Maximum Power II (Extended and Final) (Patreon)

An update of the previous Maximum Power II, wordcount doubled.

Maximum Power II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

In a smoke-choked boardroom deep within the Pentagon, General Isaac Casey sat to the left of President George Herbert Walker Bush, who occupied the head of the table. The room was thick with tension, every man's posture speaking volumes of the gravity of their discussion. Wisps of smoke curled lazily from the smoldering tips of cigars and cigarettes, the haze casting a pall over the proceedings. Dick Cheney, on the President's right, leaned forward, his voice cutting through the murk. "Instilling the alien with good American values…"

The President nodded, his expression grave. "Utmost importance, frankly. We can't afford to have a weapon that doesn't align with our interests."

Casey glanced around the room, observing the officials, each visibly fatigued from the long hours of discussion. Ties loosened, shirts unbuttoned, jackets removed – the signs of weariness were evident, but the urgency of their mission lent them a collective resolve. 

"Must be fed and watered obviously," a CIA official chimed in, his tone pragmatic yet tinged with a dry humor that failed to completely mask the seriousness of their task. "Reports mark his physical age as somewhere around nine or ten and his metabolism is fast enough that he should be dead four times over. Considering that puberty, assuming whatever type of creature he is goes through puberty, is three years away, we can't have him starving."

One official at the far end of the table raised his hand, the man a glasses-wearing pointdexter that was clearly one of Steadman's boys, despite his placement in the CIA. As Cheney waved at him to go on, he finally spoke up. "We've been working on this slurry," the man began, adjusting his glasses. "It's dense in nutrients, excessively so, far too fattening for soldiers really, and the taste… Well, boys like sugar."

Casey's lips twitched in a half-smirk. Feed the weapon, but not to the point of gluttony. Keep him lean, keep him hungry.

Another general down near Steadman, his voice stern and authoritative, interjected. "A good education is a requirement. We can't have the boy be an idiot if he's going to be handling operations."

Ideas began to flow from the gathered minds, suggestions of propaganda disguised as education. "American history, of course, but tailored," one suggested. , tapping his finger on the table for emphasis.

"And economics, framed to show the superiority of our system," added another, eyes gleaming with a calculated fervor..

Casey nodded, mind moving steadily but quickly all the same. Educate him, yes, but educate him in our image. Make him believe in our cause as deeply as he believes in his own existence.

Cheney, tapping ashes from his cigar into a nearby tray, remarked, "Well, he needs physical exercise obviously. A growing boy can't be cooped up in one place."

As the discussion shifted, the room's energy intensified. One of the generals, a seasoned veteran with a chest full of ribbons, leaned in. "We're shaping a potential asset to national security. His training needs to be rigorous."

"Damn right," another general chimed in, his voice gruff. "The boy needs to be pushed to his limits, and then some."

The responses were immediate, a barrage of suggestions ranging from military drills to survival exercises. "Running from wild animals," one official said. 

"Climbing under barbed wire and being shot at with rubber bullets," added another, the suggestion met with nods of approval.

Cheney exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze piercing. "He needs to understand discipline. Military drills, combat training. If he's to be an asset, he needs to be able to follow orders without question."

President Bush leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "Gentlemen, we're not just training a soldier here. We're molding a weapon, a tool for our nation's interests. Every aspect of his development must be carefully controlled and directed."

Casey's jaw tightened. A weapon, indeed. But weapons can be dangerous, even to those who wield them. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room. "Mr. President, while I agree with the importance of shaping this boy into an asset, we must also consider the potential risks. An alien being, raised as a weapon... we only have one another test case. No successes yet. We must proceed with caution and foresight."

Cheney turned to Casey, his eyebrow raised. "General, are you suggesting we're not capable of controlling this situation?"

Casey met Cheney's gaze, unflinching. "I'm suggesting, Mr. Secretary, that we're dealing with an unknown entity. Caution is not a sign of weakness, but of wisdom. We must be prepared for any eventuality."

President Bush nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Casey. "Your point is noted, General. We'll ensure that contingencies are in place. But let's not lose sight of the opportunity before us. This boy, this... Project M, could be the key to securing our nation's future. We must mold him, shape him, and make him ours." President Bush nodded, his expression grave. "We need to ensure his loyalty. America first, always."

The Vice-President, Dick Cheney, nodded in return to the President's words, his eyes glinting as he leaned back in his seat, hands folded over his stomach. The gesture was one of satisfaction, a man confident in the direction of the conversation.

Casey listened, his expression unchanging but his mind working overtime. Physical prowess, yes. Make him strong, make him durable. But more importantly, make him ours. The thought echoed in his mind, a mantra that underscored the gravity of their task.

Another general, a man with a face weathered by years of service, spoke up. "He should be trained to fight in any way he can," he proposed, his voice gruff. "Boxing, wrestling, even that fancy Asian shit, anything that'll give him an edge."

Versatility, Casey mused. A weapon adaptable to any situation.

The sound of a hand slamming on the table drew Casey's attention. Another general, his eyes alight with a sudden idea, leaned forward. "What about survival training? Drop him in different environments – deserts, forests, arctic conditions. Teach him to adapt, survive."

I’m sure that this won’t at all ever come back to bite us. Casey nodded imperceptibly, his own thoughts sardonic as they rarely were. Already have one unkillable superweapon who looks just like us. Why not create another one?  

His gaze fell on Doctor Steadman, sitting further down the table. The man leaned forward, his expression one of concentration as he prepared to speak. "Gentlemen," the doctor began slowly, his voice measured, "while I agree with the necessity of rigorous training, we mustn't lose sight of the fact that he's still a child. His mental and emotional development is as crucial as his physical prowess."

Cheney scoffed, the sound cutting through the room. "We're not running a daycare, Steadman. He's more than just a boy; he's a potential superweapon."

Steadman adjusted his glasses, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "Indeed, but a weapon that's unstable or unpredictable is more a liability than an asset. We need to balance his training with proper psychological care."

President Bush leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. The gesture was one of contemplation, a man weighing the options presented to him. "Okay, let's hear it then. How do we balance this... training with ensuring he remains stable?"

A CIA operative, a young man with keen eyes, spoke up. "We could introduce him to controlled social scenarios. Limited, supervised interactions with peers to develop his social skills."

"Supervised interactions," Cheney repeated, mulling over the idea. "Could work. Keep him on a tight leash but give him enough room to feel like he's got some freedom."

Never known a dog to pull on their leash. Not once, no, Casey thought with a straight face.

Steadman nodded, the man scratching at his balding head as he did so. “What little I could get from the boy before we put him under did indicate that he’s been socialized and is aware of normal human norms, at least those of his reality, but I’ve noticed scant difference so far.”

Several in the room nodded at that, the space quiet for a moment. 

President Bush cleared his throat, his gaze settling on Casey. "General Casey, you've been quiet. Your thoughts?"

Casey straightened, tilting his head to meet Bush's gaze. The two men, both seasoned and hardened by their roles, locked eyes. Careful, Isaac. Choose your words wisely.

"Mr. President," Casey began, his voice steady, "if we're to proceed with this, we must do so with the utmost care. Yes, train him, harden him, but let's not forget the threat within him. He's a weapon; one that can quite easily turn against us if wielded incorrectly. We already worry enough about Project Hyperion, after all."

The room fell silent, the weight of Casey's words settling over them like a heavy blanket. They need to understand the gravity of this. The potential for disaster if we misstep.

He continued, his voice unwavering. "We train him, yes. But we can't let our guard slip for a moment. These are child soldiers we're creating, alien or not."

Bush nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "A balanced approach, then. Train him as a soldier, raise him as an American. Ensure his loyalty, but also his well-being."

Cheney leaned back, exhaling another cloud of smoke. The acrid scent mingled with the already thick air. "It's a fine line we're walking. But if anyone can walk it, it's you, General."

Casey didn't respond. Instead, he simply sighed, the weight of the responsibility settling on his shoulders. I certainly hope we're not making a mistake. God help us if we are.

The room lapsed into silence once more, each man lost in his own thoughts. Casey's mind raced, scenarios and possibilities playing out in his head. They were venturing into uncharted territory, playing with forces they barely understood. But in the game of global power, no piece could be left unused. Project M would be their trump card, their secret weapon. And Casey would ensure that he was honed to perfection, a blade forged in the fires of American might.

But at what cost? The thought whispered in the back of his mind, a constant nagging doubt. What price are we willing to pay for this power?

He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. They had a weapon to forge, a tool to craft. The consequences would be dealt with if and when they arose. For now, his duty was clear. Serve his country, protect its interests, and ensure that Project M became the asset they needed him to be.

May God have mercy on us all, he thought, as the meeting continued, the smoke in the room growing thicker with each passing moment. Let’s hope this isn’t a mistake.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He made a mistake. 

A critical one in a fight like this.

Up until this point, the fight had been going relatively well, as well as a fight can go when you're hopelessly outclassed in strength, speed, and durability to an insane degree.

Well, speed wasn’t exactly accurate.

Sure, his opponent was technically faster, like when it came to flight. But short-range speed?

In a fight?

That's where Zach was king.

His opponent's red eyes widened as Zach slammed a hard kick into his gut, the impact reverberating through the air.

Those same red eyes narrowed an instant later, their owner countering with a lightning-fast jab that just barely managed to graze Zach's side as he dodged for all he was worth.

"Fuck!" Zach cursed under his breath.

Graze or not, the rib-shaking blow left Zach spinning, skidding backwards nearly a dozen meters away with a trail of dust accompanying him, even with ninety percent of the force behind the strike meeting nothing but air.

A flash of red light shot out from the eyes of his opponent, a thin beam of scarlet energy piercing out towards its target.

Said target frowned, a single hand slapping away the beam and sending it crashing to the ground, the energy digging a furrow through the hard desert ground.

Zach frowned, a single hand slapping away the beam and sending it crashing to the ground, the energy digging a furrow through the hard desert ground.

"Even holding back, he's so goddamn strong," Zach muttered through gritted teeth, avoiding the urge to rub his stinging hand as he clenched it into a fist.

Both boys rushed each other, fast enough that they covered half a mile in a blink of an eye and a blur of motion. The desert landscape blurred around them, the details lost in the sheer speed of their movement.

They clashed again, their contact kicking up a storm's worth of dust as the boy in all-red blocked a hit with his forearm. His opponent's fist lashed out in a powerful hook, raw force behind it enough to cause a gale of air strong enough to bend the tall grass for meters around.

Zach ducked, his blue eyes tracking the hit as he watched his attacker overextend his blow. Without hesitation, Zach retaliated in a barrage of motion.

OneTwoThree blows to the sternum in quick succession.

Faster than an eyeblink.

Much faster.

Zach spun with the final punch, striking out hard with an elbow into his opponent's chest. Still riding his momentum, he continued his spin and slammed a kick hard into the same spot with as much force as he could muster in an instant.

It was no small amount.

My turn! Zach thought, a grin spreading across his face. His hands gathered at his chest, fingers curled and one palm over the other as bright blue energy formed in a sparking ball at the center of his outward-facing hand. The energy tingled against his palm, the power he was barely containing threatening to blow up in his face if he lost focus for even a moment.

Bright blue quickly deepened in color to something more like a purple as he focused on shifting its frequency and condensing the energy he held onto. It had taken him a year to get his power level high enough that he could actually use his energy properly, an additional six months on top of that to learn how to even produce a basic blast, and another three to even manage to recreate this move from memory. Even now, well over a year later, he considered it a miracle that he was able to use it in a fight. Brain damage or not, that monkey man was a fighting genius, Zach mused, his grin widening as he felt the power surging through him.

The energy crackled and sparked, the air around him humming with barely contained power. It was unstable and rough, the energy struggling against him for the half-second he spent charging it up. Zach could feel the strain on his body, his muscles tensing as he fought to keep the energy under control. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the heat from the energy making the air around him shimmer.

But he wouldn't let it get the best of him. He'd worked too hard, spent too many hours training and meditating, to let a little thing like potentially blowing himself up stop him.

With a deep breath, Zach steadied himself, his focus sharpening to a razor's edge. He could feel every particle of energy, every ebb and flow of power as it swirled around his hand. It was almost hypnotic, the way it moved and pulsed, like a living thing.

But he couldn't afford to get lost in it. Not now, not with his opponent bearing down on him, a red blur of motion that was getting closer by the second.

Zach's eyes narrowed, his grin turning feral. He'd only have one shot at this, one chance to catch his opponent off guard and turn the tide of the battle.

He waited, counting down the seconds in his head. Three... two... one...

"GALLICK GUN!" Zach roared, thrusting his arms forward and his hands out. The energy surged forward, a blinding beam of purple light that cut through the air like a hot knife through butter. It was so bright it hurt to look at, the air around it shimmering with heat and power.

The beam struck his opponent head-on, engulfing him in a blinding light and sending him hurtling high into the air. He could hear the boy's cry of surprise and pain, the sound almost lost in the roar of the energy blast.

For a moment, Zach allowed himself a smirk, watching as the other boy was launched skyward by the force of the blast. The dust settled around him, the air still crackling with residual energy. For a brief, fleeting instant, the only sound was the gentle rustling of the tall grass in the breeze, a stark contrast to the chaos and destruction of just moments before.

But it didn't last long.

Barely two seconds after he was launched into the sky, the other boy shot back down like a missile, hands out in front as he dove towards the ground. Blue eyes widened, his smirk fading as he realized what was about to happen.

He barely had time to brace himself before the impact, the force of it comparable to a small earthquake. The ground shook and heaved, cracks spreading out from the point of impact like a spider's web as dust and debris filled the air, obscuring his vision and making it hard to breathe.

But he couldn't let that stop him. 

Zach focused for a moment, letting out a drawn-out wordless yell as a blue aura surrounded him. The air crackled with energy, the grass around him flattening as if pushed down by an invisible force, lowering even further as his aura shifted in an instant, changing from a soft blue glow to something more intense. “HAAAAAAAA!” It was like lightning, crackling and sparking around his entire body, in an entirely different way than his normal energy aura.

He could feel the energy coursing through his body, threatening to roam wild before he clamped down on it and began to focus it, shoving it into one arm and holding it there. It was different from the Gallick Gun. Both required him to shift the frequency of his energy to something more chaotic and volatile but that was like holding a bomb. 

This was like holding a live wire, the energy threatening to burst out of him at any moment.

He focused harder, his brow furrowing as he poured all his concentration into controlling the energy. Come on!

With a final, wordless yell, Zach darted forward, his body a blur of motion as he raced towards the crater where his opponent had landed. The air whipped past him, tugging at his hair and clothes as he pushed himself to move faster, harder.

He could see the other boy now, pushing himself up from the ground, his red bodysuit torn and dusty. Zach's heart raced, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he closed the distance between them.

The energy in his arm was reaching a fever pitch, the power threatening to burst out of him at any moment. But Zach held it back, his teeth gritted as he focused all his will on keeping it contained.

He leaped, his fist cocked back and glowing with barely contained energy. This was it, his chance to end the fight once and for all. "ARM BREAKER!" he yelled, his voice raw with effort as he brought his fist down in a crushing blow.

The boy's hand shot out, catching Zach's fist in an iron grip. Zach could feel the energy exploding out of him, could feel it tearing through his opponent's body like a hot knife through butter.

But even as the other boy let out a grunt of pain, he didn't even move, firmly in place as he just smiled, his expression making Zach's blood run cold.

Shit, he thought, his heart sinking as he realized he'd miscalculated. This is gonna hurt.

And then the other boy was moving, a red blur of motion that Zach could barely track. He felt the impact before he saw it, a crushing blow to his chest that sent him flying backwards, his body carving a furrow in the earth as he bounced across the ground before catching himself in mid-air.

Pain exploded through him, hot and sharp and all-consuming. Zach gasped, his vision swimming as he shook his head to clear the dizziness and catch his breath. He could taste blood in his mouth, already feel it trickling down his chin.

"O-o-ooookay… let’s try something else," Zach muttered under his breath, already sensing that he needed to move. He flipped into the air in a quick spin, dodging a hurried beam of red light with speed and grace a gymnast would kill for. In his sleeveless blue jumpsuit, he could almost be confused for one, anyway.

His attacker, a Caucasian boy in a long-sleeved red suit of similar make, jumped up after him following his quick use of his eye beams, leaving the ground with a forceful jump that left a near-perfect impression of his feet behind. The ground cracked and crumbled under the force of his leap, a testament to the raw power behind it.

"Big mistake!" Zach called out, his mouth pulling up into a mocking smirk as he was forced to dodge another blow in mid-air, this one far easier than the last few dozen he'd avoided on the ground. "You know you can't fight fast in the air, farmboy!"

Another blow from the boy in red was dodged, and Zach's leap turned into actual flight, a spiky bright blue energy aura surrounding his body as he darted backwards. The air hummed with the power of his ki, the energy field around him crackling and sparking.

"Yeah," the boy in red shot back, a grin on his face, "but at least I can fly fast!"

Oh.

Zach blinked, and in that instant, his opponent blurred in the air, vanishing from sight.

Fuck.

The instant he opened his eyes again, the fist landed hard and true, slamming into his chest with a sound that could deafen thunder. Pain rang through his chest, his innards bouncing around in ways that no doctor or anyone sane would recommend, as he was sent hurtling down into the dusty field below.

His landing was nearly as hard as the blow, hard enough to leave a crater on impact and make the ground shudder in a way that this part of America was far from familiar with. Despite his wishes, his body didn't stop, and he struck the ground again and again and again, leaving behind a long trench that a bulldozer would have taken a good bit of time to recreate.

Finally, he came to a stop, the earth settling around him as the dust began to clear.

On all fours, hands and knees trembling slightly, Zach let out a breath that was just as shaky. His body ached, every muscle screaming in protest as he tried to push himself up.

"Fucking. Hell," he gasped out, each word a struggle.

"HOW!" His fist slammed into the ground, a small crater forming on impact as fine but distinct cracks spread rapidly from the area. "HOW!"

The other boy landed nearby, his feet touching down with a gentleness that belied his power. He walked over, his steps casual, almost leisurely.

"Precision beats power, timing beats speed, right? Like you told me," the boy said, his voice unbothered as always. "I'm faster than you, yeah, but not so much in a fight. You just use yours better. So, I went for timing over speed."

Zach looked up, his blue eyes meeting the other boy's gaze. There was no mockery there, no gloating. Just a simple statement of fact.

He groaned, letting his head drop back down. The sun beat down on him, the heat oppressive and unrelenting. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the dirt and grime from the fight.

"I hate it when you use my own words against me," Zach muttered, pushing himself up to a sitting position. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he ignored it.

The other boy laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Hey, you're the one who keeps telling me to learn from you."

Zach scowled, but there was no real heat behind it. "Yeah, well, shut up.”

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he found his balance. The world spun around him for a moment, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, only to drop down to his knees again.

"You okay?" the other boy asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Zach waved him off silently, biting down on the pain.

He took a deep breath, centering himself. The pain was already starting to fade, his body healing at a rate that would make any normal person green with envy.

The boy in the blue jumpsuit slammed his other fist down, the ground shaking once more. Fuck.

“Are we going for a break now o-”

Zach snapped his head back up, unfocused blue eyes shooting a harsh glare at the blurry form of the red-suited figure hovering a good two dozen meters away from him. He wanted to say something cool, possibly make a joke or brush off the hit that had him seeing white spots in his vision more than anything else.

 “ShutthefuckupMarkus! I need… a… minute.”

But his brain hadn’t yet caught up with the rest of him.

“...I’ll take that as a yes.”

Rather than answer the unbothered voice back with the curse on his lips, Zach turned his head back down as he spat up a mouthful of blood, the red stain on the dirt quickly followed by the white flash of a tooth falling in the middle of the puddle.

Fuck.

Taking a strike with thousands of tons of force behind it was not something he could do casually.

Not yet, at least.

He needed to train more for that.

God, I’d rather be training right now.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

July 10th, 1993

Somewhere in Virginia

Zach's morning began as it always did for the last two years, in a room that felt more like a cell than a bedroom. He woke to the sight of the American flag hanging on the opposite wall, its colors a stark contrast against the dullness of his surroundings. With a sigh that carried more weight than his thirteen years, he stood and recited the pledge of allegiance, his voice monotonous, devoid of any real conviction. Just another day in paradise, he thought, casting a fleeting, disdainful glance at the hidden cameras nestled in the corners of the room.

As he descended the stairs into the empty house, his expression remained blank, a mask that hid the turmoil churning within. Passing the living room, he paused in front of the TV, where a video of an old black man in a General's uniform played. The man's stern expression seemed to pierce through the screen. "Good morning, father," Zach said, his salute more robotic than respectful.

The figure on the TV, General Casey, nodded. "At ease, Zachariah. Your breakfast is in its usual place. You are allowed 5 hours for your personal time. Lunch will be on the table at approximately 01200. You will be present here 10 minutes before lunch for your afternoon debrief. Your teacher will be arriving at 01300 for your standard four hours of study, as expected. Understood?"

Zach nodded, his expression still blank. "Understood, father." The General's image faded, replaced by the usual broadcast of Fox News. Zach couldn't help but roll his eyes at the screen as he turned away. Yeah, like I give a damn about what's on TV.

In the kitchen, he retrieved a large bowl from the fridge, filled with a cold, thick slurry the color of yellowed oatmeal. "My favorite," he muttered sarcastically, forcing a smile as fake as the enthusiasm in his voice.

Sitting before the TV, he mechanically ate the entire bowl, his eyes fixed on the news but his mind elsewhere. The hidden cameras in the room didn't escape his notice, but he ignored them, just as he ignored the sickeningly sweet slurry he forced down.

The monotony of his morning routine gave way to a more insidious part of his day. In the basement, a woman in formal attire, her expression as drab as the gray room they were in, began the day's lesson. Zach sat, his posture perfect, his face a mask of attentive neutrality as she droned on about the greatness of America, the evils of other nations, and the superiority of their way of life.

He listened, or at least pretended to, as she spoke of America's enemies, of the threats that lurked beyond their borders, and of the duty of every citizen to uphold the values of freedom and democracy. The propaganda was thinly veiled, but Zach had quickly learned to hide his true feelings. Yeah, right. Freedom. As if I'd know what that feels like.

The lesson dragged on, an endless stream of skewed history and biased perspectives, all designed to mold him into the perfect patriot, the perfect weapon. Zach nodded at the right moments, answered when prompted, but inside, he was screaming.

Finally, the woman dismissed him with a curt, "Time for your afternoon and evening exercises." Zach stood, relieved to be free of the stifling room, if only to move on to another form of conditioning.

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

His eyes, unnaturally bright against his dark complexion, scanned the field ahead – a deadly gauntlet designed to push his limits. Zach braced himself at the start of the obstacle course, the weight of the 300-pound vest and the 50-pound weights on each limb making his every movement more of an effort. He knew the drill all too well; he had run this specific course at least three dozen times before.

Granted, each time it got slightly easier but still… 

The turrets, hidden from view, were ready to fire bullets at him - actual bullets- each shot capable of leaving a painful welt, dark bruises that remained in place for at least an hour, slowing him down despite how fast he healed, even though they no longer broke his skin.

At one point, they had simply used rubber.

They stopped six months in when he no longer flinched.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Just another round of pain and dodging, he thought, his resolve steeled as he prepared to sprint forward. The moment his foot crossed the white line of the track, the first turret activated, its mechanical whirr a familiar prelude to the impending pain.

He darted forward, his every step heavy but swift. The bullets whizzed past him, some striking his vest and limbs, the impact sending jolts of pain through his body even as he pumped his arms and legs relentlessly. He winced, feeling the bruises forming, but didn’t even think of stopping for a moment.

As he approached the first set of hurdle barriers, he gathered all his strength and leaped. The weight made the act more grueling than it should have been, his muscles straining under the load. He cleared the barrier, but not without effort, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal behind him urging him onward.

The walls were next. Zach rushed towards them, his breathing heavy, his body already aching even as he felt his healing work at his wounds. Stamina wasn’t the same as regeneration, he learned that quickly. Just because he wasn’t bleeding didn’t mean he couldn’t get so tired his muscles begged him to pass out. He started to climb, fingers gripping the edges as bullets continued to pelt him. He could feel the bruises deepening, pain flaring with each hit. 

They think this will break me, he thought bitterly as he hoisted himself over the wall. They're wrong. The fall on the other side was jarring, the weights making the impact harsher. He rolled, trying to absorb the shock, and pushed himself back up, his body screaming in protest.

He made a mistake, though. He didn’t bounce up as fast as he should have.

A moment later, he paid for it as a bullet struck him in the side of the face, the hit hard enough to nearly send him off his feet. It was enough to make him dizzy, the force of it brutal enough to do more than leave a simple bruise against the less hardy skin on his face. Already, he could feel the cut open up on his cheek.

Zach ducked and weaved, trying to get his momentum back before the turrets could zero in on him again, but not quickly enough. A bullet struck a particularly sensitive spot on his thigh, a sharp, stinging pain that made him grunt in discomfort. He stumbled, rolling on the ground to avoid the next volley, but as he rose, another blast of bullets from multiple turrets peppered his body, leaving throbbing aches in their wake that nearly sent him sprawling once more. Just keep moving, he thought, pushing through the pain, body aching with each impact.

The next set of turrets were the most aggressive, their aim almost uncannily accurate. Zach zigzagged, trying to make himself a harder target, but the bullets found their mark more often than not. He felt a particularly sharp sting as a bullet hit his shoulder, the pain radiating down his arm. He clenched his teeth, pushing through the pain, refusing to let it slow him down.

As he neared the end of the course, his body was a map of bruises, each one a testament to his endurance and resilience. He was tired, hurt, but not defeated. He crossed the finish line, his chest heaving, body covered in sweat and bruises.

He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, feeling the weight of the vest and limb weights more than ever as he let out a long breath.

Zach looked back at the course, at the turrets now silent. He had survived another round, had endured the pain and the challenge. He knew that each cut, each bruise, each drop of blood was making him stronger, tougher. He was being molded into something more; he was becoming a weapon.

And I don’t really mind that, he thought to himself.

Zachary Casey

Power Level: 300

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

January 20th, 1993

Somewhere in the Southwest

“Come on, I know you can fight harder than this.”

Zach narrowed his eyes at his best and only friend in the world, Project Hyperion himself, the one and only Markus Milton. The fourteen-year old floated several inches above the ground in his red jumpsuit made out of some miracle fabric the military would probably never announce it had access to, arms crossed as he stared expectantly at Zach as the other boy tried to catch his breath.

This jerk. The words from Mark’s mouth weren’t said with any bite to them, and Zach knew that for a fact. It was just that the surprisingly-human alien couldn’t help the way he spoke sometimes. Despite being raised to be as polite as possible, he was also homeschooled and had never been around other kids. As a result, he often came off sounding weird and, more often than not, kinda like a giant dick. 

Zach let out a sigh as he stood up straight, wiping the last bit of blood from his mouth with his left hand. His eyes traced the stain on the side of the fabric, the visible scarlet marring the cobalt blue of his fingerless gloves, before he glanced back up at Mark with a tired expression. “You know I don’t make as much of an improvement when I train li-”

“Like that, I remember,” Markus interrupted, the teenager nodding his head slowly as he rolled his eyes. “You don’t progress as fast when you’re not pushing yourself as hard as possible in a fight, right?”

Zach nodded slowly. “Right.”

“But you do grow.”

The boy in the blue jumpsuit narrowed his blue eyes. “...yes.”

The boy in red stared back with seemingly innocent red eyes of his own. “And, isn’t it more fun for the both of us when you’re stronger anyway? Besides, I want to get a good fight in before it’s time to go home. We’ve drifted a few good miles from where we’re supposed to be and I can hear the choppers closing in.”

The dark-skinned teenager stared his friend down for a moment, mulling over the request. Part of him liked being stronger for a fight, even if it wasn’t his real strength and being strong enough to actually knock Mark around a little was fun…

BUT

And this was a big one.

But it was also irritating to have to put his all into training and pushing it regularly to get stronger when a tough fight from him was all Markus needed for a noticeable jump in strength by the next time he saw him.

Even now he could tell, just six months later, that Markus had tripled in power since they first met. Granted, his own jump in power was more noticeable, his power level having skyrocketed to a height that left him just a third away from what Mark’s own had been that day in the bathroom. 

It was an insane jump, he wasn’t going to lie. 

Three years of a constant slog to 300 and making twice the progress in a sixth of the time? That was just pure Dragon Ball Z logic and he didn’t really hate it.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that he trained every single day and Markus only ever exerted himself once a week for a few hours at most.

He’d been pushing himself like a monster for three years at that compound just to get to a level of power he could consider impressive, a power level that he thought was high enough given that he had never seen anything higher than a 6 before, and now he was faced with a whole new ceiling to break.

Three years of Dragonball and right into Z.

It just wasn’t fair!

And yet, it put a fire in his heart like nothing else.

…Oh wow, I sound like Vegeta. His eyes widened for a moment as the thought sunk in. A moment later, they widened further as he stood up straight. Oh shit, I really do sound like Vegeta.

Shaking his head to get that thought out of his mind, Zach glanced over at Mark again, the alien boy waiting patiently for his response. I’m getting stronger. That’s enough.

“Alright, Milton, you ready to rumble?!” he yelled across the field.

“Born ready, Casey!” Zach saw the grin flash across Markus’s face as he replied back, the Kryptonian(?) raising his fists in a standard boxing stance as he floated up a few feet higher in the air.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the barren wasteland, the heat distorting the air and making the horizon shimmer. Zach stood barefoot and nearly bare-chested, his cobalt blue bodysuit ripped and torn from all the damage he had taken. Sweat glistened on his dark skin, his muscles tense and ready.

Zach knew he was outmatched in terms of raw strength, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Across from him, his opponent stood tall and imposing. Markus, clad in a long-sleeved red bodysuit, his eyes glowing a bright red. Zach could feel the power radiating off him, a crushing weight that threatened to overwhelm him.

He'd spent the last year honing his skills, specifically that of sensing energy. Even now, with the dust and debris kicked up by their battle, he could feel Markus's power from miles away. It was staggering, almost a thousand times that of what he could sense from the average person, and growing stronger every day.

But Zach wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

Zach's eyes narrowed as he assessed his opponent. Markus hovered in the air, his face a mask of concentration. His dark hair was tousled from the fight, and his red suit was smudged with dirt.

He moved first, a blur of speed that left afterimages in his wake. He appeared behind Markus, his hand already glowing with energy. He fired off a quick blast, the force of it slamming into Markus's back and sending him stumbling forward.

But Markus recovered quickly, spinning around and firing off a piercing beam of his own from his eyes. Zach dodged with a muttered curse, the heat of the energy singing his skin as it passed by.

They traded blows again, their fists and feet moving faster than the eye could see. Zach ducked and weaved, using his speed to his advantage. He landed a few solid hits, but Markus barely seemed to feel them.

Markus retaliated with a single powerful punch that sent Zach flying back, his body carving a trench in the hard-packed earth. Zach pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"Is that all you've got?" Markus taunted, his voice carrying across the battlefield.

Zach gritted his teeth, his anger rising. He channeled that anger into his energy, his hands glowing brighter than before. He fired off a volley of blasts, the air sizzling with the heat of them.

Markus deflected them with ease, slapping each and every one of them aside with one lazy hand. "You're gonna have to do better than that," he called out.

Zach knew he was right. He needed to step up his game.

He focused his energy into a tight ball, compressing it until it was no bigger than a marble. He hurled it at Markus, the air shimmering with the heat of it.

Markus caught it in his hand, a smirk on his face. But then the ball exploded, engulfing him in a blinding light. When the smoke cleared, Markus was still standing, but his suit was scorched and his hair was singed.

"Not bad," Markus said, a grudging respect in his voice. "But not good enough."

He moved faster than Zach could track, his fist slamming into Zach's gut and doubling him over. Zach gasped for air, his vision swimming.

But he wasn't done yet.

He channeled his energy into his hands, forming two glowing spheres. He slammed them together, creating a shockwave that sent Markus flying back.

Zach pressed his advantage, moving in close and raining down blows on Markus's body. His fists moved in a blur, each hit landing with the force of a wrecking ball.

But Markus was too strong, too durable. He weathered the assault, his body absorbing the blows like they were nothing. With a smirk, Markus lashed out, his fist catching Zach in the jaw and sending him spinning. Zach hit the ground hard, his head ringing.

He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. He could feel his energy draining, his reserves down to half.

But he wasn't done yet.

He gathered some of his power, focusing it into a tight aura around his body and let it burst out! With a battle cry, his body was surrounded by a pale blue aura as his muscles bulged, his veins standing out in stark relief.

He launched himself at Markus, his speed enhanced by a good fourth from the burst of energy and landed a flurry of blows on the surprised alien, each one harder than the last.

But it wasn't enough.

Markus caught his fist, his grip like a vice. He squeezed, the bones in Zach's hand creaking under the pressure. After a few seconds of struggle, he pushed Zach away, the other boy flying into the air from the force of it before catching himself with his own flight.

“Fuck,” the word spilled out of his mouth as he breathed heavily, gently lowering himself down to the ground.

"Not bad, M," the other boy called out, a hint of a smirk on his face. "You almost got me there."

Zach aka M aka Project Maximus scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "Almost isn't good enough, H. You know that."

Markus aka H aka Project Hyperion chuckled. "True. But you're getting better. Faster."

Zach couldn't help but grin at that. Praise from Mark was rare, and he'd take what he could get. But the moment was short-lived as Mark's eyes began to glow once more, the telltale sign of his heat vision charging up.

"Ready for round three?" he asked, his voice almost playful.

Zach dropped into a fighting stance, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and fear. He knew he was outmatched, but he'd be damned if he didn't give it his all.

"Bring it on, flyboy," Zach taunted, his voice full of bravado he didn't quite feel, as he braced himself, mind and heart racing as he prepared his next move.

Muscles flexing, Zach clenched his fists tight and hunched over slightly, doing his best to draw on the move he had mentally recreated years ago. He felt the energy surging through his body intensify, thrumming in time with his heartbeat as he focused.

His eyes flashed red to match Markus’s for a moment as his veins felt a rush of pain, bulging for an instant before returning back to normal, only to do so again a moment later as his heart pumped faster and faster, his blood pressure spiking to a degree that could only be described as explosive.

That’s just what he wanted, at least.

“Kaio-Ken…” His hair shot upwards, his already unnaturally spiky hair standing up further and gaining even firmer definition as a roar burst from his lungs. His muscles bulged slightly as he roared, blue aura shifting to a dangerous red and tinting his entire body with it. “...TIMES THREE!”

“Times wh-!”

Markus Milton didn’t even see the punch that knocked him another 2 miles into the desert.

Zachary Casey

Power Level: 956

w/ Kaio-Ken x3: 2868

Health: 5900

Ki: 478

STR: 512

SPD: 546

END: 590

INT: 84

WIL: 180

Unspent Stat Points: 0

Perks:

- Adaptive Evolution: Grants increased stat gains based on non-self-inflicted damage with the stat gains and acceleration increasing based on how much damage was done.

- Big Eater: Beneficial status effects from food are 5x as potent.

- Focused Mind: With focus, reduce the Ki cost of skills temporarily.

- Iron Will: Reduces the chances of Zachary being controlled or manipulated mentally.

- Keen Senses: Your vision, sight, smell and hearing are far more keen, granting you a perception range of 5x that of normal people along with a 5x increased sensitivity.

- Ki Affinity: Controlling energy comes naturally, allowing you to use it without formal training

- Ki Sense: Sense the presence, strength and nature of any living being.

- Night Vision: Training in dark environments grants you the ability to see in the dark.

- Prince of Beasts: Animals are less likely to attack and may listen if you call for assistance.

- Quick Healer III: Heal at a rate 1/5 of your END every minute.

- Resilient: Your durability has grown to the point that you no longer can be stunned or made to flinch from attacks that do no damage.

Skills:

• Kaio-Ken: Using ki internally to intensify your own body’s processes and vital energy

• Arm Break: Changing the frequency of ki for greater destructive power in strikes.

• Power Up: Spiking your ki past it's maximum to grant you up to a 25% increase in power for a short time.

• Energy Blast: The most basic form of energy wave.

  • Energy Blast Volley

  • Energy Bomb

  • Energy Wave

• Eye Laser: A concentrated beam of energy shot from the eyes.

• Rapid Movement: A short burst of speed allowing for quick evasion or approach.

• Regeneration: Enhance healing factor into hyper-regeneration at the cost of stamina.

• Flight: The ability to fly with the use of Ki