arm and headed downstairs.
The hallway was quiet. The arguing from earlier had died down, which meant either Steph had won, Bethany had stormed off to her room, or they'd all just gotten tired of yelling at each other. Probably the latter. That was usually how it went.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the bathroom door opened.
A girl stepped out.
[Name: Gracie Blackwell]
[Age: 19]
[Rank: Blank]
[Occupation: College student]
She was wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around her body, tucked loosely under her arms. Her black hair was wet, hanging in heavy strands past her shoulder blades, dripping water onto the floor. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat of the shower, and she was holding a smaller towel in one hand, dabbing at her neck.
Her body was... yeah.
The towel was doing a shit job of hiding anything. It was pulled tight across her chest, showing off the shape of her D-cup tits pressing against the damp fabric. The outline of her nipples was faintly visible through the white material. The towel ended just above her knees, showing off her thick, soft thighs and the curve of her hips. A sliver of her stomach was visible where the towel had shifted, showing her slight tummy and the pale skin of her waist.
She looked at me with those dark, nearly black eyes. No expression. No reaction. Just... looking.
"...Hey."
"Hey."
We stood there for a moment. Me holding my clothes. Her holding her towel. The sound of dripping water filling the silence.
"...You look like shit," she said flatly.
"Thanks."
"Wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
She glanced at the torn hoodie I was carrying, then back at my face. Her expression didn't change—blank, deadpan, unbothered—but she tilted her head slightly.
"What happened to your clothes?"
"I tripped."
"Into a woodchipper?"
"...Yeah. A really big one."
"Whatever." She walked past me, her shoulder brushing mine. She smelled like cheap shampoo and body wash. "Bathroom's free."
"Thanks."
I watched her walk down the hall, her wet hair leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor. The towel swayed with each step, showing glimpses of the sides of her thick thighs and the curve of her ass where the fabric rode up slightly.
I looked away.
Not my family. Not my problem. Not my... anything.
I pushed into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
The mirror above the sink showed me exactly what Gracie had seen. I looked like garbage. My face was pale—paler than usual, which was saying something. My dark circles had dark circles. My hair was a matted, sweaty mess.
But my body... my body looked fine. No cuts, no bruises, no signs of the beating I'd taken yesterday. I looked like I'd just gotten a bad night's sleep, not like I'd been thrown into walls, caught in explosions, and dragged through a warzone.
The water was hot—scalding, actually. I didn't care. I stood under it for a long time, letting the heat soak into my muscles. I scrubbed myself raw, washing away the sweat, the grime, and whatever else had accumulated on my skin over the past twenty-four hours.
I watched the dirt circle the drain and disappear.
David Collins.
The name flashed through my mind unbidden. The image of his broken body lying in that wheat field. The sound of his voice asking me to kill him.
"...so fucking sorry..."
I shook my head, pushing the thought away. Now wasn't the time. I'd deal with that later. Or never. Never worked too.
I stayed in the shower until the water started to run cold, then stepped out and dried myself off. The clean clothes felt nice against my skin—soft, whole, unstained. A small luxury in a life that didn't have many.
I dried my hair, threw on my clothes, and stepped out of the bathroom. The hallway was still quiet. I could hear faint sounds coming from Bethany's room—some reality show playing on her phone, probably. And from Sylvie's room, the muffled sound of hair straighteners and pop music.
I didn't feel tired. Like, at all. The Enigma had apparently given me a full reset—energy, stamina, everything. I felt like I could run another marathon and still have gas in the tank.
Which meant I couldn't just go to sleep. And I couldn't go on my phone because a certain speedster had crushed it like a beer can yesterday. Thank you, David. Very helpful.
That left the TV in the living room.
The apartment was quiet enough. Maybe Steph had gone back to bed. Maybe the girls were in their rooms. Maybe I could actually sit down and watch something without being called a loser or a creep or a school shooter.
I crept down the stairs slowly, keeping my weight on the balls of my feet. The third step—I skipped it entirely, stepping over it to avoid the telltale creak.
The living room was dimly lit. The TV was on, playing some sports highlight reel at a low volume. And someone was sitting on the couch.
"...!"
I froze.
[Name: John Jackson]
[Age: 22]
[Rank: A]
[Occupation: Gravity Queen's Sidekick]
[Power Type: Gravity Manpulation]
[Ability: Gravity Negation (Can Negate gravity on an entire city block]
[Description: A conventionally handsome, athletic jock with below-average intelligence. And a member of Gravity Queen's Team, in a supporting sidekick role. Is currently dating Sylvie Blackwell purely for mutual social clout.]
"..."
It was a guy. Young, maybe early twenties. He had dark hair styled in that messy-but-expensive way that took forty-five minutes in a bathroom to achieve. He was wearing a fitted polo shirt that showed off his muscular build, and a pair of designer jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined. He was sitting there casually, one arm draped over the back of the couch, watching the screen with a bored expression.
I'd seen him before. At school events. In pictures on Sylvie's phone. At that one Christmas party where he'd shown up drunk and tried to arm-wrestle Steph's then-boyfriend.
John Jackson. Sylvie's boyfriend. The one with the micropenis, according to Bethany.
Our eyes met.
"..."
He stared at me. I stared at him. Neither of us said anything for a solid five seconds. The TV played on in the background, some commentator excitedly describing a touchdown or whatever.
I blinked. He blinked.
"...Hey bro! What's up!" He broke the silence with a grin, throwing up a casual wave. "You're, uh... Noir, right? It's great to see you, man! I'm John—well, I guess you probably already know that, huh? Since I'm, like, dating your sister and everything."
"...It's Noel, actually."
"Noel! Right, right. Sorry, man. I'm bad with names." He slapped the couch cushion next to him. "Come sit down! I was just watching the highlights from last week's game. You into football?"
I hesitated in the doorway for a moment. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to turn around and go back to my room. Social interaction with people outside my family wasn't exactly my strong suit, and this guy was... well, he was the definition of a jock. The kind of guy who'd probably shoved kids like me into lockers back in high school.
But he seemed... chill? I don't know.
"...Sure."
I walked over and sat down on the other end of the couch, keeping a healthy distance between us. The TV was showing a replay of some football game—a college match, from the look of the uniforms.
"You watch college ball?" John asked, glancing at me.
"Not really."
"That's cool, that's cool. I used to play back in high school. Wide receiver." He flexed his arm absently, like it was a reflex. "Got a scholarship offer and everything. Blew out my knee senior year after using my powers wrong during training, though, so... yeah. Didn't happen."
"Sorry."
"Nah, it's fine. Shit happens, right?" He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I'm just waiting for Sylvie to get ready. We're going out to some fancy restaurant downtown. She's been getting dressed for like... two hours now."
"Sounds about right."
John laughed. "Right? Like, I love the girl, but Jesus Christ. Two hours. I could've run a marathon in two hours." He paused, then looked at me sideways. "Well, actually, I can't run a marathon. Knee thing. Well, I can lift a whole marathon with its runners using my powers—But you know what I mean."
I nodded slowly. "...Yeah."
We sat there for a moment, watching the TV in comfortable silence. The commentator was rambling about some player's stats, and I found myself actually paying attention despite having zero interest in football.
"So, uh..." John turned to me again. "What do you do for fun, man? You play any sports? Video games? Girls? What's your thing?"
... Tsk.
This is why I hate small talk.
"I, uh... I read. Mostly."
"Reading! That's cool, man. Smart hobby." He nodded approvingly. "I tried reading once. Got through like... half a book. Then I fell asleep." He laughed at himself. "Not really my thing, you know? I'm more of a go-getter kind of guy."
"..."
"She's getting ready upstairs?" I asked.
"Yeah, should be another thirty minutes or so. She texted me like twenty minutes ago saying she was 'almost done,' but I've learned that 'almost done' in Sylvie-time means 'I haven't even started.' So I just came down here to chill." He gestured at the TV. "Your mom's cool with me being here, by the way. She said I could wait."
"Stepmom."
"My bad. Stepmom."
"..."
"Hey, Noir?"
"Noel."
"Right, Noel. You want something to drink? I was gonna grab a beer from the fridge."
"...I'm eighteen."
"So? It's just a beer." He stood up, stretching. "I won't tell if you won't."
I thought about it for a second. "...Sure."