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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I wasn't sure whether I preferred more to be in this damned dream rather than spend more time in the hero association. Could anyone blame me? Everything in that decaying compound is pretentious. 'What would UltraMan think?' I am sure this phrase endlessly ponders in their pathetic leader's mind. I wonder how she will react if I were to drop a bombshell like what happened to his beloved cousin. It's not even like it would make sense to tell her, SuperiorWoman is just as dangerous as Alice, if not more so, but I don't have such hate for Alice. It is strange, considering how many problems this girl got me into, but I suppose the sex helped. Yes, even as indirect an effort as it was, she at the very least provided me with that for my troubles. SuperiorWoman? She is supposed to be "my" own cousin yet she treats me worse than a stranger. Could the original Carter Jr. Have earned her anymosity through some lost history I am not aware of? Damn.
It was the morning before what should be The burial of our former teammates. I was currently "infiltrated" in a cafe at one of those office buildings near Alice's apartment. I wanted to try a smoothie, but there wasn't any cafe nearby so I had to do with what was here.
Considering it was an office building, and one owned by Silvian Morris no less, it was full of tvs all set to different channels he owns. I found it quite chaotic, but the richest man in Concord certainly was excentric.
On one of them was the repeat from yesterday's news with a headline I predicted prior:
'Maizo hub attacked. Secundo Manus seen on spot'
So the med scientist did want something from the triad. That wasn't good.
I wonder what kind of project he wants to put into action. Probably a superhuman of some sorts. Could he want to recreate 'UltraMan'? Naah, couldn't be.
But now that I think about it, I should be more careful. There are many other mercenaries the Donn could ask for help beside me. Ones much more dangerous than myself.
Alice didn't hurry to arrive to the cemetery. I suppose even her knew when there was no need for such acts.
At the cemetery, the day was overcast, fittingly somber. The air held a quiet weight as I watched the gathering around T's grave—a row of stoic figures dressed in black. His family, unmistakably superheroes themselves, stood in silent pride and grief. The same arrogance T carried had clearly been born out of this legacy. They mourned their fallen kin like a soldier lost in duty, as if it excused every misstep he'd made in life. Watching them, I wondered if this unspoken protection was what had emboldened him to act the way he had, knowing he had the backing of family influence to keep his name unscathed.
In contrast, only one figure stood by Prisma's burial plot: her boyfriend, an unassuming man looking painfully out of place here. He didn't know she was a hero, just that she'd died in some tragic gas leak. The whole narrative felt surreal, twisted, and I couldn't help but notice the absence of SuperiorWoman. A leader, yet nowhere to be found. Perhaps she didn't want the responsibility or fallout that came with publicly acknowledging their loss.
Alice stood close by, her gaze distant as she looked at the flowers scattered around the graves. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though her expression held steady. I slipped my hand into hers, but there was no solace, only an acknowledgment of the strange world we navigated—one where a hero's death could be papered over with stories of gas leaks and family tributes that were as hollow as they were formal.
Even with what happened, I didn't feel my chest tighten. It's not even because I didn't know them for long. Even if they had been teammates for years, I don't think I would have cared. Yes, even Alice, had she been the unlucky one to be killed, I don't think I would go into some sort of depression. This was a reminder that I was still empty inside, no matter the pretances.
These kinds of events around that common in the superhero world, but as mercenary? I was sent sometimes in war zones. This is nothing.
That's the very least I could say. I was disappointed. They died so easily, almost comically. There was no warning, no last words, no noble sacrifice. They died suddenly in an ambush. Their killer was a professional. Better than me even. I certainly wouldn't be able to cave in T's skull. I had the speed, about the strength? His skin was even more resistant than Alice's and his attacker presumably had a normal man's body, or perhaps even a woman's. I don't like superpowers.
Back at HQ, I didn't waste any time.
"Alice, I think it's best if Nimbus is reassigned," I said bluntly as we entered the quiet hallway. She looked at me, not surprised but a bit saddened, as if she'd seen this coming. "I work better alone, and you and I… we're not exactly equipped to help him move on from all of this."
She nodded, understanding the reasoning. It was true, both of us still had our own issues to work through. With everything that had happened, trying to be a support system for Nimbus felt like an overreach—something neither of us had the maturity or emotional grounding to offer.
I filed the request, stating that he'd benefit from a team with a stronger support network, ideally people who hadn't been part of the same traumatic mess that we had. It wasn't my job to provide counseling, nor did I want to. The thought of moving on alone, with just Alice beside me, felt cleaner somehow—like cutting ties with the mess that had dragged us down.
This was also when Emily have me the the first lead to the Donn. Apparently she managed to infiltrate the system when the Maizo hub was attacked. I don't get why she risked so much for it, putting herself into the internet, because it wasn't even a good lead. In fact it made me scared.
She didn't give me the Donn's location. No.
She got a recruitment form, or at least records of one. It was about a certain agent with the pseudonym of demolisher. I wouldn't know who he was based on just that, but her records kept his name intact, something I managed to get mine out of.
I knew who he was. Barryvard Lufaso or Barry for short. He was a demolitions expert I trained with in Ventia back at the mafia camps.
But I don't know him well from there.
We got to personally see each other much later.
No, we were squad mates when I was stationed in the southern desert. Those dreadful times...
It was very bad that he now works for the Donn, because I am no match. It it could be said that I am a trained killer than he is a born machine of warfare. If it is Barry, I am sure he can even kill heroes. I don't think even Alice would be a threat.
And this is without the fact that he would instantly recognize me. Unlike the changeling who I barely worked with, me and Barry have a long history. Perhaps as long as with that guy Mike with who I killed UltraMan.
I suppose it is finally time to talk about that period...
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DATE:13th of April, the 55th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Dunes of Salvia
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The chopper rattles around me, every joint and rivet straining against the constant roar of the desert wind outside. We're packed tight in this small metal box, six of us, elbows knocking, the smell of sweat and machine oil heavy in the air. The engine's low hum vibrates up my spine, but I barely feel it anymore; the sensation is almost lost under the familiar ache of being cramped up with other bodies. Five teammates sit around me, each an arm's reach away, yet they feel a hundred miles distant in their own heads. I've barely learned their names. Doesn't seem to matter.
The one directly across from me, a wiry guy with a scar running up from his eyebrow, keeps glancing my way. He's sizing me up, probably figuring out where I fit in this patchwork of mercenaries. They all have a story; you can read it in the way they sit, in the way their hands rest on their weapons. I keep my eyes steady on the riveted metal wall behind him, uninterested in making eye contact. The last thing I need is anyone thinking I'm here for a chat or some brotherhood-of-arms bonding session.
I shift slightly to loosen the strap on my rifle and let my hand rest on it—out of habit more than anything. My thumb grazes the cool metal, a familiar touch grounding me here, reminding me that everything else can fade into white noise as long as I have this. The others, too, are fiddling with their gear: checking ammo, tightening straps, even a casual smirk here and there as they banter, but it all seems muted, like they know better than to go in loud. This is an escalation job, one of those missions that can turn sideways in a heartbeat. In the desert, control is an illusion, shifting like the sand.
Outside, the sun beats down mercilessly, a glowing hammer turning the world below into a distorted mirage. I know what's waiting when we land: the endless stretch of sand, the oppressive heat, and a target somewhere out there who's probably dug in and armed to the teeth. But that's tomorrow's concern. For now, I'm here in this tin can, breathing in the hot, stale air, feeling the shudder of the chopper's heartbeat thrumming through my bones.
As we touch down, the chopper's noise fades, replaced by the dry, wind-blown silence of the desert. The excavation team is already in position, clustered around a massive vehicle drill, a beast of machinery half-buried in the sand, with a dozen metallic limbs protruding from its sides like the roots of some mechanical monster. Around it, roughly twenty people mill about, most with heavy-duty suits layered in dust and wear, staring at us with a mixture of caution and expectation.
Our team leader steps forward to meet them, the kind of man you can size up in a heartbeat. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that looks carved from stone, all sharp angles and sun-darkened skin. A deep scar runs from his temple to his jaw, a hard-earned badge, and his eyes are a cold, steel gray that gives nothing away. He wears his uniform differently from the rest of us—cleaner, crisper, with barely a loose thread, as if he's daring someone to notice. His posture alone demands respect, and he has the kind of presence that draws people in and holds them there, even in a wasteland like this.
The captain addresses us with clipped, no-nonsense words, nodding toward the miners who huddle together, protective goggles reflecting the desert sun. He gestures to the ground, explaining that we're here to guard this team as they extract Ventium, a rare resource they believe will make their employers a fortune. Ventium… I think about it for a second, the strange, crystalline substance they're so desperate to pull from the earth. Unlike oil or gas, it isn't a sludge or vapor, nothing that seeps or spills. It's a solid, gem-like material, gleaming with an almost eerie, glass-like shimmer. People call it "the crystal of the desert," though I've only seen it once, in passing—a single shard, no bigger than a thumbnail, radiating light like a trapped star. Its rarity makes it valuable, sure, but it also means extraction is a headache, hence the drill the size of a small building.
The captain's tone turns serious, drawing my attention back. He informs us that insurgents have been sighted nearby. Of course they have. I resist the urge to smirk, my eyes flicking briefly toward the horizon. They're pulling up resources illegally; no surprise the locals aren't thrilled about it. The captain warns us to stay sharp, to expect the unexpected. The people out here? They're probably just trying to protect their land, their homes, against these invaders in search of crystals and profit.
It's funny how a Ventian named these people's treasure and that name stuck with the generations. Speaks volume of how little influence these hut dwelling nobodies have right?
His words, cold and calculating, outline the stakes, and for a moment, the other mercenaries exchange glances, unease flickering beneath the tough exteriors. For them, maybe it's a reminder that we're here for a dangerous job, that there's risk involved. For me? It's just another line in the sand. I know better than to expect anything less.
We set up in some metal shacks they were nice enough to airdrop for us. The workers had tents so that was quite some privilege, but I would soon find the metal sheet as more of a detriment. They protected us of the wind better, but the sun made them a grill most of the day.
I had my first shift at night so I could set up my belongings. I had a great deal of skin care products, something the brutish mercenaries couldn't understand, but that wasn't my problem. I was sharing my room with a man named Barryvard Lufaso, hailing from the same compound as myself. Unlike how I was trained in using weaponry to kill from a distance, his expertise was in demolition. He was damn good at it too.
The desert night is colder than I expected, and it's quiet enough to hear every shift of sand underfoot, every faint rustle in the darkness beyond our flashlights. The stars stretch out endlessly above us, and beside me, Barry gives a low chuckle, breaking the silence as he adjusts his pack.
"You go by Zaun, right?" he asks, glancing at me with a crooked grin. "Strange to see you out here, but then again, maybe not so strange. I remember you from back at the camp. We didn't run in the same circles, but I recognized the face."
I keep my gaze forward, eyes scanning the sand. "Yeah, you look familiar, too," I say, though "Zaun" isn't familiar to me, not really. It's just a name, one I took at the compound to keep my real one buried deep. "Didn't know they'd send a demolitions guy out here."
Barry grins, adjusting the shoulder strap of his pack as he looks around. "Ah, demolitions, special breed, right? Got my own bag of tricks. Figured I might come in handy out here, just in case things get… lively."
I raise an eyebrow, though I keep my face neutral. "I thought we were here to protect the equipment and keep the miners alive, not blow things up."
He laughs under his breath, the sound muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face. "True, true. But you know how these jobs go. If those insurgents make it too close, sometimes it helps to put a little deterrent in their way. I don't mind getting my hands dirty if it means we stay one step ahead."
I glance at him, wondering if he's trying to prove something or just enjoys the idea of leaving things in pieces. "As long as you don't get carried away," I say dryly. "I don't think the captain will appreciate us blowing up what we're supposed to guard."
Barry shrugs, not particularly bothered. "Look, you do what you're good at, right? If things go south, at least I've got the skills to get us out of it. Doesn't hurt to keep a few options open, you know?"
Options. I hold back a sigh, focusing on the faint outline of the drill in the distance. To me, this is just another job—get in, keep the miners alive, neutralize any threat, and move on. But Barry? He seems ready to turn this into his own personal fireworks show.
"Just… make sure I'm not in the blast radius," I mutter, half-joking.
Barry grins again, wide and easy. "Don't worry, Zaun. I'll make sure you get front-row seats, just far enough to enjoy the view."
As Barry and I finish our rounds, I can't help but notice the way the workers watch him. Their glances are uneasy, darting away whenever he turns their way, as if they're afraid he'll catch them staring. Not that I blame them. Barry has a kind of energy that's different from the usual mercenary roughness—a quiet, simmering hostility, like there's some hidden reservoir of anger in him. His eyes burn with something fierce, something hungry. I've seen all kinds, killers who were ruthless, indifferent, sadistic even, but Barry's rage seems personal, directed at some target only he knows. Me? I'm used to people glancing away, but not out of fear—just because they find nothing to see. My own eyes are empty, and maybe that's more comforting to them than the blaze they catch in his.
The captain calls us over after our patrol, pulling out a few bottles of cheap booze to "celebrate" our deployment. We gather in the shadow of the massive drill, its hum a faint reminder of the job at hand. Barry falls in with the others, nodding as they introduce themselves, while the captain gestures to each one, making his introductions.
"This here's Gennaro," he says, pointing to a wiry, tattooed guy with a grin too wide to be anything but trouble. Gennaro raises a bottle in mock salute, giving me and Barry a nod. "Best cook you'll find in a wasteland, but don't let that fool you. He's got a knack for blades. Can handle himself if things get close."
"Guess it'll keep things interesting," Gennaro says with a smirk. "Not that I'm looking to gut anyone, but, well, when duty calls…"
The captain moves to the next guy, a scarred, silent type sitting with his rifle strapped across his chest, as if it's grafted there. He looks at us briefly, but there's no smile, no sign of interest in bonding. Just a short nod. The captain introduces him as Korvan.
"Korvan here's our sharp eye," he says simply. "Not big on words, but if you're in his sights, you're probably already dead."
Korvan's quiet presence is unsettling, but I can respect it. There's something solid, unbreakable about him, like a monument worn down by time but still standing. It's rare to meet someone so tightly contained, but I get the feeling he's reliable when it counts.
Finally, the captain claps a hand on the shoulder of a lean, clean-cut man who gives us a small, polite smile. "This is Paul," the captain says. "He's our medic. Don't let his looks fool you—he knows how to keep a cool head under fire."
Paul nods, holding his bottle with a steady hand. "I've patched up my share of bullet wounds and broken bones. Just try to keep it to a minimum, alright?" His tone is mild, but there's a glint of professionalism behind it. He seems like the kind of guy who doesn't rattle easily, which is probably why he was chosen for a place like this.
As we settle in, Barry raises his own bottle, grinning with that same barely-contained intensity. "Here's to making it out of this hellhole with a decent paycheck," he says, a dark edge to his tone. It's the kind of toast that feels more like a dare than a celebration, but it's enough to make the captain and the others nod in agreement.
As for me, I raise my bottle just enough to join in, already counting down the days until we're out of here, far from this drill and this desert.
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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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My head was hurting though I am not really sure why. Probably the drug withdrawal.
Me and Alice finally went on that date night we planned. It wasn't anything grand, but for once we weren't attacked by villains.