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DATE:27th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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It was a very dry Monday. I was looking for some kind of Photography gig. It's not like I needed the money, I still had some from the advance payment and Alice payed most of the bills even after insisting I contribute, but it was nevertheless needed for my persona.
She would get suspicious if I were to abandon this supposed "passion" of mine.
It was harder than I thought.
First of all you apparently needed to be part of a "Guild".
Oh, yes, I never got into it. With Concord having a semi-Medieval system a lot of old jobs have Guilds. The Cooking Guild, The stonemasons, the tailors...
Most of the jobs brought on from the new technology don't have Guilds. There is no reporter Guild or scientist Guild.
But photography? The digital version is new, but the concept itself is old, centuries so.
They have a Guild, and a corrupt one at that.
At first I wondered why UltraMan didn't do anything about it, and then I remembered it isn't relevant to society. How should one man even be aware of all problems in the world?
In either case, I couldn't do any Photography work unless I was part of the Guild, and with how William Carter was an international Freelancer, it is easy to guess he wasn't in it.
I make my way to a small tea shop in one of the more rundown parts of town. The place has a quiet, unassuming air—humble, but decently kept. The walls are faded, a few chairs creak when you sit on them, and there's a lingering scent of herbs and old wood. It's the kind of spot no one pays attention to, which is just what I need right now.
As I wait for my tea, Emily's voice comes through the earpiece. She's cracked the encryption on the file, and with it, the location of the Don's main base.
"There's no guarantee he'll be there," she adds, "but if you hit it, it'll certainly impact his operations."
I nod, swirling the cup in front of me. This was exactly the kind of opportunity I'd been waiting for.
Working with Emily is growing on me; she's far more reliable than the so-called planning teams I'm used to. When the tea is finished, I call Alice, and she picks me up, her expression still clouded. We drive to the hero HQ, our minds on different things but both focused on the task at hand. She apparently also wanted the Donn to be eliminated, but I'm not sure why.
Inside, the usual faces mill around, but SuperiorWoman isn't present yet. No one here knows about Emily except Alice and the professor. For now, I'll stick with my cover—just some "hacking" work I did on my own.
Alice gives me a nod, seeming to understand, and I settle in to prepare our briefing.
We finish getting suited up, heading to the meeting room to set up. By the time SuperiorWoman arrives, Emily has put together an entire PowerPoint presentation for me. Her organization is meticulous; every detail is laid out with clear visuals, maps, and highlighted routes. I can't help but appreciate her efficiency.
The higher council members gather around the large table, their eyes shifting between me and the screen. As I step forward with a pointer in hand, I take a steadying breath. I know my job is to make this briefing airtight, to convey our strategy without giving away how Emily made it possible.
"Thank you for coming," I begin, meeting each council member's gaze, "Let's get started."
I clear my throat and begin, letting my gaze sweep the room to gauge the council's focus.
"Donn Vicenzio Balmundi," I say, bringing up an image of him on the screen, "is the central figure in a vast network of underground arms trafficking. His operation spans multiple continents, providing advanced weaponry to organized crime syndicates, insurgent groups, and various black-market clients."
I click to the next slide, displaying a map with major red points marking regions connected to his operations. "Balmundi has carefully built his empire over the years, keeping his dealings so well-hidden that even high-level law enforcement agencies struggle to track his transactions. His network uses decoy organizations, shell companies, and a labyrinth of offshore accounts to disguise his illegal activities."
The council members shift in their seats as I advance to a new slide with a series of photos and surveillance images. "He doesn't only supply standard weapons; Balmundi has access to experimental tech and has sold weaponized prototypes to the highest bidder. His clients? Mercenary groups, rogue states, criminal cartels. Some of his latest shipments have included military-grade artillery, biochemical agents, and, recently, augmented combat suits meant to rival hero technology."
I pause, giving them time to absorb the gravity of his influence. Then, I lean in. "There's also the matter of UltraMan's death." I keep my tone steady, but I can feel the tension rise. "While we don't have definitive proof yet, our sources indicate Balmundi may have had a hand in the incident. His organization had the resources and the reach to conduct an operation on that scale. UltraMan's untimely demise while unveiling that kindergarten is regrettable."
On the screen, a timeline appears, marking events that lead up to UltraMan's final moments. "Based on what we've gathered, Balmundi knew UltraMan was closing in.
I wasn't told how he died, but only the Donn would have the resources for it."
The council members exchange uneasy glances, clearly disturbed by the implication.
I gesture to the next slide, where a high-resolution map of Ventia appears, zooming in on its north-western province, Pedemontis, which borders Concord. The area is marked, and a satellite image of a nondescript warehouse facility appears on the screen.
"We've pinpointed Balmundi's primary base of operations here," I say, tapping the screen. "The compound is cleverly concealed as a logistical warehouse for cargo trucks, blending seamlessly with other industrial facilities in the area. This is where his weapons network operates under the guise of legitimate freight movement. Balmundi has used this cover to avoid suspicion from both Ventian and Concordian authorities, even routing some of his deals through legal transport companies."
I move to the next slide, which reveals the floor plan of the underground structure beneath the warehouse. "Intel suggests that this warehouse conceals a sprawling underground facility where Balmundi has set up his main command center. Security is tight: multiple layers of guard posts, reinforced steel doors, and a sophisticated surveillance system covering every corner. There's also an escape tunnel connecting to nearby abandoned mine shafts—Balmundi's backup exit, should he need it."
I pause, letting the information sink in, then continue. "According to My findings, Balmundi himself is likely stationed in an office deep within this underground complex. We don't have eyes inside yet, but based on intercepted communications, it seems he rarely leaves, preferring to oversee operations from within these walls. If we manage to breach the facility, we'll have a chance to corner him in his own base."
The room is silent, the council members listening intently as I lay out the final slides.
I flip to the next slide, where images and dossiers of more hired mercenaries appear on the screen, each as unsettling as the last.
"Next, we have Madame Luvein, known as The Aranea." Her image is that of a tall, agile woman with a cold, calculating gaze. "The Aranea can produce webs as strong as steel, capable of binding even our strongest members if we're not careful. Her webs are also versatile—she can use them to set traps, reinforce structures, or create obstacles that can be nearly impossible to break through without serious power or the right tools."
I switch to the next profile. "Then there's Iron Head. As the name suggests, he can harden his head and arms to a strength on par with UltraMan himself. His primary technique is close combat—he's virtually unstoppable in a melee confrontation and can take hits that would cripple others. He's fast, too, so long-range engagement will be crucial in dealing with him."
Moving along, I reach Proton. "Proton is... an interesting one. His power lets him convert his stamina directly into kinetic energy, effectively turning himself into a human projectile. He can launch devastating attacks but has to pace himself, as his abilities drain his energy rapidly. He'll be dangerous at the start of the fight, but his power should diminish as he exhausts himself."
I continue through the remaining profiles, detailing each mercenary's unique abilities and threats:
...
I explain about 15 more mercenaries. The Donn really outbid everyone, what the hell? These are almost all rank A international mercenaries.... Even from other countries.
"As you can see, Balmundi's defenses aren't just average criminals; he's assembled a team specifically capable of countering most standard hero tactics. Each one has been selected for their lethality and their ability to neutralize even the best we can throw at them." I pause, letting that sink in. "We'll need to plan accordingly, and be prepared to adapt quickly on the ground if we hope to make it through."
I nod, looking over at SuperiorWoman. "The timing is critical," she says, her voice firm. "According to our intelligence, their guard rotations are thinnest on Saturday nights. Balmundi tends to move personnel off-site for other operations, which leaves a brief window where we might be able to infiltrate the compound without facing his full force."
I look around the room to gauge the reaction. "That gives us a couple of days to finalize our strategy, familiarize ourselves with the layout, and make sure everyone knows exactly who they're up against."
The Kung Fu fighter nods, his intense gaze fixed on the screen. "If it's Saturday, then let's make sure we're ready to hit them hard and fast."
"Agreed," I say, acknowledging his resolve. "I will keep monitoring for any changes in security patterns, so we'll be informed of any last-minute adjustments."
The rest of the heroes leave, but SuperiorWoman stops me.
She crosses her arms, studying me with narrowed eyes. "You expect me to believe that you, of all people, pulled this off alone?"
I shrug, keeping my tone casual but firm. "It's the only explanation you're going to get. Take it or leave it. I'm here to make sure the job gets done and to make your load a little lighter. If my methods bother you, that's not my problem."
She scoffs, her eyes still sharp with suspicion, but she doesn't press further. "I don't like working with unknowns. If anything feels off in the field, it's on your head."
"Understood," I reply coolly, meeting her gaze.
She stands there a moment longer, as if deciding whether to add anything, then finally turns on her heel and leaves without another word. I can feel the tension linger, but I push it aside, ready to focus on what matters most: taking down Balmundi.
Right, I always talked about him with the Donn nickname, but he does share the same name as the ruling family of that crime Syndicate. My time under the lord was too short to get anything meaningful.
So is he related to the professor? Or was the professor technically from a branch family?
Whatever. I returned to Alice and we got into her car.
We didn't manage to drive fast when her engine suddenly exploded.
The blast shook the car, and I instinctively shielded my face as bits of metal and debris scattered. Alice reacted instantly, using her powers to lift the car off the road just in time to avoid colliding with other vehicles. For a moment, we hovered, her focus etched into every line of her face, but I could see the strain hitting her. Unable to keep it up, she released the car's hold, letting it drop with a hard jolt in the middle of the road.
Senses on high alert, I pulled out my Beretta, quickly loading it. As I reached into my pocket, I popped one of the professor's nicotine pouches, feeling the familiar rush spread through my body. I knew this wasn't just some random accident. The explosion, the chaos—it was too coordinated, too precise. We were under attack.
"Stay sharp," I muttered to Alice, scanning the area. Whatever was coming, I was ready for it.
It would be good to have some kind of info on what was happening. I should ask the professor to put cameras in my hero mask so that Emily can see in the future.
I bolted out of the car just as a rifle shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by, missing by a hair. The movement had likely thrown off the shooter's aim. Heart pounding, I scanned the nearby buildings, trying to pinpoint where they were firing from. But before I could get a clear sense, I saw a wall of submachine gun rounds slicing through the air in front of me.
I inhaled deeply, letting the effect kick in, slowing down the world around me. The swarm of bullets crawled toward me, their deadly arc clear, each one visible as I ducked low to avoid them.
Focus. I searched, keeping my gaze steady. Somewhere, hidden, someone was pulling the strings here.
I let the world snap back to normal speed and turned to Alice. "Get inside that building—ground level, now," I ordered, nodding toward the seven-story apartment complex where I'd spotted the glint of a rifle. They had cover, and I couldn't take a clean shot from here.
Alice didn't hesitate, ducking down and moving quickly toward the entrance. I followed close behind, keeping my eyes on the windows above. Our attackers were shielded for now, but they'd given themselves away. As we reached the entrance, I scanned the surroundings, mentally marking every potential line of sight and cover spot inside.
Alice broke the lock, and we slipped inside, her footsteps echoing against the concrete walls. I paused for a split second, realizing that searching every floor of this building could be a trap or a waste of time.
But then—barely audible—I caught the sound of a pistol's mechanism clicking into place. My reflexes kicked in as I breathed in, slowing time to dodge just as the bullet fired. Pivoting, I raised my Beretta, aimed at the shadowy figure, and pulled the trigger, sending a single shot into his head. Time snapped back to normal as the man—a trench coat and fedora pulled low over his face—crumpled to the ground, a dark pool spreading beneath him.
I glance at Alice, but she wasn't too shocked by what occurred. Perhaps it was too fast for her to process. It was better that way.
I noticed the body had disappeared as soon as I glanced away. There was something seriously wrong here. Then, shots rang out from the building across the street, near the car. But none of those angles made sense. If there had been people positioned there when we arrived, they'd have fired sooner. I couldn't shake the feeling that something unnatural was going on.
We ducked into cover by the stairway, my mind racing to piece together the clues. Bodies vanishing, bullets coming from strange angles—it all added up to one thing: teleportation. Some of them could jump around the battlefield, keeping us off-balance.
Before I could even finish the thought, there was a metallic clink at our feet. My blood ran cold. A grenade, rolling toward us, live.
"Alice, move!" I yelled, grabbing her by the shoulder. We dashed up the stairs, throwing ourselves around the corner just as the explosion detonated behind us. The blast ripped through the floor below, sending chunks of concrete and metal in all directions, filling the stairwell with dust and smoke.
Heart pounding, I looked over at her. This wasn't just an attack. It was a trap, and these weren't ordinary mercenaries.
The shot rang out, piercing through Alice's arm, her expression flashing with pain. We didn't have time to react as citizens poured into the hall, bewildered by the chaos, and turning the hallway into an unpredictable maze. The gunfire was only going to escalate, and we had to stay moving.
I took a gamble, stepping toward another window at the hallway's end, deliberately exposing myself at a new angle. After 66, a shot cracked toward me, and I dodged it using the slowed time, leaving nothing but air where the bullet passed.
In the frozen, quieted world of my slowed perception, I turned back toward Alice, scanning the crowded hall, and spotted a figure slipping through the chaos. Fedora, trench coat, and that telltale stance of a killer. He was weaving toward her, blending in with the people, his hand poised on the trigger of a concealed submachine gun.
I moved quickly, pulling out my knife and slicing across his wrists, severing nerves with surgical precision so he'd be forced to drop his weapon when time resumed. Replacing the knife, I wrapped my hand around his throat, ready to catch him in place.
As I let time resume, his gun clattered to the floor, and he gasped, realizing too late he'd been disarmed. His panicked eyes met mine, and I tightened my grip.
"Say, what's this about, big man?" I press, pushing the Beretta to his forehead. He winces from the pain of his severed wrists, but still tries to play tough.
"Speak. Who are you people?"
He scoffs, forcing out a half-smile, a flicker of confidence that he has no right to.
"You really act like you don't know? You were told to mind your business, you bastard."
Before I can press him further, a new round of gunfire bursts through the window where I had stood moments ago, aimed indiscriminately into the crowd. I glance toward the commotion, instinctively ready to assess any new threat, but in the split second it takes to look back, the man has vanished from my grip.
Damn. My jaw clenches. Are these people here for Emily? Last I checked, they didn't have the nerve to act directly.
But here they are, and they're done hiding.
I press myself low, taking cover between the bodies littering the hallway, while Alice stands frozen, her face a mask of shock. The shooter finally pauses to reload, and I seize the moment to rise from the floor, scanning the carnage. Roughly twenty people—civilians—cut down in seconds. The brutality makes my blood boil, but I stay focused, searching for any remaining threats.
Outside, I hear sirens. The Civil Militia, probably the security detail contracted by the neighborhood, finally decided to make an appearance. It's a far cry from the high-efficiency setup back in Cordon, where they blended into crowds as civilians, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Here, it seems they only respond when the price is right.
Did I manage to scare them off? If they're part of some hidden organization, it would explain their abrupt retreat—pulling back as soon as they sensed there was more attention to the event than they could afford.
The militia stormed up the stairwell, weapons drawn, and barked at us to freeze. I glanced at Alice, but she was still lost, her eyes locked on the grim pile of bodies around us.
Suppressing a sigh, I raised my hands, showing my empty palms, and let the Beretta fall to the floor with a clatter.
"We're heroes," I announced flatly, my voice calm but firm. "We just got ambushed."
The militia men glanced at each other, suspicious yet slightly hesitant. One stepped forward, his gun still aimed, but his tone softened just a little. "Identification. Now."
Alice snapped out of her daze at the demand, fumbling for her ID. I gestured calmly for her to stay put, retrieving my own. If these guys were smart, they'd understand we weren't the enemy—just the bait that nearly got pulled into a trap.
The captain's brows knitted as he processed my words, still visibly skeptical. I kept my tone level, attempting to inject a bit of reason.
"Look," I said, gesturing toward the camera on the wall, "that security camera's old, but it'll capture enough for you to see what happened. You'll see me holding one of the shooters by the neck, and then he vanishes right before these people start dropping. I'm guessing they've got teleporters on their team."
The captain glanced at the camera, his skepticism flickering into curiosity. He still looked unconvinced, but the mention of teleporters seemed to catch his attention.
"Teleporters, huh?" he muttered. "You heroes sure bring in trouble."
I shrugged. "The trouble found us this time. My suggestion? Pull the footage. It'll give you more answers than my ID."
The captain gave a reluctant nod, signaling to one of his subordinates to check the footage. His gaze lingered on me, though, still not fully letting his guard down.
"We'll be looking into this, hero," he said firmly.
"Whatever." I was honestly so out of it, my adrenaline just wearing off.
"Two dozen died and you act like this?!" He was acting all pompous, but I can tell he wasn't angry for the fact they died, or at least their lives in and of themselves.
His company would take a hit because they failed to even find who killed these people. That was the reason for his frustration.
"If you look outside you can see a car with a blown up engine. That was our car. If they were able to do that to a moving vehicle they could very well have leveled these whole apartment blocks to the ground." He didn't seem to like my explaination.
Despite his protest, I typed to Alice to get into the analogue camera system. It was useless back at the casino, but she still had that back-door.
Accessing the almost analog servers would take months and I certainly didn't care to have the security company on my back for that amount of time.
For Emily, the decoding took only 5 minutes. She even managed to up-scale the video to a watchable resolution.
I showed the militia men that the shooter clearly dissapeared from my grasp.
And the captain was surprised I had such a capability, but he played it off as my ability.
We still had to make a report for them, but at least that would be the end of my involvement.
I start my gun and look at the situation. It wasn't good.
I grab Alice by her shoulders, shaking her a little to bring her back to reality.
The military remained to put the bodies in bags while the Captain escorted us to their van to fill the paperwork.
I could see from her expression that her mind still lingered to that scene above us. I can't really blame her. I have many such experiences but for her even back at Biz's place, you could make the excuse that they were more like walking corpses than men. I never got into detail but I heard from SuperiorWoman that they couldn't recover, or better said help to recover any of his subjects.
Most of them had gone insane from him taking out part of their brains, but even the ones that were more healthy couldn't live for very long. The way Biz made them, they were still prototypes that needed "maintenance" and with him in the prison they died off. Most chose euthanasia. One could argue that they could have forced him to keep them alive, but the Hero association didn't want to give him such a bargaining chip, especially when they wanted his technology. Of course, Alice doesn't know that.
But I am going on a tangent.
We finished the report and returned to the half-deatroyed Miata, Alice falling to her knees. She was possibly even sadder than at the site of the civilians deaths. Or perhaps it was the scene from minutes ago that heightened her emotions.
In that time I could only give her a hug.
I couldn't cry for them, didn't really feel like it.
Surely one could say it was my fault that this incident played like this, that I should have given in to their demands or perhaps acted differently. There are infinite possibilities for how this scene could have went. But would that really matter? How would this help the families that lost their relatives.
Would blaming myself actually even help them? To take responsibility? I don't think so. Yes, it would feel better to have someone to point to. In this case their killer was mysterious. But I wasn't the one who ended their lives was I? It wasn't by my hand, all else are semantics.
Judging by that, how could I feel anything?
I am certain many would want to challenge this rationality, but I am not them, am I?
I hugged this small girl while the remains of the car's engine were burning and I couldn't feel a thing.
I couldn't cry. Perhaps this is why my wife hates me. I also didn't drop any tears when I killed her, nor when I did the same for her whole family.
Shadows of the past? Laughable.
Perhaps fifteen years ago when I just left my training, but how can you care about the life of every human?
The first time is one thing.
Even the tenth or hundredth.
But I saw thousands die. By my own hands I killed hundreds.
And when a certain life doesn't matter, how can there be exceptions?
I... Like Alice, but I don't think I would be startled if she dropped dead the next second. That isn't a brag. That is reality.
I lived most of my life in a constant adaptation to dangerous circumstances.
How can I care about the suffering of a human? If I was the "me" from fifteen years ago-but that man doesn't have my experiences. It would be like a now blind man relating the world from the memories before he lost his sight.
I am numb. I can't "get back my sight" just because some ghosts decided so.
But are they even ghosts? Or just memories and my mind is trying to unveil all of this trauma?
What a joke.
I actually fail to see how it makes a difference.
What I do to people after me is either run away or eliminate them.
And now that I can't do the former I will do the latter.
Even to her.
I called a taxi to get us home. That night I couldn't sleep.