Lag 6.22 (Patreon)

Lag 6.22

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It was amazing how calm a city like Brockton Bay could seem at night.

There had to be dozens of crimes occurring all over but this early in the morning, with the sky still pitch-black — as black as you could get with all the light pollution at least— you could almost imagine that it was actually as peaceful as it looked.

“Fu-shit!”

Almost.

Greg Veder, dressed in his Hardkour costume—a badass ensemble crafted from a motorcycle jacket, pants, leather belts, paired with a red scarf, gloves, and a full-face helm—swirled through the night sky. His body vaulted off the edge of a rooftop, twirling in the midnight air as he spun and flipped with an ease that bordered on disgustingly casual. The city blurred around him as he spun, finding himself upside down, then right side up, sideways and then upside down again as he dropped into a handstand only to quickly flip back up in the same movement.

Every single movement, an act of casual defiance against gravity.

“You okay, Padawan?” Greg called out, his voice cutting through the night as he settled on a power pole with the grace of a predatory bird.

“I told you never to call me that,” the reply came from his partner in roof jumping, the other boy clearly trying to mask the struggle, but the words spoken through gritted teeth were a loud, flaring billboard of effort.

Unlike Greg’s more intricately designed outfit, Sparky’s was comparatively simple. A hooded tracksuit, in black and yellow, reminiscent of Bruce Lee’s iconic bodysuit with an inverted color scheme, black fingerless gloves and a face mask slapped over his mouth. Yeah, that was Sparky—trying to channel his inner martial arts legend while leaping over rooftops.

“Hey, I’d go with Skywalker,” Greg began again, bounding around Sparky as the boy took a moment to catch his breath, “but you’re not exactly living up to the name.”

Was he being a bit of a jackass?

Obviously.

However, he wasn’t wrong in his critique of Sparky’s ability either. For Greg, it was all too easy—a blend of monstrous strength and acrobatic elegance, even without his [Reinforcement] skill singing in his veins. Every leap, every flip was done with an almost disgusting level of effortlessness.

Sparky? Not so much.

Imagine a toddler learning to run.

Now, take that toddler several stories up, heart racing, navigating gaps that yawned like open mouths ready to swallow him. A quarter of Greg’s speed, a fraction of his strength, and a choir of anxiety screaming in his every movement.

“So, ever considered a less life-threatening hobby? Like knitting, maybe?” Greg shouted, his voice carrying an echo of playful arrogance.

"Very funny, Hardkour," Sparky shot back, panting, eyes narrowing with exertion as he tried to keep up with Greg’s rhythm.

Greg looked at Sparky, a flicker of genuine concern behind his mask. It’s tough, but he’ll get it. Hopefully without plummeting down a few stories.

Greg moved fluidly, every leap an effortless demonstration of superhuman ability, while Sparky strained to keep up, each motion measured and deliberate. It was during one of these mid-air pirouettes that Greg casually threw a question at his friend. "So, any new changes you've noticed since the... y'know, boost?"

His voice cut through the night, nonchalant as a stroll in the park, even as he swerved through the city’s rough skeleton of bricks and shadows. A notebook and pencil appeared in his hand—Love you, Inventory—and he scribbled in it while leaping

"Boost," Sparky retorted, shooting him a look that screamed 'seriously?'.

"What else do you want me to call it?" Greg shot back, scribbling some notes. "I Gregged you up real good, didn't I? Filled you up with some Greg juice."

"Eww." Even behind a mask, the face Sparky pulled was obvious.

Greg barely held back the urge to wink, aware that his friend wouldn’t see it behind his helm anyway. Cackling, he leapt into the air again, shouting out, “You know you love me!”

Sparky crashed down to the roof a second behind him, grunting out the word, “Debatable.”

"Answer my question though, bro. How you feeling?" His eyes never stopped scanning even as he wrote down what he could already notice on the pad, noting that Sparky’s movements had a new edge since yesterday’s night out on the town.

Faster, higher, something edging closer to impressive.

Four days.

It had been four days since the world shifted on its axis for Sparky, since Greg played savior and architect of his transformation. Two days since his embarrassing first showing as Void Cowboy at the Forsberg. Luckily, Greg had done the smart thing and chose to stay away from the internet, particularly one forum specifically, well aware that he’d be unable to stop himself from getting into internet fights.

“Senses still kinda sting a little but it's easier now,” Sparky admitted, rolling his shoulders after a slightly harsher landing. “How did you not fucking lose your mind dealing with this shit?”

Greg tilted his head to the side, rolling the question around in his skull for a second or two before he finally spoke again. “Two theories or… at least, two reasons? I guess,” he somehow managed to shrug while flipping upside down. “Anyway, one, my growth was a slow ramp up. My body had time to adapt with every level and every point I put in. My senses are great but unless I'm actively like using them or adrenaline's pumping, everything's only a little above normal. At least, I don't notice it you know. But you… You went from 0 to 60 in like 5 seconds.”

The other boy nodded his head a few seconds later, accepting that answer pretty easily. He glanced at Greg as they ran side by side for a few seconds more before finally letting out a sigh and speaking up again. “...the second theory, brah.”

“Oh,” Greg snorted. “I'm literally built different.”

The joke landed about as well as Sparky did a moment later, the other boy caught off guard to the point that he had to drop into a roll to keep his forward motion. Bouncing back to his feet, he shot a harsh look in his friend’s direction as Greg turned around, running backwards just to see the pratfall. “Dickhead.”

Greg let out a cackle worthy of any witch on Halloween as he turned back around and bounded over to another rooftop. “Anything else?”

"My appetite's gone mad crazy, brah," Sparky finally added again as he rushed forward to cross the gap between them, a ripple of vulnerability in his voice that might have also been due to exertion. "I've been sleeping way less, too. That normal?"

Greg nodded, the motion as fluid as his jumps. "Totally. I was a food vacuum at first. Eating like a pig, honestly. It's gotta be all the enhanced biomass processing and cellular metabolic acceleration, you know. You gotta adapt to all the rapid changes and all that extra intake’ll probably drop down to something close normal like me once your body levels out.” He paused for a moment, something else popping into his thoughts. “Although that still begs the question of where all the extra energy is coming from after that. Some kind of high-efficiency biological furnace, that what we are? Turning every scrap of food into pure energy?” His mind whirled, expression shifting downwards into a frown behind the mask. “I mean, the energy has to come from somewhere, right?

"As long as there’s some net intake, we should be good," Greg finished his musing, the night air carrying his words.

Sparky blinked in silence, his eyes above his face mask an open book of 'What the hell?'

Greg stared back. "What?"

"Nothing," Sparky muttered, before his voice took on a teasing tone. "So, how's it feel getting your butt kicked by the Travelers and the Merchants in the same fight?"

Greg rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn’t suppress the grin that threatened. "We're not revisiting this! Though, for the record, I did trash Mush."

"Clockblocker could take on Mush."

Greg whipped his head around, white lenses focused on the other boy. "No, he hasn't!"

"I said could, not did."

"...fair."

Before Sparky could shoot back with another insult, a scream — desperate and raw — ripped through the night air. Their conversation, along with the playful edge, was obliterated in an instant.

"What the-" Sparky began, the words sharp and edged.

But Greg had already moved. In his perspective, the world seemed to slow, giving him that fraction of a second's advantage. His eyes, visible through the blue-glowing slits in his full-face helmet, scanned the area, catching onto a glint of movement. There.

"There!" He repeated aloud. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a command, casual attitude momentarily forgotten. "Follow me!"

He took off, at a pace just exceeding that of Sparky’s, a sheer blur against the skyline, fast enough that he’d be risking a fine in a school zone at the very least. Sparky, though quick, was still a good distance behind. Gotta give him credit, Greg mused as he came to a stop. He's trying.

By the time Sparky caught up almost a half minute later, Greg was already standing still, pointing down an alleyway. The scene below spoke volumes. Five members of the E88, all of them skinheads, were on the prowl.

Their target? A young black couple who looked nothing short of terrified.

"Why are you just standing here?" Sparky's voice was urgent, frantic even. “We gotta save ‘em!”

Greg just turned to him, face inscrutable behind the mask. "Nah."

The response seemed to shatter whatever focus Sparky had. "What do you mean, nah?!" He was breathing hard, anger evident in his eyes and stance.

"No, not we. Just you," Greg corrected him, pointing at the scene with two fingers. “Get to it.”

Sparky seemed to deflate for a moment, the weight of the responsibility seeming to hit him. But another scream echoed — louder, closer. The woman had tripped over, and her partner was shouting, trying to protect her as the gang closed in.

“Another one of your damn lessons?” Sparky shot back, glaring at Greg. But even as he did, his body tensed, preparing to jump into action.

“Get to it, Apex,” Greg pressed, tilting his head. Come on, Sparky. Prove me right.

With a huff, Sparky took off, "Fucking h- fine."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Axel Ramon, known to some as Sparky, was intimately familiar with his own anger. It wasn’t some conspicuous chip on his shoulder. No, it was subtler, a persistent buzzing in the back of his head.

Since Friday night, that buzz had become a deafening roar.

He stared down from the rooftop at the chaos unfolding below. Five members of the E88, hopped up on hate and hunting their next victims, had chosen a dark, grimy alley as their playground. The dim light from a solitary flickering bulb barely cut through the darkness, casting eerie shadows.

Greg could handle this, easily, Sparky thought, but his mind quickly added, But I guess it's my turn. Rather than unleash his wrath on Greg — again — for not playing the superhero, Sparky decided the thugs below made perfect targets.

Let’s do this.

Taking a breath, a mix of the night’s chill and adrenaline surging through his veins, he leapt from the building. His hands found grip on an exterior stairwell, muscles straining and absorbing the impact. Launching himself off with a simultaneous push and kick, he flipped backwards, launching himself towards an alley wall, rebounding off that with yet another kick and allowing himself to fall with his momentum arrested. With only a grunt to betray his effort, he hit the ground, landing in the three-point bent position Greg had drilled into him.

See, teach, I’m learning, he thought with a bitter edge of sarcasm.

Standing up, he found himself in between the Empire gangsters and the couple, rage building in his chest as he took in the obvious signs of the same gang who nearly killed him just a few days ago.

“Hey, fuckfaces!” He growled out, voice slightly muffled behind his black facemask. “Y’all too pussy to fuck with someone who’s not scared or what?”

The couple being chased quickly took off, further into the alley and towards the nearest street as the Empire Eighty-Eight members turned to face him. Their faces contorted, eyes filled with ugly hate as they took him in. A knife glinted ominously, reflecting the flickering alleyway light, and brass knuckles promised pain.

“What are you, kid?” One of them barked, waving a bat threateningly.

Sparky scoffed, raising his fists up in a simple stance. “This an interview? You want my full genetic history before a beat-down? I’m a cape, how’s that?”

“What fucking kind are you?” Another one demanded.

“What are you t-?”

“We can tell you’re a cape, you dumb fuck,” the one with the bat interrupted, his gravelly voice grating on Sparky’s ears. “If you had powers worth talking about, you wouldn’t be talking, We’d be on the ground, maybe dead, so I figure some kind of shitty Brute, maybe a Striker. A Mover, maybe.”

Sparky frowned again, visibly confused. “And you still wanna do thi-”

“This ain’t Boston, kid. Dozens of new capes every couple of months pop up in the Bay thinking they’re hot shit,” Knives grinned, “and you don’t look half as mean as some of the ones we’ve seen go down. So, what are you?”

Yeah, you look kinda vague,” Knuckles chimed in. “Dependin’ on your blood, we might kill you. We might just fuck you up. Might just break your legs. It’s up to you.”

“...” A pair of golden eyes narrowed. “I’m as dark as the dick your moms suck to keep the lights on, how ‘bout that?”

Bat nodded. “...Alright, kill him.”

They charged.

So did Sparky.

He moved with precision, every muscle, every nerve tuned into his motion. He darted beneath the careless swing of a bat, feeling the rush of air as it missed him. Too slow.

He found openings in the wild arc of a knife, exploiting the hesitation at his speed, every misplaced step. A particularly reckless swing by one of the gang members opened up an opportunity, and Sparky struck back.

His hand chopped down at the thug's wrist, sending the bat clattering into darkness.

A vicious palm strike followed, making contact. The man stumbled back a step or two and the teenager let out a silent hiss as he realized he had held back a little too much as the man rushed forward again. Irritation at himself fueling him, he sidestepped a knife from the side and spun with the momentum, a spinning backfist landing in the same spot he struck with his palm barely two seconds ago.

A vicious grin sprang across his face as he felt bones give way beneath his fist, and the man flew back and crumpled, body a heap on the damp alleyway ground.

Not dead, at least, he caught himself thinking, able to see the ragged rise and fall of the thug’s chest even in the dim lighting. He felt the sharp edge of victory but also the sour twist of disgust at how excited he felt. Lucky me.

“YOU KILLED KENNY!”

His head snapped up as Knuckles let out a ragged scream. “He’s not d-”

“YOU BASTARD!”

The rush of adrenaline in his veins drowned out everything else as the guy with the brass knuckles charged him. The man’s angry intentions were all too clear from the raw hate in his eyes and Sparky reacted, instinct and training colliding. He blocked the blow with his forearm and struck back out, countering with a heavy fist into Knuckles’ gut.

Unable to stand as his eyes bulged from the pain, the gangster slumped to all fours, coughing and spitting up his dinner from earlier. Oh come on, Sparky thought with an internal grimace as he hopped back from the mess all over the alley floor. Ewwww.

An unexpected scream drew Sparky's attention. He dropped low, narrowly missing being trapped being the bulky arms of a massive tattooed Neo-Nazi. You guys all look the same to me, I swear. With no time to waste, he pivoted, channeling his momentum to drive a foot hard into the thug's knee.

With a cry of agony, the man went down hard, writhing on the alley floor.

Two more E88s, seeing their buddy in distress, bolted for him. Sparky’s sneakers skidded on the grimy pavement as he darted towards a nearby alley wall. Rebounding off the wall, he flipped through the cold night air. His feet connected with their chests in a powerful spinning kick, leaving them gasping and collapsing in heaps of failure on the cold ground.

Landing back on the ground in a tight crouch, Sparky allowed himself a smile. Man, I’m good.

The smile didn’t last long.

Movement caught his eye — the first thug, somehow back on his feet, a gun in one shaking hand, nose gushing fresh blood as he cradled his chest. Time slowed to a crawl and Sparky felt himself freeze like a deer in headlights, a cold, numb feeling washing over him as his heart stilled. The barrel of the gun, the only thing he could see as his breath seemed to hitch in his chest.

Just as the coldness of dread settled in, a blur filled his vision and the sound of crunching bones drowned everything else out.

"Missed one," Greg quipped, sounding amused.

Sparky took in a shuddering breath. Holy fuck.

The masked blond held a shattered wrist in hand, mask turned towards Sparky as he waved the man’s hand in a grim “Hello”, still crunching bones in his grip as the gun clattered uselessly to the asphalt.

“T-Thanks, brah,” he felt himself stutter. “I mean… Hardkour.”

The red-masked cape tilted his head slightly. “What are friends for, Apex?”

Turning to the man blubbering in his grip, the blond’s voice shifted, losing most of its warmth as he spoke next. "Hey, big guy," Greg shook the man like a ragdoll, uncaringly and with probably too much force, "Come on. Stop screaming,” he commanded blithely, wiggling the wrist with each syllable. “I'm trying to teach my Padawan the ways of the streets here."

Despite Hardkour’s best efforts at making himself clear, the man didn’t seem to hear him, continuing to scream.

Greg sighed theatrically, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "I get it. You’re hurting. So am I. I don’t like to do this either. You know, I’m a pacifist, really.”

Sparky blinked, thinking back to the chaos of a few nights ago. Pass a fist through a face, maybe.

Greg shook his head as the man continued to scream. “Fun fact: did you know 106 people die every minute?"

Sparky blinked at the non-sequitur.

So did the man, his horrified expression clashing comically with his confusion as he managed to croak out a pained "What?"

"You make 107." Greg said as he let go, only to send the gangster sprawling with a final punch.

Sparky stared, trying to catch his breath. “Bro, what the fuck?”

Greg laughed, brushing nonexistent dirt off his clothes. "You killed three guys three days ago," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "You didn’t exactly go easy on these ones either."

Sparky bit his lip, memories flooding back even more. "...Yeah, I guess," he muttered, not wanting to dwell on the past.

"Sides, he's not dead, only K.O.'d. Some broken ribs, but he’ll be good in a month,” Greg said with an audible smirk, gesturing at the man’s still moving chest. “You know me, I just said that to fuck with him."

“... I’m not really gonna complain that much, honestly,” Sparky found himself admitting. “Not anymore, at least,”

"Look who’s learning," Greg replied, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.