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The world around Greg seemed to slide into slow motion, and the bizarre hybrid of a dragon-turtle-scorpion made a ferocious leap right at him, muscles bunched up and launched itself, eyes locked on Greg. From an outside perspective, anyone would've thought he was about to become monster chow.

Okay, time to impress, Greg thought, as a detached calm settled over him.

His arms moved, quick as whips, blurring as they snapped forward, two-finger guns ready to unleash their payload. With the precision of a practiced marksman, he aimed his fingers, and flared his mana to them just the way he practiced. Bright blue energy sparked to life at the tips, and he couldn't help the confident grin that stretched beneath his bandana.

He pulled his thumbs back like the hammers of a pair of revolvers and then — he fired.

Bang. Bang.

The world lurched back to full speed.

Tennis ball-sized bursts of blue light surged forward, colliding with the hybrid creature in a barrage of energy. And -

What in the...?

The dragon-turtle-scorpion thing... just popped, like the world’s scariest balloon. Literally, just vanishing and leaving behind nothing but a shimmer of fading energy trails in its place.

He blinked, trying to process. But then it clicked, and the words tumbled out with a Southern twang. "Oh, that’s right?” Greg drawled, wearing a satisfied smirk behind his bandana. The cowboy accent he slapped on made each word a playful jab. “She’s a projection, ain’t she?”

While the others were still reeling, caught in that split-second where brains tried catching up to events, Armsmaster didn't miss a beat. Halberd in hand, the veteran hero charged the momentarily disoriented Travelers.

Ballistic, quick on the draw, responded nearly as fast as Armsmaster had. The guy was built like a brick house, and Greg briefly wondered if all the mass went to his biceps or his brain, with how fast his reflexes seemed to be.

As Ballistic slapped his hand onto the side of a nearby table, that thought got replaced with a sudden realization that the guy's power wasn't just for show. The table took off like a jet, and Greg's eyes widened in real-time as he danced out of its trajectory as he barely dodged it, feeling the rush of displaced air as it zoomed past. The world might be slow for him at times, but that table? Jesus H. Christ!

He didn't even need his enhanced perceptions to see the table slam into Armsmaster with crushing force. The collision had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer meeting a particularly fragile vase. Poor Armsmaster, fully armored and so high-tech, taken out by wood.

Battery seemed ready to jump into action, but Assault got there first. A superhuman punch connected, but Assault simply redirected the energy, hurling himself right at Battery. And then, in a moment that would've been comical if not for how serious the situation was, Armsmaster's airborne body slammed into Assault and before Battery could open her mouth to scream, the two crashed into her in a tangle of limbs. In barely more than a second, the entire trio smashed into a wall, and it was like watching human pinballs as furniture collided around all of them, champagne and table arrangements sent flying. The nearby civilians screamed and scattered, their cries only making the chaos worse.

As the world around him dimmed, slowing to a crawl, Greg took a breath and bounded forward at the Travellers. But Sundancer was nearly as quick on the draw. With an unreadable expression, she unleashed her power, palms unleashing twin balls of consuming flame. They were the size of baseballs but he could feel the power they held, enough to do incredible damage. One screamed through the thick air towards Greg, while the other mercilessly sought the crowd, where bodies huddled in terrified anticipation.

His heart tightened, eyes darting momentarily towards the threatening fireball as it approached the vulnerable mass of people. Mom!

The heat from it was intense, searing, but Greg's reflexes were on point as he summoned his mana again. Without missing a beat, his fingertips became the barrels of twin cannons again, releasing focused, precise blasts of energy. They struck with the unerring accuracy of guided missiles, striking the fiery orbs head-on.

And then, the flames buckled, succumbing to his unleashed energy. They died into sparks, whimpering streaks of light that fizzled out, defeated, rendered harmless.

Spinning with fluid grace, Greg locked his eyes on a surprised Sundancer. His gaze was a blade, sharp and glinting with the fires of a barely-repressed rage. Seriously? Fireballs? His mind scoffed, even as his body maintained its coiled readiness.

Amateur hour, echoed through his mind. His eyes threatened to slit, he could feel it, his gaze wavering between human and something else. I FOUGHT A FUCKING DRAGON!

Before he could gather his next thought, his Danger Sense screamed at him. A split second later, something metallic, something heavy, crashed into his skull. He felt his head whip to the side, and tasted the sharp tang of copper. But his body, well-versed in the brutal choreography of fights, moved with the blow. He tumbled through the air, flipping with a kind of grace that defied the violence of the moment, and, in less than a second, his feet found the ground again. Well, that was... something, he blinked.

He raised a hand to the side of his head, fingers brushing against his skin. A strange, dazed feeling enveloped him, and there was a muted sort of surprise that his instinctive Adhesion had managed to keep both his bandana and hat stubbornly in place. "Was that..." He tried to shake off the disorientation, feeling like his brain was trying to swim through mud. His eyes glanced downward, meeting the crumpled, defeated form of the instrument that had dared to assault him. "...a tuba?" There was humor in his voice, disbelief.

That’s kinda funny, he almost let out a snort at the thought.

Fu—

And then, he had to dodge again.

Seriously? More? His Danger Sense blared again, and he hurled himself out of the way.  This time, it was an entire volatile volley of discarded instruments, an orchestral arsenal, each piece hurtling through the air with the speed of a bullet. God, my life is weird.

Greg's eyes were everywhere, catching glimpses of the battlefield in quick, super-speed flashes. Miss Militia, her demeanor as sturdy as the gun she aimed, eyes locked onto Sundancer with rifle in hand as she raised it as her target, and beside her, Dauntless surged forward, his lance aglow with a fierce, electric charge, like a modern-day knight charging into battle.

But neither managed to do anything as Triumph appeared out of literal nowhere, a look of disorientation flickering in his eyes. Trickster's laughter filled the room and just as quickly, the laugh died, suffocated by Triumph’s superhuman roar, the man having been holding it in for a while.

It wasn’t just a sound, but a shockwave, a force of nature unleashed unexpectedly. The air trembled, tables upturned, and wood cracked and splintered under the unseen assault of the bellow. The world in that corner seemed to blur, a smear of colors and flying debris as Miss Militia and Dauntless were swept off their feet, hurled like ragdolls.

The bellow was powerful, sending Miss Militia and Dauntless off their feet with force and velocity.

Tables crashed, wood splintered, and through the debris, Greg could see Glory Girl sent crashing to the stage with an unceremonious thud. A monstrous dog, a hulking beast resembling a van on legs, launched at her with the raw brutality of a wrecking ball. The dog’s jaws clamped around her, shaking furiously as Bitch rode the beast, the dog Master growling orders.

Laserdream was in her own pocket of hell. Her body was a beacon of radiant determination, hands launching scarlet blasts of concentrated fury as a dog, another behemoth ridden by Regent, faced her on the other side of the room, its monstrous form quivering under the rain of Laserdream’s relentless energy. The creature, in its pained skittishness, kept away from the civilians, directed away by the painful persuasion of searing scarlet energy even as Regent tried to steer the thing away.

Shielder? He was putting up a good fight, in the thick of it, embodying his name. His shields, glowing blue and bright, were the walls holding back the beast on the stage from getting closer to the unmoving form of Glory Girl, burying it behind wall after wall to keep it corralled and contained despite its attempts to ram its way free.

And here I am dodging fucking tubas, Greg thought with a roll of his eyes.

But he couldn't waste time. The battlefield was a mess. Everywhere he looked, heroes were holding back, trying to avoid causing collateral damage and safeguard the civilians caught in the crossfire.

The sharp, piercing cry of a violin struck his ear, and he instinctively turned, narrowly dodging another instrument hurled his way by Ballistic. How many more of these things are there?

He took off, his super-speed blurring the world around him as he weaved through the chaos, searching for an opening, for an advantage. He wasn't about to let a tuba or Ballistic's next choice of instrument take him down.

All right, Travellers, Greg mused, feeling the energy build up in his fingertips, let's dance.

Something’s fishy here, Greg thought, a frown tugging on his lips as he dodged and weaved through the chaos. He could see the patterns, or rather, the deliberate scrambling of them. It was like watching a messed-up game of chess, pieces colliding, crashing into each other instead of taking the enemy down. It’s like they had cheat codes or something. Way too lucky, he mused, feeling the air whip past him as he moved, the rest of the world seeming to unfold in slow motion. Regent? Can he do all this?

The younger members of the New Wave were like colorful blurs at the corners of the ballroom, seemingly tied up, keeping Bitch’s dogs at bay. But even they seemed to be stumbling, faltering, like marionettes with their strings suddenly snarled. Definitely Regent, Greg thought, feeling a flicker of annoyance at the interference.

Battery, Miss Militia and Triumph were out, crumpled like discarded action figures. Dauntless was somewhere under a rubble of fancy, probably expensive, furniture. Assault was cradling a broken arm and bouncing back projectiles from Ballistic while Armsmaster was occupied, spraying down the effects of Sundancer’s fireballs with a solution from his halberd. The Wards, young and eager, were forming a human wall, shielding the scattering civilians with their bodies, their faces beneath their masks of frustration and helplessness.

Greg took a breath, feeling the rush of air fill his lungs, feeling the energy vibrate under his skin. His eyes were on Sundancer, the pyrokinetic who seemed to love throwing fireballs a bit too much. And as if on cue, another swirling ball of flame was hurling through the air toward him.

Alright, cowgirl. Times up.

Speed surged through him, and he was there, before the flame could complete its deadly arc. With a flick of his fingers and a flare of blue light, the fireball exploded, harmless embers dying before they touched the ground.

And then, he was holding her, one arm firmly around her, and his other hand, fingers shaped like a gun, pressed against her temple. It all happened in a heartbeat, and he could feel her body stiffen in shock at the suddenness of his move.

“Now… y’all better stop or she gets it,” he said, his voice a mix of teenage nonchalance and the hardness of a seasoned fighter. She flinched, and he could feel the rapid beat of her heart, the heat of her fear mixed with surprise.

In the slowed-down world of his speed, he saw the calculations in the eyes of the two male Travelers, the dawning realization of the shifted odds. It was like watching a bad movie, where the villains suddenly found themselves outplayed. Was it bad that he kinda loved shit like this?

So, what’s it gonna be, folks? Greg thought, feeling the slight tremble of Sundancer in his grip. The room was a battlefield, scattered with the remnants of what had been a luxurious ambiance. It seemed unfair, the elegant drapes now torn, the polished floor now scuffed and marred.

And yet, even in the midst of it all, Greg felt a certain detachment. Too easy. “Y’all can surrender now.”

Trickster's reply was wrapped in smugness, "How bout no?"

His eyebrows arched at that. He tightened his grip on Sundancer, feeling the beat of her heart against his arm. “I don’t know if you’re blind or what, but I quite literally have your teammate hostage. Y’all don’t care one lick ‘bout that? You don’t think you should listen to my orders if you don’t want her hurt?”

There was a beat of silence.

“No, we march to the beat of our own drum.” Trickster smirked, a display of unswayed confidence, pointing a lazy finger over Greg’s shoulder. “But you should care about that.”

Air swooshed, laced with the signature whistle of Ballistic’s power. A cello, defying gravity and sanity, soared through the shattered window like it was taking its sweet time just to mess with him. Greg's world slipped into that odd rhythm where seconds stretched as he watched it arc into the air. Really? A flying cello?

Cocking an eyebrow, Greg glanced between Ballistic and Trickster, an unspoken challenge hanging in the sudden quiet. “What, that supposed to scare me into letting her go?”

A shrug from Ballistic, nonchalant in the face of the chaotic ballet around them. “No, idiot. Trickster just needed something your size.”

Realization hit him like a ton of bricks as Greg’s eyes widened. “F-”

His surroundings flickered, the world shifted, Trickster’s power playing reality like a twisted game of musical chairs.

Outside.

He was suddenly outside, the stark lines of the Forsberg gallery framed in the window before him. Not good.

“-u-”

His Danger Sense screamed, a stark warning ringing in his head as he instinctively scrambled in the air.

“-ck!”

Piano.

A full-sized, no-nonsense, lumbering behemoth of a piano, hurled with Ballistic’s brutal artistry, stormed through the window, a barrage of timber and keys. It crashed into him, an unyielding mass meeting the unprepared, a concerto of pain in a minor key.

Air whooshed out of his lungs, the world blurred as he rocketed backward, a flight sans wings, sans grace. Brick walls rushed up to meet him, and he bounced off the building, his back screaming a chorus of agony. The ground came next, all the passerby and bystanders waiting outside an unwelcome audience to his unscheduled performance. Dust rose from his sudden landing, leaving him in a haze of pain and disoriented thoughts. They played me… He blinked as he lay there… with a piano. Ha.

Greg forced himself back to his feet, his fists slamming into the ground with barely repressed rage and frustration, a voice in the back of his mind laughing its ass off at the craziness. He slammed onto his feet, the world around him a buzzing, chaotic whirl as he tried to keep his balance. The building’s height that he’d just plummeted from mocked him with its intimidating stature, and the exploded piano—yeah, that supersonic missile of an instrument—had just tried to play a deadly finale on his head. Okay, this is a new level of crazy… but I’m fine. I. Am. Fine.

A sensation, like a blaring horn, ricocheted through his mind—his Danger Sense, always so theatrically urgent. Greg’s body moved with conditioned speed, swerving away as the wreckage of wood and wire crashed where he’d stood milliseconds before. He glared down at it. Nice try, but no encore today.

Then, as if the universe hadn’t quite finished using him as a chew toy, his Danger Sense screamed again. OH GOD WHAT AGAIN???

His body, in pain but alert, spun on his heels and the world slowed, each detail becoming painfully vivid as extremely bright floodlights filled his vision. A metallic monster—a junkyard’s version of a wrecking ball—smashed into him with force and speed, sending him once more spiraling through the air in a heap of ungainly limbs.

The ground came up fast and hard, but it wasn’t the unforgiving concrete that welcomed him—it was a suspiciously convenient pile of garbage. Thankful but confused, Greg pushed himself off the garbage pile only to blink down at his feet. What's a pile of garbage doing in the middle of the street?

The garbage stirred, rumbling and shifting as Greg found himself staring in the face of a rough, bulky form, ugly as sin, and it reeked of more than just trash.

“You really don’t wanna do this,” he deadpanned.

A fist, solid and grimy, connected with Greg’s face