Maximum Power 1.1 (Patreon)

“Mister President? Sir? General Cavanaugh on the wire. My apologies for rousing you at this ungodly hour, but--”

“No, it’s all right, General, the night’s still young in the Oval. What time is it?”

“Just a hair past the witching hour, sir. We’ve stumbled upon a situation that’s… well…”

“Well, what is it? Speak, man.”

“There’s been a situation, sir.”

“...”

“We picked something up on the scanners again. We… we think we’ve found another one.”

“Y-you’re sure about this? Another one, General? Are the men certain?”

“As certain as the dawn following the night, Mister President. Our readings are consistent and there’s a team of MPs already out to secure and contain the specimen, Mister President.”

“... Well, then. No time to waste.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Maximum Power

Earth 7

Baltimore, Maryland

July 5th, 1991

12:01

The streets of Baltimore buzzed with life, the midnight sky after Independence Day painted with the vibrant hues of bursting fireworks, each explosion a fleeting testament to the nation’s birth. The air was thick with the symphony of laughter and chatter from the drunken revelers, people enjoying themselves just a stone’s throw from the nation’s capital.

In stark contrast to the lively main streets, a back alleyway in a neglected part of town bore witness to a different scene. Graffiti, like the scars of the city, adorned the crumbling brick walls, marking gang territory and simple markings by the bored and artistically inclined. The ground was littered with the refuse of days, maybe weeks, trash collectors having neglected the area for quite some time. Amidst the trash, rats, the true inheritors of the urban decay, scurried, their tiny claws scratching against the pavement as they dove into a dumpster in search of a feast only they could appreciate.

However, the ordinary nature of the alley shifted subtly a few minutes before midnight.

The rats froze, tails and ears twitching as they pointed their whiskered noses into the air, food in their grip long forgotten.

Their squeaks and chitters began to oscillate between confusion and fear, before ultimately settling on raw panic. In a terrified wave, they fled from the dumpster and alleyway, abandoning their feast, their small bodies disappearing into the shadows, leaving the alley in an unusual silence.

The air in the confined space seemed to tense, shifting with an electric quality, charged and waiting. It tasted of ozone, the kind of taste that preceded a storm, tingling on the tongue and making the hairs on the back of the neck stand. Around the dumpster, the very fabric of the night appeared to warp and shift, the shadows shifting as sparks seemed to jump around the alleyway. Blue light flickered, hesitant at first, like the heartbeat of a distant star. The space seemed to glitch, reality bending and twisting for brief moments, curving in on itself and reversing in a way words just weren’t meant to describe.

Then, with a suddenness that mirrored the inception of the universe, the blue light flared, illuminating the alley with a cold, ethereal glow.

Something, undefined and heavy, landed within the dumpster with a thud that seemed to absorb the sound around it. Then, as if the alley exhaled, everything stilled, the light retreated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind an echoing silence that seemed to swallow the alley.

Minutes ticked by, each second stretching in the quiet until a voice, weak and tinged with pain, rippled through the silence.

“Motherfuck ...ow.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

What is your name?

________________________

The boy blinked.

He blinked again, blue eyes still adjusting to the almost complete lack of light.

He lay atop a bed of trash, his body sinking into the refuse. The stench of decay enveloped him, a tangible cloud of rot that seemed almost aggressive in its assault on his senses.

Inside the pitch black of what could only be a dumpster, he blinked tears away in the darkness and stared up at the image staring back down at him, somehow visible despite the physical impossibility.

What is your name?

________________________

The boy reached out, fingers passing through the ethereal display without resistance. Is this even real? He had asked the question at least three times now and nothing had given him a concrete answer. Am I hallucinating?

What is your name?

________________________

The question demanded something of him, something he’d been struggling for almost as long as he’d woken up in this place. What is my name?

The boy frowned, the creases on his forehead deepening as he grappled with the question. It was a simple thing, yet it bore down on him with the weight of pre-calculus. His frown deepened even further. Why can I remember pre-calculus but not my name?

He remembered… things.

Memories, fragmented and disjointed, flickered at the edges of his consciousness—places, books, games, toys. Things he’d had. Things he’d done. Even things he’d… worn, for some reason.

But he couldn’t remember himself.

Name, home, family. None of it.

Who am I?

The question hung in the air, reverberating in the silent space, when the quiet was shattered by external noises. Sounds of footsteps, muted yet unmistakable, accompanied by a rhythmic chuffing, a mechanical heartbeat pulsating through the night. What's happening?

With effort, the boy rose, the trash bags beneath him compressing, almost swallowing him whole. He pushed against the dumpster's lid, muscles straining, until daylight spilled into his makeshift prison. And then, he froze.

Red dots danced before his eyes, each one tethered to the muzzle of a rifle. Men, their faces obscured by masks and bodies clad in military gear, stared at him with unwavering intensity. Above, the chopper's blades sliced through the air, casting shadows on the rooftops where more armed figures loomed.

What is this?

The boy blinked, the red dots never straying from his face.

He blinked again.

A moment later, the overpowering question on his mind left his mouth.

“Do you know my name?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Arlington Virginia

The Pentagon

July 5th, 1990

4:45

The group of four men, each bearing the weight of their respective offices and responsibilities, moved briskly through the Pentagon’s labyrinthine halls. The atmosphere was tense, charged with a silent urgency that mirrored the gravity of their early morning conference.

As they moved deeper in, a door swung open, revealing another figure who quickly joined the procession. “Mister President,” acknowledged the newcomer, his voice steady and polite as it cut through the quiet.

“General Casey.” The voice of President George Herbert Walker Bush, replied back, acknowledging the African-American man further with a nod of his head.

His gaze, sharp and discerning, flickered momentarily as he acknowledged the President’s address. The tension in the air felt palpable, a live current running alongside them as they walked.

“Mister Vice-President.”Casey’s eyes, dark and contemplative, met those of the Commander-in-Chief, before sweeping over the group and nodding respectfully towards each of them in turn as he spoke: “Secretary Cheney, Secretary Baker, Doctor Steadman.”

The President, George Herbert Walker Bush, pulled on his cigar, his eyes briefly darting to a distant point as he walked. With a click of his tongue, he glanced back over at the dark-skinned man wearing the garb of a general, medals and all on his midnight blue uniform. "So… we're looking at another one?" Bush asked, his cigar momentarily forgotten as his eyes darted toward a sealed-off chamber they had just passed.

The President’s question hung in the air for a long moment.

The general didn’t find himself surprised at the expectancy and fear audible in President Bush’s voice, the man well aware that Reagan had been worried of the exact same situation happening during his time in office, but even he hadn’t been expecting this of all things.

Not again. Casey’s face, usually an unreadable mask of stoicism, hesitated for a moment at the thought, betraying a flicker of uncertainty as he focused his attention on his surroundings. The general felt his jaw tighten involuntarily. Easy, Isaac. You've briefed Commanders-in-Chief before.

“We're not sure, Mister President," he conceded, his voice a low, gravelly timbre.. The halls of the Pentagon continued to grow grayer under the man’s gaze as they continued walking, walls losing the gleam of polished wood and brass, morphing into a more austere, utilitarian guise as they moved further inward into the labyrinthine building. Fluorescent lights gave off a sterile glow, casting long, angular shadows that seemed to conceal more than they revealed.

“We’re not sure, Mister President,” Casey finally responded, his voice a low, gravelly timbre.

"How can you not be sure?" Cheney interjected sharply, stepping closer as he spoke. His balding pate seemed to absorb the dull light, his eyes even more calculating and intense beneath the fluorescence. "I received the warning from NORAD myself. Clearly, it's an extraterrestrial."

Extraterrestrial. Still can’t believe that old movie nonsense is real. The general couldn't help but think that the word was too flimsy for the gravity of the situation he’d been forced to deal with for over the last decade. But his thoughts were momentarily disrupted by Bill Steadman.

"Secretary Cheney, it's not quite that simple," Steadman interjected. He pushed up the bridge of his glasses, a nervous habit Casey had observed before. "Sir, while it's more than likely that the subject is some sort of extraterrestrial, he is nothing like Project H," he added, shifting his focus to Bush, as if seeking some form of presidential absolution.

Project H. Casey pondered on the name. The code words seemed almost juvenile given the stakes, but even then that was rather fitting.

"What are we going to be seeing, Steadman? Some green man from Mars?" Baker’s comment floated from the rear, tinged with a smirking cynicism that only a seasoned politician could master.

The surroundings had turned almost bleak now. No more adornments, only cold, hard, gunmetal gray. Doors with biometric locks and retinal scanners stood at intervals, sentinels guarding secrets only a select few were privy to. The environment was changing, the transition complete—no longer were they in the political heart of the Pentagon; they were now in its martial guts.

Steadman came to a halt, hand hovering over the scanner of an unmarked door at the end of this long, unwelcoming corridor. "Far from it. Take a look yourself."

The five men found themselves walking into a dimly lit but well-furnished room overlooking a laboratory area below them flooded with halogen lighting. The clinical surgical theater appearance of the area was severely at odds with the rich and comfortable decor of the room above, the contrast only heightened as the president and his vice let out a gasp, one of them dropping their cigars, while the scientists below unflinchingly continued their work.

General Isaac Casey, a man sculpted by years of military discipline and service, stepped forward and stared out the floor-to-ceiling window, his countenance hard and his jaw on the verge of clenched. His eyes, like hardened steel, bore into the scene unfolding beneath.

"...Casey, what are we looking at here?" The voice of President Bush, tinged with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, broke the silence. Baker, visibly unsettled, backed away, his complexion taking on a distinctly green hue even in the subdued lighting.

“The president’s right,” Cheney’s voice, ever steady and unyielding, chimed in. The cigar, a constant presence, smoldered between his fingers, tendrils of smoke curling upwards. “I thought we’d be looking at a live alien, not a dissected little boy.”

Casey’s gaze didn’t waver, locked onto the tableau below. The doctors, clad in the impersonal, sterile white of their biohazard suits, moved with mechanical precision, extracting samples from the unmoving form on the table.

“Vivisected actually,” Steadman’s voice, clinical and detached, provided the correction. “The subject is still alive, under heavy anesthetic. Anesthetic he’s growing resistant to.”

Baker, pallor washing over his features, stumbled forward, voice shaky. “What? Why?”

Cheney’s eyes rolled, a silent, disdainful commentary on Baker’s reaction. “Baker’s got a point. I thought we were seeing another alien superweapon. This looks like any other inner-city kid.”

“Project H arrived as a baby, didn’t he?” Bush’s voice, thoughtful and measured, sought clarification.

Cheney snorted, the sound derisive and dismissive. “Project H was bulletproof as a baby. This ‘extraterrestrial’ is getting sliced by scalpels and he’s ten times older than H was.”

“I mentioned this specimen was unlike Project H,” Steadman interjected, voice steady, factual.

“We can see that,” Cheney retorted, laughter dry and mocking in his voice. “It’s black, for one.”

“Well… yes,” Steadman conceded. “But past the skin, both Project H and Project M are different. H developed over time, M requires stressors.”

“Stressors?” Bush inquired, gaze flickering to the side as Baker retched into a trashcan.

“When we received Project M four hours ago,” Steadman began, adjusting his glasses, “he seemed human, with odd eye color and fast recovery. We estimated his cellular regeneration to be fifteen times that of humans.”

Bush nodded, signaling for Steadman to continue. The room was silent, all eyes on Steadman, though Casey’s gaze remained on the theater.

“Five hours in, and the mitotic activity, collagen density, and tensile strength of his skin have doubled,” Steadman continued. “His DNA is anomalous, undecipherable but seemingly human. We assume there are advanced enzymes ensuring flawless DNA replication and damage repair during accelerated turnover. Otherwise…”

Steadman laughed nervously. “Otherwise, we’d be staring at a giant cancer cell.”

“Doctor, are you saying this… Project M is evolving?” Bush’s voice, steady but laced with concern, cut through the thick tension in the room, slicing through Casey’s contemplative silence.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, Mr. President,” Steadman replied, pushing up his glasses with a nervous twitch of his fingers. “But it’s not evolution as we understand it. It’s focused adaptation, real-time adaptation in response to environmental stressors. The subject could, theoretically, mutate any part of its anatomy. Strength, senses, intelligence… perhaps even grow wings if motivated enough. It’s unprecedented.”

“And dangerous,” Casey added, his voice a low rumble, laden with the weight of unspoken fears and implications. “An unpredictable asset is a liability.”

“Asset? Liability?” Baker’s voice trembled, mirroring the quiver in his stance, his eyes, wide and haunted, unable to tear away from the grisly procedure unfolding below. “Gentlemen, this is a boy.”

“Not just a boy, Baker,” Cheney muttered.

“Then why does he look so much like a regular boy?” Baker’s voice, hesitant and tinged with a confusion that mirrored the furrow of his brow, interjected into the tense atmosphere of the room.

Bush glanced at him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Project H looks just like us, doesn't he? Why shouldn't this one be black? Aliens must look just like us.”

Steadman cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room with the subtle but deliberate action. “I must correct a misunderstanding,” he began, voice steady but with an undercurrent of caution threading through his words. “Subject M isn't exactly an alien.”

Cheney lowered his cigar, eyes narrowing, the smoky haze framing his visage as he stared at Steadman with a confusion that bordered on suspicion. “Didn't you say this was an extraterrestrial?”

Steadman nodded, acknowledging the query. “Yes, that is true. He is extraterrestrial. However, he is still human.”

“Explain,” Cheney growled, the single word laden with a simmering frustration at the perceived run-around.

Steadman nodded again, acquiescing to the directive. “While Project H arrived via a spaceship, Project M's appearance was somewhat different. We detected him as a distortion in space-time while in orbit, and tracked his descent to the North East. There was no ship, gentlemen.”

Bush’s eyes narrowed, the gesture a silent prompt for clarification, an unspoken demand for elucidation.

“Meaning,” Steadman continued, voice steady, gaze unwavering, “that this wasn't so much intergalactic travel as it was interdimensional.”

Silence descended upon the room, a hushed stillness, thick and heavy, as the men absorbed the implications of the revelation, the atmosphere charged with the weight of unspoken thoughts and unvoiced concerns.

“We found him wearing khakis and a polo shirt, possibly some school uniform.” Steadman pointed down to the surgery lab, directing their attention to the figure on the table, the subject of their discussion and the center of their contemplation. “That is a human. Just not one from our reality.”

“Human, alien, whatever,” Cheney cut in. “It doesn’t matter. Can we use it?”

“It? We’re talking about a child, Dick,” Baker turned to the balding Secretary of Defense, hands raised.

“A child unlike any other,” Cheney retorted, eyes locking with Baker’s, silently telling the man to calm down. “A perfect soldier. Able to fight on any battlefield, survive any wound, and return stronger. A weapon.”

“Or a threat,” Casey murmured, gaze dropping, voice tinged with a shadow of dread. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“Sounds like a problem,” Bush's voice was firm, his slight humor missing as he focused his attention on the doctor again. “We can’t afford not to know. What else can you tell us?”

Steadman nodded, acquiescing. “The boy has no memory, no knowledge of his identity. He’s a blank slate, gentlemen. Potentially as valuable as Project M, and without a doubt far more adaptable. The medical advancements he offers alone is priceless.”

President Bush’s eyes seemed to light up at the doctor’s words. “A blank slate, eh? Older than H too, so I’d argue there’s less time to do the whole rigamarole with finding some parents and raising him like a true American,” the politician began to trail off, staring into the far wall as he rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to cut some corners.”

His gaze dropped to the general in the room, eyes lighting up once more. “Casey!”

“Sir?” The general responded, slight confusion in his tone.

His gaze settled on Casey, eyes bright, calculating. “Casey!”

“Sir?” Confusion laced through Casey’s tone, a subtle furrow creasing his brow.

“I just had a great idea,” Bush declared, voice imbued with the unassailable confidence of a man unaccustomed to refusal. “How do you feel about adoption?”

Casey blinked, taken aback. Adoption? The word reverberated through his mind, echoing with implications and responsibilities he hadn’t anticipated. He was many things; a soldier, a general, a taskmaster even.

A father, though?

But as he looked into Bush’s eyes, saw the expectation and the challenge there, he understood.

This was not a request.

He straightened, squaring his shoulders, the soldier within rising to the fore. “If it serves the country, Mr. President, I am at your disposal.”

Bush grinned, satisfaction and triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Excellent. Prepare yourself, General. You’re about to become a father.”

Casey nodded, acquiescing to the inevitable. Father to some alien freak. God help me.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

THREE YEARS LATER

Bethesda Maryland

October 8th, 1993

11:01

Mark walked into the bathroom, head as high as he could manage, doing his very best to ignore the looks and whispers that followed him through the building.

They thought he couldn’t hear them… or maybe they just didn’t care.

Either way, it stung.

More than that, it hurt.

“...and he’s just so… creepy.”

The fourteen-year old strode calmly towards the sink and stared at his image in the mirror.

“I know… my dad said I shouldn’t get anywhere near him, ‘cause he’s dangerous.”

The words made him wince, an unsettled feeling rising in his stomach. Dangerous… I… He stared at his reflection in the mirror, feeling an odd weakness that he knew wasn’t physical. I’m not…

Despite his attempts to dissuade himself, Marcus knew that there was truth to that. Truth that was only further confirmed as his eyes flickered blue, the wall in front of him peeling away until he found himself peering into the girl’s bathroom.

Four girls in the other room, all of them dressed in the female version of his new school’s uniform - two of them standing, one leaning against the sink and a third sitting on top of it - continued their conversation, his superhuman hearing allowing him to pick up everything up with as much clarity as if he were right next to them.

“There’s… something just wrong about him, y’know? Like he doesn’t belong here,” the short-haired blonde spoke up, the same one who had shot him a look of disgust in the lunchroom. “Can you feel it?”

“I sure can,” said the long-haired blonde right next to her, fixing her makeup in the mirror. “I heard about this science experiment once, where they painted this one monkey the same colors as another group of monkeys, and put him in to see if they’d notice the difference even though he looked the same as they did.”

The short-haired blonde leaned forward. “And? What happened?”

“They tore him to pieces. Because you just know, y’know?” Long hair continued. “You just know.”

You just know. The boy couldn’t help but hang his head, his eyes losing their blue glow as the barriers separating him from everyone else returned in full force, leaving him alone in the bathroom again.

“You really gonna let those sluts get to you like that, bro?”

At least he thought he was alone.

The superhuman brunet spun on his heels, his body a literal blur as he stared with wide, frightened eyes at the boy who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Which didn’t happen to him!

He could see for miles around with perfect accuracy and hear a mouse cough from across a field and smell…

The less said about that the better.

Someone sneaking up on him like this… it didn’t happen.

As Mark tried to ignore the pounding of his heart - another first - the teenager stared down the other boy across from him and tried to look as unbothered as he could.

“Nice game face, big guy,” the other teenager snarked, his smirk widening slightly. “If I couldn’t hear your heart racing, I’d almost believe I didn’t scare you.”

Hear my… what?

Marcus recoiled again, the cold, hard surface of the sink pressing into his back, a stark contrast to the tense heat swirling through his veins. His eyes, wide and apprehensive, remained locked on the boy before him, taking in the subtle differences that set them apart.

Nonchalant and seemingly immune to the tension, the intruder leaned casually against the spotless bathroom wall. He wore the school’s uniform, but it seemed to sit on him differently. His tie was a loose noose around his neck, his blazer strained slightly over muscles that were more pronounced than those of boys their age, and his hair, a raven-black rebellion of its own, bore no resemblance to Marcus’s neatly combed, subdued brown locks.

Apart from skin color, there were a few more noticeable differences. For one, where he was tall for his age, the boy was distinctly shorter than average. Where his hair was neat and brown, the other boy was something approaching that of a spiky mohawk - but not quite - in black. His tie was loose around his neck and his muscles seemed to bulge slightly beneath his blazer, the other boy far more intimidating than he appeared at first glance.

“You can h-hear my heartbeat?” The words stumbled out of Marcus’s mouth, tripping over uncertainty and landing in the tense air between them.

“I can do more than that,” the other boy retorted, his smirk a flash of white. After a silent moment, the air seemed to rush away from his body, Markus flinching as the lightbulb ensconced in the ceiling suddenly began to flicker. In a blink, he was there, right in Marcus’s personal space, close enough to unsettle him further.

His breath hitched. “You’re like me.”

The smirking boy’s expression shifted into a white grin. “Sure, somethin’ like that.” With a wink, he stuck his hand out. “Zachary Casey.”

Marcus hesitated, then, with tentative motions, engaged in the handshake, offering a smile that was more uncertainty than warmth. “Marcus Milton.”

“Bit of a limp handshake there, Marky Mark.”

“Weak?” Marcus’s eyebrows furrowed, a shadow of confusion passing over his eyes, and he tightened his grip reflexively.

The sound that followed was grotesque — a sickening, wet crack that reverberated off the tiled walls. Blood, dark and ominous, dripped onto the pristine tiles from Zack’s now mangled hand.

“Oh… ohnoohno,” Marcus stammered, words tangled with rising panic, fear welling up inside him at harming what might be the first person he could relate to at this school. “I-I-I didn’t mean to do that, I’m s-”

“No problem, Marky,” Zach waved off Mark’s fears with his one working hand, pulling his damaged one back. There wasn’t even the slightest grimace on his face as he studied his crushed hand, no sign of pain or even awareness of the issue, apart from a slight rictus to his grin. “This is no big. See?”

Mark could only blink as Zach grit his teeth, a vein showing on his forehead as the other boy seemed to focus for a few seconds. With slowly widening eyes, he watched Zach’s hand twist, shift and crack its way back into position, the mess of crushed flesh and bone returning itself into place in a manner of seconds,

“Just…” Zach paused to catch his breath, noticeable beads of sweat on his forehead. “Just… don’t tell anyone I can do that.”

Marcus’s mouth fell open once again as he watched the boy flex his still-bloodied hand, taking several long moments to find the words to say. “...What are you?” The whisper escaped Marcus, a breath imbued with awe and fear.

The dark-skinned boy across from him grinned once more, blue eyes twinkling. “Me? I’m just a Goku looking for his Vegeta.”

“...what?”

“Well, you’re more like a Raditz, right now.”

“...what.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Markus Milton

Power Level: 1570

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Zachary Casey

Level 25

EXP: 13,750/35,000

Health: 4900

Energy: 313

STR: 150

SPD: 150

END: 220

INT: 30

WIL: 75

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.

- Dense Muscles: Your body has adapted to the stresses placed on it. STR is now worth double.

- 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.

- Swole: Every point in STR is added to your health, before other percentage add-ons.

- Tough: Your body has adapted to the stresses placed on it. END is now worth double when calculating health points.

Skills:

- Aura Burst: Projecting your ki outwards explosively amplifies physical attributes.

- Energy Blast: The most basic form of 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 a lot of energy.

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