Greg Vs: Grief 7.2

Grief 7.2

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg Veder's eyes blinked open the second a ray of sunlight poked through his well-covered window. Hm. 

He lay there for a moment, a frown tugging at his lips as he glanced down at the Eidolon comforter beneath him. The emerald and silver design of his childhood hero seemed to judge him silently for sleeping atop the covers like some kind of heathen. Sorry, Big E. Your boy's running a little hot these days. He never really slept under the covers anymore, his body not really needing anything on him to keep him warm. 

He ran hot enough, as it was.

Pushing the frown off his face, Greg Veder swung his legs over the side of his bed, one hand absently scratching at his washboard abs. Despite the chaos of last night, his body showed no signs of the fracas; the perks of a rapid healing factor that kicked into overdrive when he got a full night's sleep. 

Physically, he was pristine, but inside…

Fucking assassin dickhead, he thought to himself with an eye on the verge of twitching. See how you like being choked to death. The memory of the fight burned in his mind, a mix of frustration and anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Well, no one liked losing.

Especially not Greg Veder, supreme badass extraordinaire. Losing was for losers, and he was no loser. No siree Bob. 

He was a winner, a champion, the main character in this crazy anime that was his life. 

And main characters always bounced back, stronger than ever.

He glanced around his room, uncaring of the mess that was his “floordrobe” lifestyle. He never really cared before, either. Not like I spend much time in here anyway. CD-ROMs for games he hadn't touched since discovering he could bench-press a car were stacked haphazardly next to his PC, crying out for his skilled fingers. His eyes skimmed over the posters plastering his walls, a rogues' gallery of heroes he no longer believed in.

Well, actually he still liked the ones in here. Armsmaster's stoic techiness, Eidolon's mysterious aura, Myrddin's wizardly swagger – those guys still held up. At least some things don't change. Nothing to complain about. Real heroes, the kind that inspired kids to tie towels around their necks and jump off the couch, pretending to fly.

A red-suited Assault figurine caught his eye, perched precariously on the bottom shelf. Greg shot it a stink-eye that could curdle milk. At least I dodged that bandwagon. Talk about false advertising. He silently high-fived his past self for never falling into the Dauntless or Battery fan clubs. 

No merch, no posters, no regrets.

He walked out of his room, his hearing already picking up the sounds of his mom in her shower, singing… Madonna, of course. Shaking his head, he walked down the hall and into the bathroom shirtless, letting out a yawn as he opened the door, more out of habit than any actual tiredness. 

Sleep was for the weak, and he was anything but weak.

He examined himself in the mirror as he applied toothpaste to his brush. The face that stared back at him was pretty much his own, with a few tweaks; whiter teeth, brighter hair, shinier eyes, for one… 

But his body, yeah, that was the real difference. He had stretched a few inches in the last couple months, the top of his head nearing the old mark that his dad had made in the wall when he was only ten years old; the man's height when he had been sixteen and a football star. His muscles were all ropey and hard, intensely layered on themselves in a way that definitely wouldn't seem normal if anyone felt them up. Like a wall, almost. 

Really, he barely recognized himself if it wasn't for his ever-loving blue eyed face staring right back at him.

"Whatever," he muttered to himself, turning away as he brought the brush to his teeth. He couldn't deny he looked different. Like he'd gone through puberty on steroids, then did it again just for shits and giggles. He hadn't seen a pimple since April, his face as smooth as a newborn's.

He hadn't even thought how weird that had been till Sparky had brought it up, his mother a frequent scrapbooker and album maker. She couldn't help but note that her son looked almost like a movie star, in full makeup. 

Yeah, they looked different.

If he had to be honest with himself, he might say airbrushed.

Sparky would argue Photoshopped.

Staring at himself in the mirror, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, Greg couldn't help but wonder how his mom hadn't seemed to notice anything, especially when his best friend’s mom had picked it up even before Sparky mentioned anything. I mean, I guess mine did happen more slowly... 

His changes had spread out over a few months, the slight jump in height and muscularity far easier to ignore than Sparky's weekend warrior transformation.

Still, Mom's always been clingier than plastic wrap, he mused, spitting out a mouthful of minty foam. You'd think she'd notice all this. Maybe she's in denial? Or maybe... He paused, a half-formed theory tickling the back of his mind.

Greg shook his head, dismissing the thought before it could fully form. "Naaahhh."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg grabbed a toaster pastry from the kitchen, already taking a bite out of the Oreo-flavored breakfast food right out of the package. 

Untoasted, like nature intended. 

The sweet, artificial taste was really all he needed as a pick-me-up. Breakfast of champions, he thought with a smirk, taking another bite as he walked towards the front door.

His mother walked down the stairs, Susan Veder looking happy, healthy and unbothered the way he preferred it. "Morning, Greggy. You need a ride to school?"

"Nah, mom, I'll just catch the bus," Greg lied smoothly, his tone breezy and unconcerned as he rushed over to plant a kiss on her cheek. "See you later." He flashed her a grin, the picture of a carefree teenager without a worry in the world. If only she knew, he thought, a twinge of guilt in his chest.

But he pushed it down. 

What his mom didn't know wouldn't hurt her. 

And besides, he had important hero business to attend to. School could wait.

Greg waved back at her as she said her goodbyes, already out the door less than two seconds later. He rushed down the street towards where the bus stop would be. But he didn't stop there. The teenager kept going, heading out of the neighborhood, his feet carrying him away from school as he took a sharp right instead of a left. 

In no time at all, the Docks greeted him with the familiar scent of sea and decay, the salty air mingling with the industrial stench of old warehouses and rusting machinery.

Greg darted through back alleys and silent streets, his footsteps echoing in the early morning stillness. He moved with purpose, his destination clear in his mind. Hardkour's on the prowl, he thought with a grin, the persona already settling over him like a second skin. Watch out, bad guys.

He turned onto Imperial Yard, ducking into a narrow alley between two crumbling brownstones. With a quick glance to make sure he was alone, he leapt onto the low roof of one of the buildings, his enhanced strength making the jump effortless. He placed a palm to his face, his thoughts shifting to his [Inventory]. 

With a flare of blue light shimmering like pixels over his entire body, his clothes were replaced by his Hardkour uniform, the helmet settling over his face as the leather and belts did so over his body, the red scarf around his neck already trailing in the light breeze.

He stared out through the white-tinted lenses over the neighborhood. This was Hardkour's territory now, and it was firmly under control. My turf, my rules, he thought with a sense of fierce pride.

Leaping off the roof, he bounded from building to building, his target in sight. His hideout was nestled in the heart of this territory, a former condo building that had been converted into a functional base. The Hardkour Cave.

He leapt into an open window, easing into his office and standing up straight. The room was spacious, with a large desk dominating the center, a large flatscreen TV taking up one wall and a whiteboard lining the other. 

"Morning, boss," Seo greeted, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room. "You're out early."

Greg's hands went to the back of his head, unhooking his helmet and dropping the red plastic thing on the wooden desk. Beneath his helmet was a red domino mask, something he had taken to wearing underneath his mask, in case it was broken. 

A moment later, he dropped into his chair, the black leather comforting as he sunk into it. Letting out a sigh, he stared up at Seo through the slight curtain of hair in his eyes.

The twenty-something Japanese guy stood there in his usual white silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he stood in front of a whiteboard filled with notes and photos. Blue eyes flicked over to it, noting the words "Sky Triad" written at the top of it.

"You've been working hard, huh?" Greg asked, the question rhetorical. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk, the picture of a laid-back boss.

Seo smirked, the man adjusting his sleeves. "A little, boss," he gestured to the whiteboard. "Downstairs, I got some smart boys on my end, gathering intel and whatnot. Running strategy games, and hypotheticals. It's been a good night."

Hardkour nodded, his eyes roving over the notes and photos. Been waiting on the Sky Triad stuff. Out loud, he said, “Sounds fun.”

"How was yours, boss?" Seo asked, his dark eyes scrutinizing Greg's face. The man had a knack for reading people, even with the domino mask.

The teenager frowned and let out another sigh. "Someone tried to take my head, Seo," he finally said, a bit of bitterness and frustration bleeding into his voice. "A mercenary, assassin-type-guy… whatever you call him, he was a cape."

"What? A merc?" Seo's eyes widened slightly, the man standing up straighter as his languid posture vanished.

"Yeah…" Greg frowned, the memories of the fight playing out in his mind. "Guy gave me the run-around and got away too. Called himself Slique. Had some kind of friction manipulation power. Made everything slippery or sticky, depending on what he wanted. Fucker was hard to pin down."

He described the fight in more detail, mentioning how Slique had used the environment against him, turning the streets into a deadly obstacle course. "He had me on the ropes for a bit, I'll admit. But I turned the tables with a little fire. Bastard wasn't expecting that. Ran off with his tail between his legs."

Seo listened close, his second-in-command nodding as the story continued. 

Greg paused, something occurring to him. "Why do I keep getting knocked off buildings?" he added out loud, more to himself than to Seo.

Finally, Greg finished speaking and the gangster let out a long raspy sigh, the man running a hand through his long hair. Tired yet calculating eyes focused on Greg, the wheels turning behind the man's eyes as he put things together. Seo was many things, but he was far from stupid. If anything, the man had been underutilized as part of Lung's gang. 

He was a thinker — small t, of course — and a good one.

"Merc capes, boss, especially killers, boss… shit," the man hissed to himself, sighing again. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a practiced motion. He took a long drag, the tip glowing orange in the dim light of the office. "Mercs like that... they're a different breed. More lethal, more focused."

Greg absorbed the words, only one syllable on his lips. "How?"

Seo tilted his head to the side, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Capes… Capes fight a lot, but they rarely fight for keeps and they rarely fight with strategy. A lot of the shit is posturing, unless they're at war or out for blood. You fight just to prove you're the bigger man on the block. Once you can prove taking you down is more trouble than it's worth, capes usually back off."

"And?" Greg didn't appreciate the long pause, his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk.

"Well, killer cape mercs are like professionals. You're mixing the crazy power of a cape with the business attitude of a merc," the Japanese man continued, crossing his arms. The cigarette dangled from his lips, ash falling to the floor. "They fight with strategy first of all. Play for keeps, too. It's not a game for them." 

Walking over to a raised desk with a laptop resting on top of it, the man turned it on. "You fought an assassin with skills, planning, training, and a job, and well... with capes, power is number one but that's not always enough when the other guy has two, three, four, and five," Seo explained, taking another drag from his cigarette as the smoke curled around his face. 

Greg frowned, his clenched fist resting on the table. Fuck two, three, four, and five. I have two, three, four, and five. He had power, plenty of it. 

More than most capes, even. 

But Seo had a point. 

Raw power wasn't everything in a fight. Strategy, skill, experience... those mattered too. And this Slique guy seemed to have them in spades.

"Mercenary capes don't just pop up without solid money behind them," Seo continued, flicking ash from his cigarette. "Real solid bread, boss."

Greg leaned forward, his eyes narrowing behind his domino mask. "Yeah, yeah, tell me what I don't know. It's a genuine hit. But what bugs me is this; who around here would bother hiring instead of sending their own capes?"

It was a valid question. Brockton Bay had no shortage of capes, both hero and villain. If someone wanted him gone, why not send their own people? Why outsource to a mercenary?

Shaking his head, Greg shifted his gaze over to the whiteboard, studying the notes and photos again. "You think the merc… You think the Dragons or the Triad sent him my way?"

Seo shook his head, his long hair swaying with the motion. "Boss… I doubt it. If they do wanna takeover, they can't have some other cape claim your head or outsource it. That shows weakness. And gangs, gangs are all about strength... ruling a gang... it's all about power."

He's right, Greg thought, his frown deepening. No self-respecting gang leader would let someone else take out their rival. It's a matter of pride.

"So… some rando wants me gone," the blond mused aloud, his fingers drumming on the desk. "Can't be the New York or Boston guys, and… I definitely don't think Kaiser's gonna outsource either."

Seo shrugged, then hesitated, as if a thought suddenly struck him. "What about Coil?"

Greg looked up, puzzled. "Who's Coil?"

Seo's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "Oh yeah, I guess he wouldn't really be common knowledge. He's the other big player in the city. Some kind of secret warlord who mostly sticks to downtown. Very professional. Arms his men with Tinker Tech. It's why a good chunk of downtown stays gang-free."

Coil. The name meant nothing to Greg, but the description was intriguing. A secret warlord, operating under the radar, with access to Tinker Tech weapons? That sounded like someone with resources. Someone who could afford to hire a mercenary cape.

Greg frowned, his mind racing. "I thought the PRT was just good at their job over there."

Seo snorted dismissively, smoke puffing from his nostrils. "No, that's all Coil. He's got big money, moves professional, and he keeps things under wraps. Exactly the kind of guy who'd hire out."

A professional, Greg mused, the pieces starting to fall into place. Someone who operates in the shadows, pulling strings. Someone with a reason to want me out of the picture.

"Alright, so say it's Coil," Greg said aloud, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "That means he's got a reason to come after me, but I don't remember doing anything. Any chance you can dig up more on him?"

Seo nodded, his expression serious. "I can try, but information on Coil is locked down tight. Might have to reach out to some... less savory contacts."

"Do it," Greg affirmed, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And keep an eye out for any other mercs popping up in town. If this Coil guy is on my ass, he won't stop at one."

"Right," Seo agreed, taking another drag from his cig. The tip glowed bright in the dim office. "Like, I said, two, three, four, and five…"

The blond rolled his eyes, resting his cheek on his raised fist. Yeah, yeah… He'd heard it before. But hearing it and understanding it were two different things. Greg was starting to understand, though. This was a different kind of game, with different rules. 

And if he wanted to win, he needed to learn those rules. 

Fast.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Fast. That's how he was moving.

Fast as fuck, boy! Greg Veder, still in costume, navigated the skyline of Brockton Bay with acrobatic ease, speed his priority. He bounded from rooftop to rooftop, his feet barely touching the surface before he was off again, a blur of black and red against the night sky.

His path cut a zig-zag pattern between Downtown and the Docks, prioritizing protecting his territory and keeping an eye out for that slick fucker. Slique, he thought, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. If I see him again, I'm gonna introduce his face to the pavement. Repeatedly.

Launching from the rooftop, he curled his body into a tight somersault, spinning with controlled velocity. His limbs were perfectly positioned to minimize air resistance, allowing him to maximize speed and maneuverability. Like a human bullet, he mused, a grin spreading across his face beneath the mask. 

Enjoying his own moves too much was a luxury he couldn't afford tonight—not with the recent mercenary attacks fresh in his memory. Every flip and leap was calculated, a blend of necessity and reflex honed by countless nights on patrol. He was looking for a fight, after all. Gonna give him a one-way ticket to the ICU.

As he approached the edge of a particularly high rooftop, he gathered speed, his feet pounding the gravel-topped surface with increasing tempo. With a powerful thrust of his legs, he launched into the air, his body silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Mid-flight, he tucked his knees close to his chest, spinning to maximize his rotational speed, which added an extra bit of distance to his leap.

Hardkour, bitches! he crowed internally, the rush of wind and adrenaline making him feel alive. 

As he vaulted from the roof of an old printing press building, his Danger Sense abruptly flared—a tingling warning that shot through him like a jolt of electricity. Fuck!

Mid-air, he spun, instincts kicking in as he ignited a burst of pyrokinesis from one hand. The flame acted like a jet thruster, altering his trajectory just enough to evade a spinning surge of water that sliced through the air where he had just been. The attack was precise, meant to incapacitate or kill. Oh come on, another merc?

Hardkour landed with a roll on the concrete of a narrow alley in downtown. The rough landing sent a shock up his legs, but he was up in an instant, his body tense and ready. His Danger Sense didn't let up, pulsing with urgent warnings that had him spinning on his heel, scanning the shadows for his assailant. I just got used to one! This was gonna be my gang lord, strategy arc.

"Well," he said out loud, hands clenched into tight, leather-glove-clad fists at his sides, "You gonna fight me or what?" His voice was a growl, edged with the rasp of his Hardkour persona. "I don't have all night. Places to go, mercs to punch. You know how it is."

The alley was dark, especially this late at night, but it made no difference to him. His enhanced senses could pick out details even in the dimmest light. At the far end of the alley, a figure stepped out from behind a dumpster. Spotting it immediately, Greg opened his mouth to taunt again, only to freeze as another stood up from the shadows near a fire escape.

Two of them? His eyes narrowed, his stance shifting subtly as he prepared for a fight. Alright, I can handle two. No problem. It's not like I haven't fought multiple opponents bef-

His thought was cut off as his Danger Sense screamed again. 

Above, a silhouette hovered, outlined against the sparse light of a flickering street lamp. From the rooftop directly above, he heard someone moving and he looked up to see another figure rise to their feet. And from the entrance to another side alley, yet one more stepped out.

…two, three, four, five… Greg's eye twitched, his jaw clenching tight. 

[Analyze].[Analyze].[Analyze].[Analyze].[Analyze].

Glaive Lvl 36 

Pocket-Sized Guillotine 

HP: 180/180 

Power: Incisive Force Amplification

Meet Glaive, the tiny terror with a big slice of crazy. Don't let her mousy appearance fool you - this pint-sized powerhouse turns every knife fight into a nuclear arms race. With each swing, her blades get hungrier, transforming from butter knives to lightsabers. She's living proof that good things come in small packages, especially if those packages are filled with enough kinetic energy to split an atom. Size doesn't matter - but boy, does momentum.

Flatline Lvl 31

Shock Jock

HP: 310/310 

Power: Electrostatic Extremity Conduction

Meet Flatline, the DJ who traded sick beats for sicker volts. This walking Tesla coil brings new meaning to "electric personality”. His hugs are literally to die for, and his handshake? Let's just say it's shockingly bad for your health. 

Thrash Lvl 36 

Mosh Pit Mayhem

HP: 285/285 

Power: Impact Reverberation Harness

A punk rock nightmare who turns bar fights into demolition derbies. This walking wrecking ball treats buildings like drum sets and cars like cymbals, creating a symphony of destruction wherever he goes. With fists that could give a wrecking ball an inferiority complex and the ability to pinball around like a caffeinated squirrel, Thrash is what happens when you mix a mosh pit with a particle accelerator.

Torque Lvl 32 

Spin Cycle

HP: 225/225 

Power: Hydro-Acoustic Resonance Projection

This pint-sized powerhouse turns battlefield strategy into a swirling mess. With the ability to create watery wrecking balls that pack a punch and a scream, Torque brings new meaning to "making waves". Just remember, if you hear a strange humming sound, it's probably too late to plug your ears - or hold onto your lunch.

Anthracite Lvl 39 

Black Lung's Revenge 

HP: 780/780 

Power: Carbon Lattice Reinforcement

From the depths of abandoned mines emerges a villain with a heart as black as coal. Anthracite is what you get when you mix childhood trauma, superpowers, and a penchant for sledgehammers. This walking lump of coal brings new meaning to "dirty fighting," turning every brawl into a coal miner's delight. 

As he squared his shoulders, only one thought echoed through his mind:

Fuck.