Deep beneath the lab, far beyond the reach of the upper levels, lay a place few dared to speak of. Some called it the Level of Hell. Others whispered it as the birthplace of "F-ery," a twisted moniker from those who had survived it long enough to call it anything at all. It sprawled endlessly—twice the size of the visible lab above, stretching in every direction, cavernous and humming with the quiet menace of human suffering.
In the main chamber, over five hundred and sixty-eight people moved with the slow, hollow rhythm of the resigned. Each wore loose, baggy clothing, arms and legs locked into zero-point energy shackles that shimmered faintly with suppressed power. Their eyes were deadened, their postures slumped, and their movements minimal. Food and water came sparingly. Exercise? A cruel joke. Activity meant nothing in a place where even the act of thinking could get you killed.
Black tables punctuated the white-tiled floor, each one accompanied by a chunky, antiquated-looking computer. But this was no ordinary machine. Its screen glowed black, cascading green numbers across its surface like digital blood. Each operator typed with deliberate precision, inputting powers, limits, weaknesses, personality quirks—every detail the system demanded. When the chip finally slid free of the console, it did not rest. Guards carried it carefully in woven baskets, distributing it among the rooms, each destined for its next victim. One wrong move and both supe and creator could die instantly. No margin for error.
In one room, a child of seven screamed with the pure, raw fury of someone stolen from his life. Legs flailed, fists pounded, tears traced tracks down his dirt-streaked face. No parent came. No friend. No one. He was strapped into a chair, limbs bound tight, as a surgeon carefully sliced the skull to insert the chip, unlocking powers that had never been meant for him. The child's scream echoed off sterile tiles, a soundtrack of misery repeated hundreds of times across the level.
In the control room above, the Watchers observed it all. Their eyes, cold and detached, followed every movement, every heartbeat. They were the true masters. Once a chip entered a mind, the supe belonged to them—obedient, manipulable, ready to be deployed. They followed a meticulous script: the hero must appear himself to the public, smile for cameras, and execute orders with the illusion of free will. Behind the screens, cruelty became methodical. One hero, Red Flame, had flown to feed the starving in Africa, only to have his scripted mission manipulated. When he returned, the village he had saved lay in ash and ruin. Children, adults, homes—gone. And the Watchers? They laughed.
Not tears, not shame—laughter. Insults followed, cruel and inhuman, thrown freely in tongues and accents that only accentuated the villainy. And when the hero returned to his own mind, clarity arrived as a wave of horror. He had no voice, no agency. A red button in the control panel promised an even simpler end: destroy the chip, destroy the brain. Death was mercy; only a few survived.
Since World War II, this system had thrived. Winthrop had been the first, taken at four, violated, reshaped, weaponized. Decades of heroes had been manufactured, disciplined, molded. Attempts to resist—vigilantes, rebels—had always failed. Even when Dr. James Monroe's plots escalated to the chaos of 9/11, the world was distracted, blind to the machinery turning beneath its feet. Humanity was still asleep while the next evolution of power marched forward in silence.
The video paused. Strike lowered the remote, letting the dim overhead lights flicker on. He chuckled, adjusting his mask with the casual arrogance of someone used to fear. Then he bent down toward Zack's parents, Mark's parents, trembling in the corner.
"Alright. Up," he said softly, voice low and dangerous. "You're going to your sections. Training begins now."
Helpless, they lifted their heads, eyes wide, mouths open as if to beg. Strike's grin widened, the tiniest spark of cruelty dancing in his gaze. Lightning licked his arms as he extended one hand toward the door.
"Do it," he growled. "Or else—"
"You'll what?" snapped a voice from the shadows. Warrior Girl stepped forward, arms crossed, leaning lightly against the wall. A single step forward, and the room seemed colder. Her voice was sharp, deliberate.
"You lay a finger on them, Luke, and I'll break your fingers and shove them up your ass."
Strike froze, lightning faltering across his skin. "Wait… what the f—did you just say to me, girl? Did you…tell me…to—what?" His voice cracked, uncertain for the first time.
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. "If you think you're brave," she said, letting her words sink, "you're nothing. A joke. And everyone knows it."
Her gaze tightened, piercing him like a blade. "Not funny. Not cool. Definitely a coward. So you better give me a good reason why I shouldn't do exactly what Inferno's planning."
Strike's jaw went slack. He stepped back, lowering his head. Silence filled the space.
"Good," she muttered, voice softening just enough for the parents to hear. Whispering, she led them out. "Never will you touch another innocent child." The door clicked shut behind them.
Strike exhaled, shoulders slumping. Regret pressed on him like lead. He had no choice, but Warrior Girl had seen through him. The fight he had tried to push, the desperate grab for Alex, had left him empty. He lowered his hands, and slowly, deliberately, removed the mask he never allowed himself to take off.
The mirror reflected him: scars cutting across his face, one eye gashed, the other half-burned, muscles exposed, raw and vulnerable. A single tear fell, then another. His knees buckled. His hands shook against his head as he whispered to no one, voice hoarse, broken.
"Why…why… I… can't… not… she's… right. Not anymore. Not anymore."
Outside, Warrior Girl guided the parents to their room, small, spare, two bunk beds, a narrow hallway leading to a bathroom and shower. Zack's father spoke first, voice trembling but firm.
"Thanks…for saving us, Warrior Girl. There aren't many heroes like you."
"Yeah… but what about our children?" Mark's mother whispered, voice tiny. "I haven't seen him in weeks. Where…is he?"
Warrior Girl opened the door softly. "Don't worry. I'll find them. I'll rescue them. Stop Inferno, stop the government. Time will tell." She stepped away, voice hushed. "No matter what happens… don't lose faith."
Zack's mother reached out, gripping her arm. "Please…stay a little longer."
Warrior Girl smiled faintly, lifting her hand from theirs. "I will be back," she promised, then slipped swiftly down the hall.
The parents sank to the floor, clutching one another. Tears streamed freely.
"I can't…" Mark's mother sobbed, voice cracking. "My son… he could be… tortured… controlled…"
"We have each other," Zack's father whispered, holding her tightly. "We'll bring him back."
She lifted her head, still shaking. "But…if they stop us… if they send Inferno… if they take everything… what's left? What has become of the world?"
Warrior Girl moved down the hall, mind racing. Her heart didn't falter, but worry sat heavy in her chest. She had lost too many trying to save others. Still, she couldn't shake the poison of survivor's guilt.
She froze as she saw Inferno and Strike ahead, talking. Her body stiffened instinctively, but she made no move to hide. Lips moved. Words passed. Then Strike's mask fell away. The face beneath—the man—stunned her, leaving her breath shallow.
Inferno shook his head, fixing Strike with a deadly gaze. "Why… take it off?"
Strike's shoulders sagged, then squared. "I…decided to quit the team."
Warrior Girl's jaw dropped, hands trembling. Redemption. It shimmered in the air around him.
"You…what?" she breathed.
Inferno stepped closer. His hands clenched. "No one…ever just leaves my team. Only by death are you released. You swore that."
"I…can't," Strike whispered. "I will not hide behind…rape…or…taking children to conquer world. I will not be treated like before. I am Luke…a proud African-American…"
Inferno's hand shot out. Fingers wrapped around Strike's skull. The compression was brutal. Strike's head exploded with a sickening, wet pop, blood spraying across Inferno, walls, floor. Warrior Girl's stomach dropped as she stared, breath ragged.
Inferno stepped back, hands lowering. His gaze swept the hallway. He spotted Warrior Girl, lips curling.
"I hate it when people like you…like him…ruin my team." His voice was low, venomous. He gestured to Strike's corpse.
Warrior Girl's lips curved into a smirk. Shield and sword slid into her hands. Defensive stance. Eyes locked.
"If I ruin your team…let's settle this. To the death."
Inferno smiled, confident, predator and god. "So be it."
The air snapped, charged with tension. Lightning flickered across the hall. And then—BOOM!—they were off.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.