Alright. Now it's time for this...
I sat on my bed and with the excitement of a child opening his christmas gifts, I pulled up the system.
[Parasite (Gen 1) status update.]
[Host: John Jackson]
[Ability: Gravity Negation (A-rank)]
[Gen 1-A: 5% of A-rank Gravity Negation absorbed.]
[Gen 1-B: 5% of A-rank Gravity Negation absorbed.]
[Gen 1-C: 5% of A-rank Gravity Negation absorbed.]
[Gen 2: 0.1% absorbed.]
[Total absorbed: 15% of A-rank Gravity Negation.]
[FEED: Absorb the stolen power.]
[BREED: Spawn more parasites instead.]
I stared at the options for a moment. Feed or Breed. Take the power for myself, or use it to make more parasites.
The answer obvious. Without a doubt. 100%! No, 1000%.
Considering I had three Gen 1s all sitting at 5%, and the Gen 2 was barely started... yeah.
Feed. I needed the power more than I needed more worms right now.
Gravity powers! Gravity powers! Gravity powers!
"Feed."
[Ding!]
[New ability acquired: Gravity Negation.]
[User can now negate the weight of objects up to 9 tonnes.]
[Gen 1-A: Lifespan: 5:36:04 remaining]
[Gen 1-B: Lifespan: 5:36:04 remaining]
[Gen 1-C: Lifespan: 5:36:04 remaining]
[Gen 2: Inherited traits: Enhanced Speed (minor), Gravity Negation (minor)]
[Gen 2: Lifespan: 23:53:39 remaining]
I felt it happen. It was like someone had poured warm honey into my chest, and then that honey spread outward through my arms, my legs, my fingers, my toes. My body felt... lighter. Not in a metaphorical way. Literally lighter. Like gravity had decided to ease up on me specifically.
"Whoa..."
I have powers! Real powers!
I mean David ones were real too but this--
I looked down at my hands. They looked the same. Pale, skinny, unimpressive. But I could feel it—a new sensation sitting right alongside the speed. A kind of pressure I could push outward, like flexing a muscle I didn't know I had.
I pointed at my alarm clock and focused.
"..."
Nothing happened.
Well... that was awkward.
I tried again, concentrating harder.
The clock lifted about an inch off the nightstand, wobbling in the air like it was sitting on an invisible cushion.
"Holy shit."
I grinned like an idiot, holding it there for a few seconds before letting it drop. It clattered back onto the nightstand, and I immediately reached for something bigger.
My desk lamp. It rose smoothly into the air, spinning slowly. Then my chair. Then my pillow. Then my blanket.
"This is fucking insane!"
I was floating everything I could get my hands on—literally floating it. The desk lamp, the chair, the pillow, all hovering around my room like they were in zero gravity. I felt like a kid who'd just discovered he had superpowers.
Which, technically, I had.
Then I got ambitious.
I pointed at my desk. The big wooden one that I'd had since I moved in. It was heavy, solid oak, probably forty or fifty kilos. I focused, pushing the new sensation outward.
The desk shuddered. Then it lifted. Slowly, shakily, but it lifted. It rose about a foot off the ground, hovering in the air—
And then I lost focus.
*CRASH!*
The desk slammed back down, hitting the floor with a sound like a thunderclap. One of the legs snapped clean off, and the whole thing tilted sideways, spilling books and papers everywhere.
"...Fuck."
I stared at the broken desk.
"Well, that's gonna be hard to explain."
But meh, who gives a shit?
I have Superpowers now!
I heard movement upstairs—Bethany's door opening, then slamming shut again. She'd probably been woken up by the noise. Not my problem.
I looked at the broken desk, then at the window, then at the clock.
12:47 AM.
"...I need to get out of here."
The night air hit me immediately. Cool, damp, with the faint smell of rain. The city stretched out below me—miles of buildings and streets, glowing with neon and streetlights. I was on the fourth floor, and the drop was at least forty feet.
Normally, that would be a death sentence.
But I wasn't normal anymore.
I focused on myself, pushing the gravity negation inward. It was different from using it on objects--harder, more intimate. Like trying to tickle yourself. But after a moment, I felt it click.
My body got lighter.
I stepped onto the windowsill, my heart pounding. The wind tugged at my hoodie, and the city lights reflected in my dark eyes.
"If this doesn't work, I'm going to look really fucking stupid."
That would mostly be in the top 5 of dumb ways to die.
Well... here it goes.
I stepped off.
The fall was... slow. Not floating, exactly, but controlled. Like gravity had decided I wasn't worth pulling down at full speed. I descended gently, my feet touching the ground with barely a sound.
I stood there for a moment, looking up at the window I'd just jumped from.
"Hah... hahaha!"
I was laughing. Actually laughing. Not the hollow, bitter laugh I'd been using for the past year. A real, genuine laugh that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
"I can fly. I can fucking fly!"
Not really. More like... controlled falling. But still.
I started running.
The first drops of rain hit my face as I took off down the street. Not fast--maybe 60 km/h, a light jog by my new standards. The buildings blurred past me, and the wind whipped through my hair.
Then it started pouring.
The rain came down in sheets, soaking through my hoodie in seconds. The streets were empty—nobody in their right mind would be out at 1 AM in a downpour. But I kept running, my feet splashing through puddles, my breath coming out in white puffs.
I was smiling.
I couldn't help it. The rain was cold and the wind was sharp and my legs were burning, but I was smiling. For the first time in... I don't know how long. Months. Years, maybe.
I pushed harder. 80. 100. 120.
The world blurred. Cars parked on the street became streaks of color. Streetlights merged into continuous lines of gold. The rain felt like tiny needles against my skin, but I didn't care.
Then I tried something.
I negated gravity on myself—fully—and jumped.
The result was... ridiculous.
"HOOOOOLY SHIIIIIIT!!!"
I went up. Way, way up. Like, ten stories up. I cleared a building, sailed over it, and came down on the roof of the one across the street. My feet hit the concrete, and I stumbled, nearly falling off the edge.
"WHAT THE FUCK!"
I was breathing hard, my heart slamming against my ribs. But I was grinning.
I did it again. This time from a running start. I negated my weight, pushed off the edge of the building, and launched myself into the air. The city spread out below me—a glittering carpet of lights and rain and motion. For a single, breathtaking moment, I was flying.
Then I landed on the next rooftop, rolled, and kept running.
"HAHAHAHA!"
I was screaming with laughter, jumping from building to building like some kind of knockoff Spider-Man. The rain was coming down so hard I could barely see, but I didn't care. The wind was howling, the city was sleeping, and I was alive.
I jumped again. Higher this time. Fifteen stories. Twenty. The world below me shrank to a miniature model, and for a moment, I just... hung there. Suspended in the air, weightless, free.
Then gravity reasserted itself, and I dropped.
I negated again, slowing my descent, and landed on a rooftop with a thud that sent water splashing in every direction.
"...Okay. Okay. That was insane."
I was soaked to the bone, shivering, and pretty sure I'd pulled something in my left leg. But I'd never felt more alive in my entire life.
I kept running, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the city a blur of gray and gold beneath me. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care.
And then—
"Please! HELP! SOMEBODY!"
The scream cut through the rain like a knife.
I stopped. My feet skidded on the wet rooftop, and I nearly slid off the edge. I grabbed a vent pipe to steady myself and looked down.
An alley. Dark, narrow, the kind of alley that looked like it had been designed specifically for crimes. The kind of alley that mothers warned their children about. The kind of alley that existed in every bad neighborhood in every city in the world.
And I was in the worst neighborhood in the city.
The Flats. Or worse—the edge of the Gate District. I'd been running without paying attention to where I was going, and I'd somehow ended up in the part of the city where the crime rate was higher than the rent.
"Please! Someone! HELP ME!"
The scream was feminine. Desperate. The kind of scream that made your stomach drop and your heart race.
"...Tsk."
I stood there on the rooftop, rain pouring down my face, and considered my options.
Option one: ignore it. Keep running. Go home. Pretend I never heard anything. This wasn't my problem. I wasn't a hero. I was a parasite-wielding power thief who'd killed a man in a wheat field less than twelve hours ago.
Option two: go down there and... do what? Fight whoever was attacking her? With what? My barely-tested gravity powers and my D-rank speed? I didn't even know how to fight. I'd never been in a real fight in my life. The only combat experience I had was getting my ass kicked by Jack and his goons.
"It's one or two in the morning. It's raining. And I'm in the most dangerous neighborhood in the city."
"Please... please, no... someone help me..."
"...Fuck me."
I looked down into the alley. I could see movement—figures, shadows. A woman, maybe. And someone else. Someone standing far away.
[Name: Marcus Cole]
[Age: 28]
[Rank: B]
[Occupation: Vigilante]
[Power Type: Regeneration]
[Ability: Enhanced Regeneration (can heal from virtually any wound, including fatal injuries)]
[Description: A B-rank vigilante known as "Revive." Idealistic to a fault. Has a habit of charging into situations without thinking. Has been killed at least a thousand times and came back each time.]
"..."
My eyes widened.
"A B-rank? Here? Now?"
What were the odds?
I crouched on the edge of the rooftop, watching as the vigilante—Revive—charged down the alley toward the source of the screaming. He was wearing some kind of dark costume, a mask covering his face, his cape billowing behind him in the rain.
He looked like every generic superhero I'd ever seen in a comic book.
"You foul villains—hk!"
He didn't even finish his sentence.
*BRATATATATATATA!*
Gunfire. Lots of it. From multiple directions. The alley lit up with muzzle flashes, and Revive's body jerked and spasmed as bullet after bullet tore through him.
"..."
He fell.
Like a sack of potatoes. His body hit the wet pavement with a wet thud, and he didn't move. Blood pooled around him, mixing with the rainwater and flowing toward the drain.
"...Well, that was anticlimactic."
I watched from above, my expression flat. The shooters—three men, from what I could see—emerged from the shadows. They were armed, professional-looking. Not street thugs. Something more organized.
One of them kicked Revive's body. "He's dead."
"For sure?"
"For sure."
"Fucking vigilantes. They never learn."
They laughed. One of them spat on the body. Then they turned back to whatever they'd been doing before the idiot in the cape had interrupted them.
I was about to leave—really, I was—when I noticed something.
Revive's body was... moving.
Not much. Just a twitch. A finger. Then a hand. Then an arm.
The bullet wounds were closing. Right before my eyes, the holes in his chest sealed up, the skin knitting together like someone had hit the rewind button on a video. The blood stopped flowing. His eyes opened.
"...No way."
He sat up, slowly, groaning. He looked down at his body—at the bullet holes in his costume, at the bloodstains that were already fading—and sighed.
"...That one hurt."
"He's getting up again!" one of the shooters yelled.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
"Shoot him again!"
*BRATATATATATATA!*
Revive's body jerked again as another volley of bullets tore through him. He fell backward, dead once more.
I watched, fascinated.
A few seconds passed.
Then he started healing again.
"...Holy shit."
Enhanced regeneration. B-rank. The man could literally come back from the dead.
And that was justa B-rank? What an S-rank regenerator can do?
Or maybe his power had a catch to be rated this low?
"..."
As I was watching from a rooftop, wondering one very specific thing:
Could I use him as a host?
A B-rank with regeneration. If I planted parasites in him, they'd drain that power. And if he could heal from anything... well, he wouldn't miss a few percentage points, would he?
I crouched on the rooftop, rain streaming down my face, and watched as Revive got up again. And got shot again. And got up again.
"He really doesn't learn, does he?"
The shooters were getting frustrated now. They'd emptied three magazines into him, and he kept coming back. One of them pulled out a larger weapon—a shotgun, maybe—and blew Revive's head clean off.
I watched the headless body fall.
Then, slowly, a new head started growing back.
"...What the actual fuck."
That was disgusting. And also kind of awesome.
I sat there in the rain, watching the most absurd game of whack-a-mole I'd ever seen, and I started thinking about how exactly I was going to get close enough to shake this guy's hand.