A Boy's Life (Patreon)

A Boy's Life 1.0

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June 18th, 2010

A burly scowling man ambled along the winding path leading the way out of Central Park’s bustling center, his white bulldog trotting eagerly ahead of him. Without warning, the dog suddenly halted, its body tensing with a low whine as it stared upwards.

The man in the black trench coat stopped as well and glanced down, annoyance clear in his voice as he tried to understand what his dog was up to. “"Fuckin 'ell, mate, you just took a sh-"

The complaint died in his throat as his hardened eyes followed the dog’s gaze and widened in pure shock as he took in what had captivated the dog; the jagged rip forcibly tearing the sky apart. “Bloody fuckin’ ell…”

It wasn't a cloud parting or a plane cutting through the blue. It was a rip, a harsh pixelated tear in the very fabric of the sky. Blue and white light flickered and glitched around the edges, almost overpowering the sunlight and casting an eerie, unnatural glow onto the mid-summer day.

Like a sudden ripple, the usual hum of the park began to falter as everyone began to turn their gazes skyward.

Conversations trailed off; footsteps slowed. A young couple, hands intertwined, stopped mid-stride, their expressions morphing from contentment to confusion, then to horror. A group of teenagers, sprawled on the grass, their laughter and chatter ceasing abruptly, sat up, pointing and staring at the sky with wide, disbelieving eyes.

From the center of the rip, something burst loose — a streak of light, hurtling towards the earth, as the rip itself suddenly began to return to normal. A meteor or something like it, alive with energy and power, its trajectory aimed directly at the heart of Central Park.

Panic erupted.

People started to scream and run, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. Some stumbled over each other, faces filled with terror.

A businessman, phone clutched in his hand, dropped the device and sprinted away, stumbling over himself in dress shoes and a full suit. Birdwatchers, binoculars hanging forgotten around their necks, joined the fleeing crowd, forgetting everything else.

Many didn’t get very far.

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"Central Park Catastrophe: The Aftermath"

"Good evening, I’m Chet Williams. Our top story tonight continues to be the aftermath of the unprecedented tragedy in Central Park. Nearly two hundred lives were lost, and many more injured, when what appeared to be a meteor-like object crashed into the heart of the park. The city is in mourning, and the nation is in shock. We now go live to our correspondent at the scene, Mike Stone."

"Thanks, Chet. Behind me, you can see the devastation left in the wake of this catastrophic event. Emergency services are still working around the clock, and the area remains cordoned off as investigations continue..."

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@WalkinHere: "Can't believe what happened in Central Park. My heart goes out to all the families affected. #CentralParkTragedy #NYCStrong"

@ConTheory101: "No explosive material found at Central Park? This wasn't an accident. #OpenYourEyes #Truth"

@VoughtNYC: "In times of tragedy, we see the true spirit of New York. The way people are coming together is inspiring. #CentralPark #Unity"

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The New York Times: "Tragedy in Central Park: Thousands Dead in Unexplained Blast"

The Daily News: "Central Park Horror: City Mourns as Questions Loom"

The Post: "Central Park Massacre: Terror or Tragedy?"

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Cameron Coleman: "This is clearly an act of terrorism. We need to take action against our enemies who dare to attack our city!"

Michelle White: "But there's no evidence of explosive materials, and no terrorist group has claimed responsibility. We can't jump to conclusions."

Daniel Majors: "Regardless of the cause, this is a wake-up call. Our city, our people, were vulnerable. We need to ensure this never happens again."

Madelyn Stillwell, Senior VP of Hero Management: "Exactly, and we at Vought know exactly what steps to take. While the Seven were in Seattle preventing Goliath from destroying the city, they are deeply saddened they were not here when their city needed them. This is why Vought International has pledged to expand its hero network by 500% to make sure that every major city in America and every single state has a team of heroes dedicated to them by 2020."

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@HeroWatcher: "500% more heroes? Sounds like Vought is capitalizing on this tragedy."

@RealTalk: "Where were the so-called 'heroes' when NYC needed them most? #CentralParkQuestions"

@HopefulCitizen: "@RealTalk You fuckin dumb? They were on the other side of the country?"

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"In other news, conspiracy theories abound regarding the Central Park incident. Suspected sightings of a blue blur seen in the aftermath trailing away from the crater. With no clear explanation for the cause of the blast, speculation continues to run rampant across social media platforms and among the public..."

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@KellsKells: "No one's taking credit, no explosive materials... this wasn't a normal attack.

@Patriot101: "We can't let our guard down. This could be a new form of warfare.

@PeaceNotWar: "Let's not let fear divide us. We need to come together in times like these.”

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Anchor: "As the city continues to reel from the Central Park tragedy, questions remain. Was this a freak accident, an act of terror, or something else entirely? Stay with us as we continue to bring you the latest developments."

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@NewNYC: "Walked past Central Park today. The silence was deafening. We lost so much, but we will rebuild. We are New York. #CentralParkStrong"

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He was on the run again, his feet pounding the pavement in a relentless rhythm. Days had blurred since that moment – the moment he woke up in a crater, surrounded by chaos and screams. The images of destruction and death were etched in his mind, haunting him. He didn't know how he got there, who he was, or where he was. All he knew was running, and that came to him as naturally as breathing. The world around him shifted into hyper-focus the second he rose to his feet and he simply started moving.

He had torn through the smoke and debris of Central Park, his body moving on autopilot as he tried to blend into the chaos. Energy coursed through him, a type he couldn't comprehend, didn't have time to understand. He ran for hours without stopping, his stamina seemingly infinite. The only breaks he took were to sleep in alleys or to rummage through dumpsters for food.

Speaking of dumpsters...

He darted down another alleyway, his stomach growling loudly. He needed to find food, and he needed to stay hidden. He couldn't let anyone find him, not in this state. He had seen the news, the death toll rising, the destruction he had somehow caused. His fists clenched, teeth gritted as he fought back tears. I did that, it's my fault.

He didn't know how, but he was sure he wasn't in that crater by accident. He was one of those supes, and now they were looking for him. He wasn't just some stray kid; he was different, special even.

But right now, that didn't matter much.

The boy's stomach growled like some feral animal, reminding him that being special didn't fill an empty belly. He skulked through the grimy streets, his feet aching with each step, the concrete cold and unforgiving. Trash crunched under his bare soles, sharp edges biting into his skin, but he hardly winced anymore.

As he rounded another corner, his foot caught on a loose brick. He stumbled, cursing under his breath as his gaze darted around, always watching, always wary.

He had spotted fliers tracing his path, suspiciously always headed towards areas he had been just an hour ago. They're hunting for me. For some reason, these supes were after him, even though the police and the public didn’t seem to suspect any single person.

At least that’s what the news said.

His stomach growled again, pulling him from his bitter thoughts. He rushed around a corner, barely noting the stabbing pains in his bare feet from the glass and trash littering the alley. His eyes lit up when he spotted a pizza parlor with a dumpster out back. "Finally!" he breathed out, his voice a mix of relief and desperation. Hunger had a way of overshadowing the discomfort of dumpster diving. He quickened his pace, ignoring the stinging cuts on his feet.

He was just steps away when a strange whirring sound pierced the air. The boy froze, his survival instincts kicking in. He twisted around, eyes wide, trying to pinpoint the source. What now? He glanced around, confused and on edge.

"WHOOO! HERE COMES THE A-TRAIN, BABY!"

The voice boomed, filling the narrow alley with its bravado. The boy barely had time to register the blur of blue and white before it collided with him. The impact was like a freight train, sending him hurtling backward. He crashed against the alley wall and pain exploded across his skull and back, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. His head swam, the world spinning around him as he tried to figure out how to stand again.

Looking up, the world still spinning, he saw him – a tower of muscle clad in a skin-tight suit. Goggles masked the man's eyes, but his smirk was all too clear. The man scoffed, looking down with disdain. "Can't believe I had to quit my party to catch your scrawny ass, lil nigga. I better get a bonus for this."

Bonus? The thought flickered weakly in his mind as consciousness slipped away from him. The boy's vision blurred, the edges darkening as he struggled to stay awake. The last thing he saw was the costumed man's smug expression before the world went black.

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Consciousness crept back to him slowly and painfully, dragging him out of the dark depths into a blurry world of light and shadow. His body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants, every muscle aching, every bone seemingly protesting. The cold, hard surface beneath him did nothing to ease his discomfort.

His eyelids were heavy, barely lifting to reveal the stark, blinding lights above. He squinted, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes swimming in his vision. Shadows loomed over him, their edges sharp against the harsh clinical light.

Straps dug into his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to what felt like a hospital bed. An IV line, cold and impersonal, snaked into his arm. Where am I? What’s going on?

“He’s not one of ours,” a voice said, floating above him. It was a man, his tone detached, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. The boy’s mind grappled with the words, struggling to hold onto them through the fog that clouded his thoughts.

“What do you mean, he’s not a supe?” Another voice, this one a woman’s, laced with a stress that seemed to teeter on the edge of panic. “Our satellites tracked him leaving the crater in Central Park! He has to be.”

“I didn’t say he’s not a supe, Madelyn. I said he’s not one of ours. Not a drop of V in his system,” the man clarified, his voice still unnervingly calm.

The boy's heart raced, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. Supes? V? What are they talking about? He tried to move, but his body was leaden, unresponsive.

“What?” The woman, Madelyn, her incredulity echoed through the sterile room.

“I said, not a drop of Blue. Aqua to Ultramarine, not a bit.”

"Wh-what? How is that possible?"

"I'm not sure. Strictly speaking, I'm not even sure this boy is the supe behind the Central Park situation."

"I-I'm lost." Madelyn admitted, her voice a mix of frustration and disbelief.

"So was I. The boy is in great health, the peak of any 13-year-old boy I could imagine. Rather quick healer too. But tough enough to survive that landing? Neuron complexity to support powers? Not in the slightest."

"That... how?" Her voice was a whisper now, laden with confusion.

"I know. Doesn't make a lick of sense."

What are they talking about? What's happening to me? As he lay there, trapped in his own body, the voices faded, becoming distant echoes. The light above blurred, swirling into the darkness that crept in from the edges of his vision. He fought against it, desperate to stay awake, to understand, but it was no use.

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“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Consciousness crashed over the boy like a tidal wave, dragging him out of the darkness and into a world of excruciating pain. His entire being screamed in agony, each cell of his body seemingly on fire. His eyes flew open, a reflexive response to the unbearable torture enveloping him. Above him, the stark white lights of the laboratory merged into a blinding glare, their harshness assaulting his already overwhelmed senses.

The pain was indescribable, beyond anything he had ever imagined. Like his blood was liquid fire, rushing through his veins with relentless, raging fury. His skin glowed ominously, blue light tracing the paths of his veins, a sinister, glowing map etched into his flesh.

His throat was raw, his screams uncontrollable, each one tearing from him in a desperate plea for relief. The sound was primal, the guttural cry of a person pushed beyond their limits, his mind refusing to shut down despite the pain. His body convulsed on the bed, the restraints biting into his skin, adding physical pain to the inferno within.

The old man in the lab coat stood before him, a figure of detached curiosity. The boy's eyes, wide with fear and pain, locked onto the man, begging for help.

But the man merely observed, his face a mask of clinical fascination, devoid of empathy.

As the blue light coursed towards his chest, the agony intensified again. It felt like his heart was gripped in a vise, squeezing with merciless force, each heartbeat a thunderous, painful echo in his chest. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The scream tore through the lab, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. The light surged upwards, a wave of pain racing to his head. His vision splintered, breaking apart into countless fragments of light and darkness. It was as if his brain was being shredded from the inside, his thoughts disintegrating into fragments of pure, searing pain. His consciousness flickered, his body just a mass of raw, exposed nerve endings, each one on fire.

His vision blurred, and then, mercifully, he passed out again.

"WHY IN THE FUCK WOULD YOU GIVE HIM V?"

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… upDAtinG

… uPdAtinG

… UpDAtiNG

… UPDATED

…sYstEM ONLINE

• 92,075 XP Gained

Level up x 48

LEVEL 49

Stat Points: 248

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Compound V Infusion

(Eliminating Negative Effects)

(Enhancing Effectiveness)

Potency: Rank III - Sky Blue

Booster

• Mega-Strength III: STR x 10
• Mega-Durability III: DUR x 10
• Mega-Agility III: AGI x 5
• Mega-Mind III: INT x 2.5
• Mega-Power III: PWR x 10
• Ability: Regen I
• Ability: Toxin Immunity I
• Ability: Enhanced Senses I
• 150 Stat Points

September 22nd, 2010

The boy yanked the mask from his face, the blue domino mask that had been plastered across his eyes for the better part of a day. He knew the thing was expensive, probably about a fifth as expensive as any phone currently on the market, but that didn't stop him from tossing it carelessly into the sink with a clatter.

His hands clamped down on the porcelain edges, his grip firm but cautious. He wasn't about to break it, not out of respect, but because he didn't need another reason for them to be on his case. His furious blue eyes met his reflection, and the edges of his irises seemed to glitch unnaturally the longer he stared at himself.

Not glitching. He thought to himself again. Pixelated. They forced him to wear the mask for a reason; his eyes were too much, too ‘intense’, too frightening’. According to “panels”, they made him look too ‘unstable’ and that just wouldn’t fit his ‘wholesome image.’

With a sigh, he let his gaze drop to the sink again.

How the hell did I end up here?

This world was alien to him, filled with strangers and their strange ways. He had no memories to call his own, no past to anchor him. He knew facts, sure—capitals, historical events, science trivia—but his own life was a blank slate.

Not knowing his own home, his family, or even his own damn name?

That grated on him, more than just a little.

“Stepchild?”

Speaking of grating on him…

Without turning, his eyes lifted to the mirror, catching the reflection of the boy behind him. He wasn’t surprised not to have heard him enter, the boy’s powers made him as stealthy as agile as any amateur ninja out there at only eleven years old. Still annoying.

The kid in the tight purple spandex and a cape winced at the sight of those pixelated eyes—a clear warning sign. "Pigeon..."

"Yeah?" came the tentative reply.

"What did I tell you about calling me that?" His voice was a low growl, barely contained.

Pigeon shifted uncomfortably, the overly-tight fabric of his costume squeaking slightly. "Sorry, Z-Zion… I... I forgot."

Zion's gaze didn't waver, his eyes locked onto Pigeon's reflection. "Try harder."

Pigeon nodded, his cape fluttering as he took an involuntary step back. "Got it. Won't happen again."

Zion's eyes narrowed as he let out a sigh, more frustrated at himself for his own mood than he ever could be for any of his new “siblings”. No, it’s their fault. His fault.

He turned the tap on, letting the cold water run over his hands, watching as the mask's electronics shorted out with tiny sparks. Good riddance.

"... Father sent me to collect you for dinner. You were taking really long to wash up." Pigeon's voice was cautious, almost hesitant, the eleven-year-old unsure of himself as much as his words. “Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Zion turned off the tap, the water stopping with a definitive sound. "I'm always okay," he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. "Isn't that what He wants me to say?"

Pigeon didn't respond, and Zion didn't need a mirror to know the expression that would be on the kid's face. They all look at me like I'm some kind of bomb about to go off.

He grabbed a towel, drying his hands with more force than necessary. "Just... keep out of my way tonight, Pigeon. I've got enough to deal with without playing babysitter."

"I'm not a kid," Pigeon muttered, but there was no conviction behind it.

Zion tossed the towel aside and pushed past Pigeon, his shoulder bumping the other boy's as he left the bathroom. The bright lights and gold-and-white embroidery of the place were suffocating, a gilded cage that was supposed to be luxurious but felt more like a prison.

They can dress it up all they want, but a cage is still a cage. And I'm no one's pet.

He didn't look back as he walked away, the sound of his sneakers echoing on the marble floor. He didn't need to see Pigeon's face to know he'd left an impression, and he didn't care.

Zion's boots echoed against the marble floor as he strode through the hallways, his eyes narrowing at the ostentatious gold that seemed to plaster every inch of the walls. I'm thirteen, not blind. How is this place so tacky? Months of living here and the gaudy designs still seared at his eyes like staring right at the noon sun.

Behind him, the faint sound of footsteps persisted.

He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Pigeon trailing him. The boy in purple offered a tentative smile, clearly unsettled by Zion's scowl. Freaking Pidge, Zion thought, a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance stirring within him. Pigeon was hard not to like, despite his unnerving stealth and the way he shadowed Zion half the time.

But that didn't mean Zion had to trust him.

Approaching a set of large white doors, Zion's frown deepened. He pulled the hoodie of his blue jacket over his head, burying his hands in its pockets. Let's just get this crap over with. With a push, he swung the doors open and stepped through, maintaining his brisk pace.

“Hello, Stepchild,” a chorus of high-pitched voices chimed in unison from the dining room barely five seconds after he entered.

Halting mid-step, Zion turned his glare on the eleven children seated along one side of the long dining table. “Next person says that name goes an extra round in the ring with me,” he declared, voice cold and hard. He punched his hand, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot, a visible shockwave emanating from the impact.

His threat was a potent one. None of the other children worked nearly as hard as him when it came to training and he was already stronger than the strongest of them when he had first been shipped off to live with them. Three months later, he doubted ten of them at once would be enough to beat him, even if he went easy.

Granted, they were preteens and he was older than them by at least a year.

Still, though…

The room fell silent, the children's attention abruptly shifting to their plates. Pigeon, who had just caught up, stood slightly behind Zion, his presence seemingly unnoticed by the pre-teens now engrossed in their meals.

Zion sneered, teeth gritted. “Thought so, fuckheads.”

He moved to take a seat, the only seat across from the thirteen tables on one side of the table, his movements deliberate and heavy. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp in the now quiet room. He slumped into it, hoodie still over his head.

Pigeon hovered awkwardly, the boy in purple staring at him before Zion shot him a look that clearly said, Don't even start. Pigeon took the hint, quietly taking a seat at the left end of the table, far away from him.

The dining room was extravagant, with its crystal chandeliers and silk tablecloths, but to Zion, it felt more like a prison's mess hall. He picked at his food, some sort of beef dish with his favorite drink; apple juice, his appetite nonexistent. The clinking of cutlery and the occasional whisper from the other kids were the only sounds that filled the room.

Zion's gaze swept across the dining room, his irritation simmering like a pot on the brink of boiling over. "So where the fuck is the Big Man, anyway?" His voice cut through the air, sharp and demanding.

At the far end of the table, a boy clad in black spandex, his skin an unnatural shade of orange and hair ablaze with a cold flame, gasped. "You can't disrespect father like that!" he exclaimed, his Bronx accent thick and fiery.

"Flambo…" Zion's voice dripped with disdain as he turned his attention to the fiery boy. "Shut the fuck up. I asked a question. Somebody answer me. Where the fuck i-"

His words were cut off as the door at the other end of the dining room swung open. "GREETINGS, MY WONDROUS WARDS!" boomed a voice, deep and commanding. Zion's hand clenched around his fork, his eyes narrowing at the sound.

Oh Father strode into the room, a towering figure of muscle and might. The man was a bald black giant, easily over six feet tall, his physique sculpted and imposing beneath a white bodysuit adorned with golden boots, gloves, and a cloak. He was a proud Christian superhero, the leader of Capes for Christ, known for taking in superpowered children and molding them into saviors in the name of the Lord.

Well known, my ass, Zion thought bitterly. The public's clueless about the real shit these freaks are into.

What the public knew about supes could fill a simple cup. Hell, he had only been somewhat introduced to this world a few months ago and all he had was a bathtub of knowledge compared to the lakes of implied shit these monsters were swimming in.

As Oh Father approached, the other children around the table responded in a chorus of rehearsed greetings. "Greetings, Oh Father!" their voices rang out, some trembling, others firm.

Zion's eyes narrowed as he observed the bizarre ritual unfolding before him. The dining room, adorned with extravagant decorations and a long, polished table, felt more like a stage for a twisted performance than a place for a meal. Each child, dressed in their unique superhero costumes, stood up in turn, responding to Oh Father's call with a mechanical precision that sent chills down Zion's spine.

Flambo!" Oh Father's voice boomed, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

The boy with the flaming head, Flambo, rose to his feet with a jerk, his fiery hair crackling with energy. "Oh, Father!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of reverence and fear.

"Kid Robo!" Oh Father continued, his deep voice echoing off the walls.

The metallic-skinned boy, adorned in a costume that screamed patriotism, snapped to attention like a soldier. "Oh, Father!" he responded, his metallic tone devoid of emotion.

"Spinner!" The call came again, relentless in its rhythm.

A boy in a spider-themed costume, his blonde hair peeking out, stood up. His movements were stiff, as if he was a puppet on strings. "Oh, Father!" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Spinnerette!" The pattern continued, each name a command that demanded obedience.

The girl in the spider-inspired outfit, her costume a blend of red, black, and yellow, rose gracefully. "Oh, Father!" she said, her voice carrying a hint of reluctance.

"Imp!" The name cut through the air, sharp and clear.

Another girl, dressed in a costume that evoked images of a nocturnal vigilante, stood up. "Oh, Father!" she declared, her voice stronger than the others, yet still laced with an undercurrent of something unspoken.

"Buddy!" Oh Father's voice showed no signs of tiring.

A boy in a red top with a large blue "B" on his chest stood, his posture rigid. "Oh, Father!" he said, his voice betraying a hint of confusion.

"Zap!" The call was almost rhythmic now, a cadence of control.

The boy in yellow spandex, adorned with lightning patterns, jumped to his feet with an energy that seemed forced. "Oh, Father!" he shouted, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Ultra Lass!" The names kept coming, each one a link in a chain of submission.

The girl in the pink dress, her hair and accessories matching in color, stood with a grace that belied the situation. "Oh, Father!" she said, her voice soft yet clear.

"Cupid!" The ritual was nearing its end, but the unease it stirred in Zion only grew.

The redhead in medieval attire, complete with wings and a bow, stood up. "Oh, Father!" she declared, her voice carrying a note of defiance that was quickly smothered by the atmosphere of the room.

"Guppy!" The final name rang out, a conclusion to the bizarre roll call.

The blue-skinned girl with water wings stood, her expression one of resignation. "Oh, Father!" she said, her voice barely audible.

"Pigeon!" Oh Father's voice held a finality, as if this was the climax of the ceremony.

The blond boy in purple, Pigeon, rose to his feet, his arms spread wide in a gesture that seemed both welcoming and desperate. "Oh, Father!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion.

Zion watched the spectacle, his expression a mix of disdain and disbelief. This is some cult-level bullshit, he thought, his gaze hardening. And they expect me to play along with this freak show?

As Oh Father made his way to the head of the table, Zion remained seated, his posture defiant. He wasn't about to join in the chorus of adulation. He was here for reasons of his own, not to worship at the feet of some self-important megachurch leading asshole.

One day, I'll be out of this madhouse, Zion vowed silently.

"Stepchild!" Oh Father's voice boomed across the dining room, his gaze finally landing on Zion.

The boy, draped in an indifference that was as much his armor as the blue-and-white costume he wore, didn’t even bother to look up. The codename ‘Stepchild’, a not-so-subtle reminder of his place in this twisted family, was a title he'd been burdened with since replacing the former member of the team that made Sidekick Twelve a dozen strong.

Knife and fork in hand, he continued digging into his meatloaf.

“Stepchild!” The call came again, Oh Father's voice sharpening with an edge that sliced through the tense air of the dining room.

Zion remained unyielding, his eyes coldly sliding past Oh Father, taking in the haunted, terrified expressions of his 'siblings.' Their gazes, a mixture of fear and silent pleading, were fixed on him as he continued his silent rebellion against their ‘father’.

The heavy, deliberate footsteps of Oh Father echoed in the room as the man, a colossus in white and gold, strode down the length of the table towards him. Zion kept his focus on his plate, ignoring the looming presence until Oh Father stood right beside him.

“Stepch-”

“Not my name,” Zion interjected flatly, without lifting his gaze.

“Be a good boy, Stepch-”

“You’ve been calling me that for three fucking months and yet you can’t seem to shove a clue far up enough your fucking ass till it reaches your brain when I don’t answer to it,” Zion snapped, finally looking up, blue eyes beginning to glitch as he stared back with a fierce, unyielding defiance.

He didn’t drop his knife or fork, placing another piece of meatloaf in his mouth and swallowing it before continuing. “I’m not going with that goddamn name.”

A collective gasp echoed around the table at his profanity, drawing an exasperated look from Zion as he slammed his knife down and stood, slamming his hands on the table. “Oh, what the fucking hell? You all are fine with fuck, shit, cock, and everything else, but goddamn is where you draw the line? You fucking hypocrites!”

“Boy…” The big man finally said, voice tense.

“There!” The boy in blue-and-white spun to face Oh Father. “Fine, I can take that. Just don’t call me by that shitty fucking nam-”

His words were cut short as a superhuman palm struck him across the face, snapping his head to the side.  Turning back, Zion shot Oh Father a smirk. “As the Lord says, turn the other cheek.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, the air thick with tension. Zion stood defiant, his posture unyielding despite the blow. The other children, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and awe, watched the scene unfold with bated breath.

Oh Father's expression was a storm of emotions – anger, frustration, and something darker. He towered over Zion, his figure imposing and unrelenting. A thought suddenly struck Zion, cold and unbidden. What exactly happened to the kid I replaced?

“You would dare take the Lord’s name in this house and use His Word against me?” Oh Father thundered, his voice a mix of indignation and disbelief.

Zion’s face contorted with frustration, his temper flaring as he stood up to his full, albeit modest, height. “You’re a fucking pedo priest. Shut the fuck up about the Lord!”

Oh Father’s hand drew back, clenched into a fist, his intention clear. But Zion, fueled by a rage that had been simmering under the surface, was not about to let history repeat itself.

Before Oh Father could bring his fist down, Zion lashed out. His own fist, fork still in hand, shot forward with superhuman speed and force, striking Oh Father in a place that was as sensitive as it was wide open.

The sound that escaped Oh Father was a pitiful squeak, a sound so unexpected it almost seemed out of place. The man doubled over, clutching his injured nether regions as blood seeped through his pristine white suit. “N-n-nooooooo…”

His face twisted in agony, he slowly sank to his knees.

“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger…” the words left Zion’s mouth as he kicked his chair backward, a bright, pixelated blue glow emanating from his body. “...those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”

The energy coalesced around his hands, feet, and head, solidifying into forms reminiscent of boxing gear. Zion smiled from behind the glowing headgear, his fist raised and ready. “Now, what’s my fucking name?”

The room was silent, save for Oh Father's labored breathing.

Finally, the broken man managed to utter a single word, his voice barely a whisper.

“Z-zion…”

“Good boy.” Zion's fist swung forward.

• 10,000 XP

Level Up!

LEVEL 50

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OH FATHER BRUTALIZED BY ONE OF HIS FLOCK

Accusations of Sexual Abuse in Capes for Christ

By Daniel Jawkes

In a shocking turn of events that has sent ripples through the community, the renowned leader of Capes for Christ, known publicly as Oh Father, was reportedly assaulted by one of his own team members during what witnesses described as a heated confrontation. The incident has also unearthed a series of disturbing allegations against Oh Father, involving sexual abuse and misconduct within the organization.

Capes for Christ, a group that has long been celebrated for taking in young individuals with superpowers and guiding them towards the path of righteousness, is now at the center of a scandal that threatens to undermine its very foundation. Sources close to the situation, who have requested anonymity due to the sensitivity of the matter, claim that the altercation was sparked b-

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Zion Judas

Level 50

Health: 3500/3500

Power: 1175/1175

Strength: 150

Durability: 150

Agility: 60

Mind: 50

Power: 100

Charisma: 10