Good evening everyone のへの, already 85 collections , thank you very much to everyone who reads my story, I'm very glad you like it ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ
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His gaze slid over me, as if appraising me, weighing my worth against the backdrop of his own formidable presence. In a split second, a smile crept onto his face, transforming his intense demeanor into something more approachable. "We didn't get to know each other," he said, his tone lightening, "you can call me Patriot."
"Of course, I am honored to meet you," I replied, mustering a smile to mirror his. My heart raced as I wondered if he had regeneration powers—what a thrill that would be!Its will do playiing with him more interesting. For now, I forced myself to look away from him, redirecting my focus to the corridor around us.
The corridor was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an almost sterile glow on the white walls adorned with motivational posters featuring phrases like "Heroes Never Rest!" and "Together We Stand!" The polished floor gleamed, reflecting the hurried footsteps of office workers bustling by, their faces a mix of awe and disbelief at the sight of Patriot—a living legend—standing beside me.
"So, your name?" he prompted, his voice laced with a hint of impatience, pulling me back to the moment.
Pretty cute, I thought, noticing how he had been waiting all this time for me to introduce myself. I could only imagine how children in this world must go crazy for him. I wondered what it must be like to live in his shadow, to be known by just a name that resonated with admiration and fear.
"Randy, sir," I answered him briefly, my gaze still roving over the corridor. Each cubicle was a little world of its own, filled with busy office workers typing away, their heads occasionally popping up to steal glances at the hero in their midst.
"Where do you live, Randy? Are your parents heroes?" he asked, his eyes searching mine expectantly.
I caught sight of a tall brown-haired girl in a miniskirt passing by, her head turning to admire him. She looked every bit the part of a hero worshipper, her expression a mix of awe and envy, as if she could barely believe her eyes....
"Orphan, under the bridge," I replied, my voice flat.
His eyes widened in disbelief, a flicker of concern crossing his face. Before I could react, he grasped my hand.With a swift motion, he pulled me along, and I barely had time to register the startled expressions of office workers as they paused in their tasks, staring wide-eyed at the spectacle unfolding before them.
Homelander—Patriot—moved with purpose, his presence commanding the corridor. He silently opened the door marked "Secretary," the metal swinging inward with an authoritative creak. As we stepped through, I was met with the sight of a middle-aged man seated at a desk, consulting intently on a computer.
As I stood in the office, a strange realization washed over me. Of course, a bloodied teenager being dragged somewhere by a hero must look strange. I could almost feel the eyes of the office workers boring into me, their shock palpable. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glossy surface of the office wall—a reflection that was both familiar and unsettling.
The image staring back was jarring. My clothes were torn and caked with dirt and blood, the fabric clinging to my skin in a way that felt both uncomfortable and oddly liberating. My hair, once a blond, was now matted and almost black from the blood, creating a stark contrast against my pale skin. But it was my smile that truly caught my attention—a wide, almost manic grin that seemed out of place amidst the chaos.
Other me from the glass smiled back, an expression that seemed to embody defiance and a reckless thrill. I knew what this meant; the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins was intoxicating. I was standing on the precipice of something monumental, a chance to reshape my destiny alongside a being of immense power.
I turned my head slightly, hoping to catch Patriot's eye, to see if he noticed the dissonance in my expression. His focus remained on the secretary, who was now furiously tapping at the keyboard, trying to pull up vital information about the situation unfolding downtown. But I could feel his awareness lingering on me, sensing the strange energy I radiated in that moment.
The man looked up, startled by our abrupt entrance, his expression morphing from confusion to disbelief as he recognized the hero beside me. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out; he seemed too stunned to respond.
"Get me a status report on the situation downtown," Patriot said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned to me, his intensity unwavering. "We need to ensure the city is safe"Patriot's gaze remained locked on me, a mixture of expectation and something deeper behind those icy blue eyes. The energy in the room was palpable, an electric connection sparking between us.
"Reg, get this guy to the nearest hotel," Patriot ordered, his tone commanding. There was no room for hesitation. "Let's talk at seven."
Without waiting for a response, he literally flew out of the office, leaving a gust of wind in his wake. I stood momentarily dazed, trying to absorb the abruptness of his departure. The office workers around me resumed their tasks, though a few glanced back, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief at the sight of Patriot soaring through the air.
Reg, the middle-aged man, blinked at me as if just realizing I was still there. He straightened, quickly regaining his composure. "Right, come on," he said, beckoning me to follow him.
As we made our way through the corridor, I couldn't shake the feeling of being swept along in a current far beyond my control. Reg led me to an elevator at the end of the hall, and as the doors slid open, the air inside felt cooler, tinged with the scent of metal and cleaning supplies. The ride was silent, the only sound being the soft hum of machinery as we descended.
Moments later, we arrived at the lobby of a nearby hotel—a sleek, modern building with polished marble floors and glass chandeliers that sparkled like stars overhead. The reception desk was manned by a cheerful clerk, whose smile faltered for just a second upon seeing my disheveled appearance. Reg quickly explained the situation, and before I knew it, I was handed a key card.
Reg handed me the key card, his expression stern. Without another word, he turned and left, the soft click of the door echoing as it closed behind him. I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the key card in my hand. It felt both mundane and significant—a gateway to my new life.
As I approached my room, numbered 214, I took a deep breath and opened the door. Inside, the ambiance was cozy yet upscale. The walls were painted a warm beige, decorated with simple artwork that portrayed serene landscapes. A large window offered a view of the bustling street below, the sounds of the city a distant hum.
The room featured a king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens that invited me to collapse onto them. A small desk sat in one corner, equipped with a sleek lamp and a phone that seemed almost out of place in this modern setting. To my left, a door led to a pristine bathroom, and I could feel the pull of the shower, eager to wash away the remnants of chaos.
I quickly changed out of my torn clothing and stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, soothing my aching muscles. As I scrubbed at the blood and dirt, I inspected the damage on my body—scrapes and bruises that were a testament to the day's events. The steam enveloped me, and for a moment, I let myself relax, allowing the warmth to seep into my bones.
Once I felt clean, I emerged from the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist. I took a moment to gaze at myself in the mirror—messy hair, a few fading bruises, but a spark of determination in my eyes. After drying off, I slipped into the bed, allowing my body to sink into the softness. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, seeking to meditate and regain the clarity I had felt while soaring through the air with Patriot.
As I drifted deeper into my thoughts, I heard a sound that pulled me back—a soft click, like a door being opened. My eyes shot open, and I turned my head toward the source. A man in military clothing stood there, his posture rigid and imposing. He walked toward me and took a seat in the chair facing the bed, his gaze locked onto me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
He removed his hat, and as he did, I realized with shock that it was Homelander—the legendary figure I had just met, now stripped of the hero's facade and appearing every bit the soldier he was. The air in the room grew thick with tension as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Randy," he said, his voice low and steady, yet filled with an unyielding authority. "You've been given a choice. Become my student, learn the ways of power and responsibility, or…" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Or you die. There's no middle ground here."
My heart raced as I processed what he was saying. I could feel the gravity of the moment enveloping me, each word hanging in the air like a charged particle.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, despite the tremor of fear creeping into my chest.
He leaned back slightly, studying me. "You have potential, but potential means nothing if you don't harness it. This world is not kind to the weak. You've seen what happens when chaos reigns—when heroes fail. You have a chance to be more than just another casualty in this game." His eyes bore into mine, unflinching. "So, what will it be, Randy? Will you stand by my side and learn, or will you walk out that door and seal your fate?"
The choice loomed before me, heavy and suffocating. In that moment, I felt the rush of adrenaline surge through me once more, the pull of destiny weaving itself into my very being. I was no longer just a bystander; I was on the brink of a decision that could change everything.
"I…"