Maximum Power II (Patreon)

Maximum Power II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

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

The President nodded. “Utmost importance, frankly.”

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

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

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

Casey's lips twitched in a half-smirk. Perfect. Feed the weapon, but not to the point of gluttony.

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

Ideas began to flow from the gathered minds, suggestions of propaganda disguised as education. "American history, of course, but tailored," one suggested. "And economics, framed to show the superiority of our system," added another.

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

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

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

The responses were immediate, a barrage of suggestions ranging from military drills to survival exercises. "Running from wild animals," one official said. "Climbing under barbed wire and being shot at with rubber bullets," added another, the suggestion met with nods of approval.

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

President Bush nodded, his expression grave. "We need to ensure his loyalty. America first, always."

The Vice-President nodded in return, eyes glinting as he leaned back in his seat, hands folded over his stomach.

Casey listened, his expression unchanging but his mind working overtime. Physical prowess, yes. Make him strong, make him durable. But more importantly, make him ours.

"He should be trained to fight in any way he can," another general proposed. "Boxing, wrestling, even that fancy Asian shit, anything that'll give him an edge."

Another slammed his hand down on the table, an idea clearly just popping into his head.  "What about survival training? Drop him in different environments – deserts, forests, arctic conditions. Teach him to adapt, survive."

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

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

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

Bush leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. "Okay, let's hear it then. How do we balance this... training with ensuring he remains stable?"

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

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

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

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

The President cleared his throat. "General Casey, you've been quiet. Your thoughts?"

Casey straightened finally, tilting his head to meet Bush's gaze. Both old men met each other’s eyes before he properly spoke. "Mr. President, if we're to proceed with this, we must do so with the utmost care. Yes, train him, harden him, but let's not forget the threat within him. He's a weapon; one that can quite easily turn against us if wielded incorrectly. We already worry enough about Project Hyperion, after all."

The room fell silent again, considering Casey's words. He continued, "We train him, yes. But we can’t let our guard slip for a moment. These are child soldiers we’re creating, alien or not."

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

Cheney leaned back, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "It's a fine line we're walking. But if anyone can walk it, it's you, General."

Casey didn’t respond. Instead, he simply sighed. I certainly hope we’re not making a mistake.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He made a mistake.

A critical one in a fight like this.

The fight had been going relatively well up to this point, as well as a fight can go when you were hopelessly outclassed in strength, speed and durability to an insane degree.

Well, speed wasn’t exactly accurate.

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

That’s where he was king.

His opponent’s fist lashed out in a powerful hook, raw force behind it enough to cause a gale of air strong enough to bend the tall glass for meters around.

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

OneTwoThree blows to the sternum in quick succession.

Faster than an eyeblink.

Much faster.

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

It was no small amount.

The other boy was knocked back several paces, head down as he caught himself.

Zachary Casey allowed himself a smirk.

It didn’t last long.

Barely a half-second after the backwards stumble, the other boy slammed his fist into the ground, the force from it like a small earthquake.

Shit. Zach leapt up before he could be thrown off balance, flipping into the air with grace and power a gymnast would kill for. In his sleeveless blue jumpsuit, he could almost be confused for one, anyway.

His opponent, a Caucasian boy in a long-sleeve red suit of similar make, jumped up after him, leaving the ground with a forceful jump that left a near-perfect impression of his feet behind.

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

Another blow from the boy in red dodged and his leap turned into actual flight, a spiky bright blue energy aura surrounding his body as he darted backwards.

“Yeah,” the boy in red shot back, “but at least I can fly fast!”

Oh.

He blinked the instant his opponent blurred in the air.

Fuck.

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

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

Finally, he came to a stop.

On all fours, hands and knees trembling slightly, he let out a breath that was just as shaky.

Fucking. Hell.

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

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

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

“Are we going for a break now o-”

Zach snapped his head back up, unfocused blue eyes shooting a harsh glare at the blurry form of the red-suited figure hovering a good two dozen meters away from him.

He wanted to say something cool, possibly make a joke or brush off the hit that had him seeing white spots in his vision more than anything else.

“ShutthefuckupMarkus!”

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

“...I’ll take that as a yes.”

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

Fuck.

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

Not yet, at least.

He needed to train more for that.

God, I’d rather be training right now.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

July 10th, 1993

Somewhere in Virginia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

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

Granted, each time it got slightly easier but still…

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

At one point, they had simply used rubber.

They stopped six months in when he no longer flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zachary Casey

Power Level: 300

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

– – – – – – – –– – – – – – – –

January 20th, 1993

Somewhere in the Southwest

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

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

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

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

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

Zach nodded slowly. “Right.”

“But you do grow.”

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

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

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

BUT

And this was a big one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three years of Dragonball and right into Z.

It just wasn’t fair!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s just what he wanted, at least.

“Kaio-Ken…” His hair shot upwards, gaining an unnaturally spiky and firm definition as a roar burst from his lungs, his blue aura shifting to a dangerous red and tinting his entire body with it. “...TIMES THREE!”

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

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Zachary Casey

Power Level: 956

w/ Kaio-Ken X3: 2868

Health: 5900

Ki: 478

STR: 512

SPD: 546

END: 590

INT: 84

WIL: 180

Unspent Stat Points: 0

Perks:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skills:

• Aura Burst: Projecting your ki outwards explosively amplifies physical attributes.
• Kaio-Ken: Using ki internally to intensify your own body’s processes and vital energy
• Energy Blast: The most basic form of energy wave.
  • Energy Blast Volley
  • Energy Bomb
  • Energy Wave
• Eye Laser: A concentrated beam of energy shot from the eyes.
• Rapid Movement: A short burst of speed allowing for quick evasion or approach.
• Regeneration: Enhance healing factor into hyper-regeneration at the cost of stamina.
• Flight: The ability to fly with the use of Ki