Fiction: The Twisted Path (An Origin) (Part 1)

"I don't understand! I don't do drugs, my grades are fine, and you know I haven't done anything worthy of expulsion!"
"We found something else in your blood test son."
"Impossible! I don't do drugs, I don't touch steroids. If you found anything stronger than aspirin, I'll eat my helmet!"
"No, we found something besides that."
"Huh?!?!?"
"Kid, with the new division rules in place, they did a genetic screen on you too."
"I don't understand, what..."
"Kid, you're a mutant."
"WHAT!?"
"A mutant."
"C'mon coach, this ain't funny. What the hell is going on!"
"Kid, I'm just the coach. I can't tell you squat. All I know is that the division rules strictly prohibit anyone with superpowers from competing."
"Super..coach! I don't have superpowers!"
"I'm sorry kid. I have no say in this. They've got one of these government science types coming out here to evaluate you and give you more information. I only know what the report the dean slapped down on my desk said."
"So that's it? A full four-year scholarship and any prospects for playing football in the pros flushed and swirlied? Because some stupid piece of paper says I'm..."
"Dammit son! How many times do you want me to say "I'm sorry" here? It sucks! I understand. I..CANNOT..STOP...IT!"

"So doc. What the hell is wrong with me?"
"Wrong? Nothing! Why would you say something was wrong?"
"Two words doc. FOOTBALL SCHOLARSHIP. Making more sense now?"
"Yes yes. You don't have the opportunity to get your brains sloshed around by some socially maladjusted man-child with a thyroid problem. Such a travesty..."
"Look! I just got booted from a university that was giving me a full ride, completely trashing my educational prospects for pretty much EVER because I am now blacklisted from pretty much EVER playing football at the collegiate or professional level. So cut the down-your-nose schpiel and tell me what the hell is going on with me and can I fix it?"
"I will restate myself young man. There's nothing wrong with you. You merely have a mutant ceulluar structure."
"Oh. ONLY. So what? I get to set myself on fire? I turn purple and start sucking the life out of everyone in sight? I grow a donkey head?"
"Too late..."
"WHAT?"
"Sorry. A bit of humor. Are you sure you're past puberty? The angst-level in here is stifling."
"Listen doc. I'm six foot and two hundred pounds. You're five foot nothing and about one twenty soaking wet."
"Oooh. Violence! I shudder! No! No! I understand. You're stressed. So I'll get down to the core of the issue. I'll even use small words for you."
"..."
"Very well. For the most part you have a basic human physiology. Ten fingers, ten toes, a mouth, and all the accouterments of **** sapiens sapiens."
"Humans."
"Bingo! Except for one teensy little anomaly. You have a not-so-small alteration in a portion of what's normally considered "junk DNA" in humans. Something we had, or acquired thousands or millions of years ago and don't really use anymore."
"But I'm using it?"
"Short answer. Yes. But it's more than that. This segment of DNA is more or less identical for everyone. But, in you, this segment is radically different, and its causing alterations in the chromosomes around it."
"So What? Am I going to suddenly turn into a frog or something?"
"No. As nearly as we can tell, while the change is both pronounced and extensive, the overall effect on your physiology is fairly small. It's given you a somewhat limited healing factor?"
"What? Like Wol..."
"Nothing so grandiose. For the most part, it's not really much more useful than the normal healing mechanisms already at play in your body. It seems to be tied to a secondary mutation that allows you to absorb small amounts of background radiation. It's fairly low level. So the amounts of power are miniscule."
"So? What? I get better? Slowly?"
"Actually yes. Remember, healing in most people isn't really restoring your body back to status quo. It's more like spackling over damage and trying to get back to some semblance of normalcy."
"So what's the difference?"
"Your body is not just healing the damage, it's actually regenerating your physical structure in an exact manner."
"Sooooo, what's the difference?"
"Ah. Caveman need pictographs. Okay, I'll give you a "for instance". In a motorcycle accident, you're probably dealing with abrasions or "road rash" in common parlance, broken bones, some blunt trauma, etc."
"Well, for the bones, when Joe Normal heals up, he's still got the breaks there. They've just been grown over with a layer of new bone material and aren't QUITE as strong as they were previously. The skin, more obviously, is scarred over. It still performs the job of covering your body, but it's not the same thing as normal skin."
"Okay?"
"With you, your bones would knit back together like new. You might have some residual calcium buildup in the area from the normal healing process as well. But after a bit of time, nobody, even with X-Rays, could tell you'd ever broken a bone. And your skin. No scarring. Your skin would grow back just as it was, surface "defects" like that mole there and all."
"So I...just...get...better?"
"Yes. But it's not like you can cut off an arm and have a new one just pop out."
"Ow. What would happen?"
"Well, remember, I said that your regeneration was roughly on-par with normal human healing speed. YES, you MIGHT regrow an arm, eventually. But we're talking years. Or decades. Probably longer than a normal human lifespan before it grew back. And much longer before it was actually a useful appendage."
"So it'd grow back, but probably not before I die of old age. Right. No arm-chopping... So that's it?"
"More or less. Now there's probably some mechanisms in there for enhancing your immune system as well. Mutations like this normally go hand-in-hand with that."
"So it's not like I'm super-strong or anything. I don't outrun trains or anything. I'm just heal a bit differently. What's stopping me from competing just like anyone else?"
"Because you're NOT like everyone else. Your regeneration abilities are only barely understood. What's more, it COULD conceivably give you a competitive edge. You can train harder, work harder, and you don't have to guard against injury the same way a normal player would. This is why the metahuman rules were added to the charter."
"So, because of something I have no control over, my entire life is screwed. No football. No college."
"There are options open to you."
"Like what? Lab rat for the government? Like a job that demands I ask "would you like fries with that"? Like..."
"Like the military. Like law enforcement. Like emergency services. Or any of a hundred other careers that could use your skills. Young man, life threw you a curveball. Deal with it."

---

"This looks like a job for SuperSon!"
"Ma! Come on! It was old about thirty seconds after I got home. Please just stop it!"
"Yes oh mighty SuperSon!"
"Gah! Dad! Can you just shoot me now!"
"C'mon hon. I'm joking with you. Seriously. How long are you going to stay mad about this?"
"I don't think they've invented a number quite that big yet..."
"Okay. Okay. I'll drop it. But we do need to talk to you about what comes next."
"Well, since my career choices have dwindled to "gas station" or "burger hut", I'm not too worried. There's always work."
"No hon. It isn't. Your dad wanted to talk to you about maybe going to the police academy. Your uncle also asked about you possibly joining the fire department. But your father told him he'd shoot you in the head himself before he let you "join the dark side"."
"But I don't want to ride in on someone's coattails! That was the whole reason for me going to college. To do my own thing."
"Well, who's to say your own thing isn't as a police officer? Your grades in school were good, and your aptitude tests were enough that you'd probably already start with a leg up."
"I dunno ma. Really. Can you give me a couple days to think about it? I mean really think about it?"
"Okay. I'll leave it alone for now. But not forever."
"Says the woman whose foot was firmly lodged in my backside throughout high school..."
"Yup. Just wiggle my toes and it's almost like you're talking..."
"Gross ma!"
"Glad you appreciated it!"
"Okay. What task does Mighty Mom need SuperSon's help for?"
"The villainous "Garbage" is making a nuisance of itself and needs to be taken out and disposed of.
"Yes oh MightyMom!"

"Paragon City? With all the tights-wearing yoohoos?"
"Dad! I'm not going out there to put a costume on. I've got a job offer from the Paragon Police Department."
"What's wrong with Chicago?"
"Nothing! Well, everything! The whole stupid situation with the department trying to purge itself of "super cops" and all that."
"Bah! It'll blow over."
"Yeah dad. Maybe! But am I going to still have a job when it does? It ain't the most friendly place in my precinct right now. And I don't fly or shoot laser beams or anything."
"But..."
"In the mean time, I've got a solid job offer in another city that's got no issues with me not being a "normal". Not to mention the pay is better than anything "Da Mare" has given us lately."
"But cops out there get killed by those super-crazies!"
"And cops out here get killed by coked up crazies with guns. What's the difference?"
"The coke fiends don't normally explode and take you with them."
"No, but you haven't seen the kit they give even basic troopers out there. Makes the stuff we issue to SWAT and the bomb squad look like a steel drum with shoulder straps."
"Yeah but stun guns?"
"Yeah, not tasers. Actual stunner weapons. Straight outta Star Trek."
"I dunno..."
"Dad. I know. You're a thirty year veteran of the CPD. You're set. You wanted me to have that same kind of security. I understand. I do! But I gotta do this. I gotta do it now before those bastards drive me nuts and give them a reason to dismiss me for real cause."
"But cops don't do tha.."
"They do dad. Not all of them. Most of the guys are fine. The problem childen are a minority. But a very VOCAL and well connected minority. And I'm not one for peeing into the breeze here."
"Well, if you're dead-set on this..."
"Bah. It's New Hampshire. What's New Hampshire going to do to a Chicago boy? Bleed blue blood on me?"

"God I miss Chicago."
"Tell me about it."
"But you were born here Spitz."
"But, like you, I was dumb enough to take a job here."
"Touche!"
"So we had another one of these "Superadine" junkies come through yesterday. Took six of us and one of the guys in those new exo suits to get him into a cell. That's what? Five this month?"
"Seven. We had two of them today too. Didn't need to find them, they actually tried storming the precinct. Thought my hair would never stop standing up after all the stunner discharge. They put McMasters and Volmer in the hospital before we got them subdued. Then one of them actually ripped out of his cell and we had to tackle him again. I swear, if this keeps up, I'm going to go back to a standard sidearm again."
"Captain won't like that."
"Captain can't chew my butt any more than he already is. All he gets now is scar tissue. No regulations against it yet. And that prattling twit isn't the one having to deal with some blockhead hopped up on some sort of super 'roids. His nose is buried so far up the Comissioner's... Bah, forget it. Been over this before."
"So. Who's your hot date tonight?"
"No date. Just a cousin who just moved into town."
"Ooh. She pretty?"
"Wouldn't know, since it's a "he"."
"So what's he do?"
"He's got a job up at the power plant."
"The reactor? Isn't one mutie in your family enough?"
"Remind me to rap you upside the head with a baseball bat a couple times later."
"Yes SIR!"
"Haven't seen him since he joined the Navy a few years back. He worked on a nuclear sub for his entire time in service. Now he's out and apparently got a HUGE payday out of the guys at the power company for his services here."
"So he can pay for brews when we go out right?"
"Well, for ME maybe. You'd bankrupt him."
"I don't drink THAT much."
"Dude! It's like ten AM and you have a brew in your hand? What? Is that like your third?"
"Fifth, I cleaned the other bottles up a ittle while ago..."
"I rest my case. See ya later Spitzy. If Marylin calls, tell her I'll call her back when I get home."
"Vaya con ding dongs!"

"Officer. You're not trained for this sort of thing!"
"You wanna go back over your previous statement for the logical inconsistencies?"
"Look. We don't know what the heck we're dealing with in there. Some sort of super-powered aliens. They're popping up all over the globe and attacking anything that even remotely resembles a resistance. And now they here in the reactor."
"All the more reason for me to come with you. You're what? Eight guys? Against how many?"
"You can't come with us! And that's final!"
"Like hell! See the badge? The one that says Paragon POLICE Department? We have a bunch of murders here. One of whom was my cousin! Now with you or without you, I'm heading in there and I'm going to do my damndest to bring these criminals to justice. I don't care if they're bug-eyed monsters, greys, or red lectroids from the eigth dimension. Got that?"
"I don't have time for this. Roman, grab hi.."
"Yeah. It's a real gun. Not a stunner. Sure, you MAY be bulletproof. But, resting on the bridge of your nose that way, it's STILL going to hurt like hell and leave you blind for a while. Now I'm not arguing with you any more. Let's get going."
"Yes...sir..."

---

"Jeeze! What's it take to kill these guys? My shotgun isn't doing squat to them, the stun grenades didn't stun them, and my pistol is about as useful as a squirt gun!"
"I dunno. Roman's dead, Blockhead's comatose and we're still not sure WHAT happened to Pyron."
"Less talk, more put your radiation gear on!"
"Yeah yeah uh...Coronoal...uuh what was your name again?"
"Never mind. Take this."
"What is it?"
"It's an experimental teleporter. It monitors your vital signs and if you're close to death, teleports you out to one of several pre-designated extreme trauma centers."
"Great. Hope I don't need it."
"Yeah, Hope *I* don't need it either!"

"Officer! Your suit is compromised! Get the hell outta here!"
"Can't! The exit's cut off. Don't worry, if it doesn't go on too long I'll be okay."
"Huh?"
"Mutant. Minor regeneration ability."
"This is hard radiation!"
"Yeah, stuff like this feeds my ability."
"...Okay, but the first chance you get, run for it! Here they come again."
"I got it! Look out! He's..GAH!"
"He's out Stormy. Hope that teleporter kicks in. That way SOMEONE here will know what happened."
"It's not that bad yet! We can still salvage this."
"No. We can't! Get ready to..what the hell?"
"That was the cop? What happened?"
"Dunno, but he spattered that guy's head and then disappeared. Guess that means that teleporter worked."
"With his fist?"
"Dunno."
"Well, that's it. I've only got one trick left up my sleeve. Sorry Jim. I wish it didn't go down this way. You ready?"
"No. But when did that ever stop me."
"Goodbye."

"Get him into a containment room! He's hot!"
"What the hell happened to him?"
"Don't know but get him contained before we irradiate everyone in this area!"
"Okay! This is our last containment room. Jeeze! What's going on out there! It's like every one of the test subjects has come through here at least once today!"
"They're saying some sort of alien invasion. Their ships are all over the place. Heck, they even blew up something in Vegas from what I understand."
"Did we give a mediporter to the police department?"
"No. We stayed almost exclusively with metas. Why?"
"He's got a PPD badge. And he's got ID on him. Plus, no super-tights."
"Lemme check the teleporter's ID tag. Coronal Mass Ejection. Some kind of shape shifter and energy manipulator."
"No, this ain't him. How'd he get a hold of that guy's mediporter?"
"No clue."
"But aren't they supposed to be calibrated to the wearer's bio signature? What's that going to do to someone else?"
"Again, not a clue."
"But..."
"Look! He needs medical attention, not chitchat, and he needs it now. Prep him for surgery!"

"Hi there! Welcome back to the land of the living."
"Rrrgh.."
"No no! Please don't try to get up. You've been through major surgery and it really wouldn't be good for you right now."
"..."
"Here. Let me give you some water. There! Now please. We had to temporarily restrain you. You kept trying to get up and we couldn't let you hurt yourself."
"Ugh. Okay."
"Officer. What's the last thing you remember."
"Gah! Did anyone get the number of the aircraft carrier that ran me over?"
"Heh! Good. Good! But really, what's the last thing you remember."
"I was down at the power company and...man this sounds so stupid...there was some kind of alien invasion there. A group of the tights-brigade came through and tried to put these guys down. I hooked up with them and we fought our way in. It went south really fast on us. The last thing I remember is this huge fricking blade coming into my peripheral vision and hitting a wall. Not much after that."
"Do you remember how you got the mediporter?"
"Huh?"
"You had a device that teleported you to a critical care center."
"Oh that. One of the guys...Cor...Cor...forgetting his name right now. My head's killing. Anyhow he gave it to me."
"..."
"What's with the goofy look? What happened to me? Am I crippled?"
"We don't think so."
"Then what? What happened to me?"
"Please. Calm down. As far as we can tell, you're going to be okay...eventually."
"What? EVENTUALLY? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Please. Just try to remain calm. I'll try to outline what's happened to you."
"Okay. Lemme guess. Radiation. Made my hair fall out."
"Well, yes, and no. That's just one thing."
"Why do people always want to dole out bad news to me in monosyllables?"
"Okay. We have a couple things going on with you. First off, you were already a very low-class metahuman."
"Why THANK YOU!"
"I mean that you weren't some crime-busting energy-thrower, or something like that."
"Ah."
"Anyhow, you got a HUGE dose of radiation. We've been doing our best to give you therapy designed to absorb all that radiation, but it's still going to be a while before you're "safe" to be around. On top of that, you were dealt a MASSIVE injury. Something that, by all rights, should have killed you. And it probably would have had you not gotten assistance when you did."
"So that's why I feel like I got hit by a fleet of steamrollers."
"And we've got you doped up pretty hard too. By all rights, you should be unconscious right now."
"Hooray for me."
"On top of that, you took a ride on a VERY experimental new teleportation device. It's so new that units have to be individually calibrated to their user's basic biometric parameters."
"So...what?"
"So using the mediporter, like several other things, should have killed you. Literally, if it weren't for your basic healing ability, you'd probably be dead right now. As it is, there have been major alterations to your body."
"Please tell me I don't have a head growing out of my stomach or anything..."
"No. But you've had a fairly significant growth spurt."
"Huh!?!?!?"
"How tall are you?"
"About six feet tall."
"Actually, you were five eleven when you came in. Two days after you came in, we measured you at six foot two as you literally outgrew a couple of the splints we'd put you into. Today, nearly a week and a half after, you're almost six foot six and, as far as we can tell, you're not done."
"Okay, you're joking right? I'm in my late twenties! My bone plates, or whatever are closed. I saw that in my last physical!"
"Not anymore. The areas you're talking about have decalcified and there's active growth going on again. In fact, you're not just getting taller. You're putting on extra mass as well. Broadening across the shoulders, chest circumference, etc."
"Okay, so it's like the growth pains I hade when I was a teenager?"
"But worse. You're not putting on inches in months of time. You're putting on inches in days here. Hence the heavy medication. It's also why we have you restrained. We're not sure what else happened, but you're immensely strong right now."
"Well I could use a bath.."
"Sorry, but this isn't something funny. You've already seriously hurt two people and you've destroyed quite a bit of equipment. Purely by accident, but there it is."
"So what? You're just going to keep me doped up until I stop growing?"
"Well, we're going to try and pull back from knocking you out if you'll try to keep yourself under control. Just relax and let us help you. Right now you're like an oversized puppy, but with even worse fine motor control. The other thing we've got going with you is a high-nutrient IV solution to keep your body supplied with the things it needs to build new muscle, bone, and the like."
"Breakfast of Champi..."
"Yeah. Not funny."
"Sorry."

---

"Sorry about that."
"Don't worry about it. We'll add it to your bill.
"Funny."
"Well, since I can't compete with crushing a steel railing, I have to fall back to humor. Keeps me alive longer."
"Gah!"
"Yeah, you've been in bed for over two years here. It's going to hurt to move and stand. Just, please, try not to grab me."
"Yeah. Tell Jim that I'm sorry about that broken shoulder again when you see him"
"Well, he had been complaining that he needed a vacation. This was his chance."
"Yeah, but it's really hard to go surfing when you have your shoulder pinned together."
"But not impossible. He just doesn't want it badly enough."
"Gah! Stop! Lemme catch my breath. Man, it's like you guys joined the Lollipop Guild."
"Huh?"
"He's saying you're short Bob."
"Doc! Hi! How's rounds this morning?
"Almost done. How's our favorite patient this morning?"
"SICK of hospital food."
"Naturally. If it was nice in the hospital, nobody would ever want to get well. The lousy food is part of the incentive program."
"So when do I get booted to a therapy facility?"
"Well, we're setting that up now. It's not like we can just send you anyplace. Could you imagine sticking you on a floor that's used to hauling around little grannies with broken hips?"
"But I'm going soon right?"
"Yeah. Probably by the end of the week. You've got a lot of physical rehab to get going with."
"Well, it's kinda hard to get wheelchairs in my size."
"They usually say Peterbilt."
"Bob. Give us a couple minutes here. I've got him."
"Okay Doc. Buzz when you're done."

"Okay. So what's with the hush hush?"
"Well, the rehab facility is also going to be running test on you to gauge your strength, reflexes, the whole shebang."
"Great. So more needles?"
"Actually no. Your skin's too thick and hard now. Trying to get through it now would require a chainsaw. Good thing we installed the mediporter implant already."
"I still feel kinda funny about that."
"Don't worry. There's been a couple massive leaps in the technology in the last six months. They no longer need to be so tightly calibrated to you. And more, no batteries. It's an implant and draws a small amount of necessary current from your body."
"Sorry, just a deep-seated neurosis on my part. But why the extra testing? Really? It's not like I'm going to go out super-heroing. Right now I'm the Incredible Feeb."
"Yes, but even so, your strength is quite literally beyond our ability to measure here. They'll have more specialized equipment there. Don't worry. The testing is just a small portion of your overall rehab. It's just going to take time to get used to your new body proportions. We're going to get you walking again."
"Even if it kills me."
"Won't. Mediporter. Remember?"

"Doc. Tell me what's wrong with me. I've been up and walking for nearly six months now. Why the hell does it still hurt so much?"
"Your body's probably still adapting to it's new configuration. It's going to take time. And as I told you, the discomfort may never go away completely. I'm sorry."
"Great. It's like trying to run across a bed of nails on my knees whenever I walk."
"Give it time. Remember, you're over twice the mass you were prior to this all. And while your joints are larger and stronger, they're still going to need to some time to adjust."
"Story of my life..."
"So tell me. How'd your last round of metrics go?"
"They're going to have to replace the punch plate impact sensor."
"Again? That's the third one this year!"
"Yeah. They haven't gotten a handle on my upper limits yet. Just wish it didn't hurt so much."
"Still tearing up your hands?"
"Yeah. I may be super-tough, but my hands can only handle so much."
"They're getting tougher though?"
"Yeah. But every time I let rip, I wind up breaking most of my knuckles and ripping up the skin. Whether I punch properly or not."
"We'll see about getting you some protective wear. But your hands look fine right now."
"Healing. My healing ability has accelerated some and I actively heal now. Usually, with my hands, it takes about 10 minutes and they're fine."
"Okay. But we should still get you some protection...and a haircut. I'm glad your hair's growing back."
"I wish it'd stop. This is my second haircut this week."
"Maybe you should just let it grow long and tie it back."
"Oh boy. Hippie hair. Or, with the color, something from an anime convention."

"Oh man. That's the fourth heavy bag this week!"
"Boy! Who taught you how to fight?"
"You did coach."
"Ha ha. Funny! Now answer the question."
"I learned how to box before I was like this. Had some Tae Kwon Do for a couple years. But it isn't really helping. I move differently now. So it's still awkward."
"Son, with your power levels, you never going to be a finesse brawler. Ever."
"I've been telling you that."
"But you can't just let fly with full-power punches either. You'll either leave yourself open or worse, kill someone by accident!"
"With as strong as I am, killing someone by accident is going to happen. Period."
"No! No it isn't. You just need to unlearn a couple things about fighting. The doctors have an idea on what your upper limits are now. So we can train some of what you need. The rest is just practice and muscle memory. Just like boxing."
"But how the heck am I supposed to hit someone without basically splattering them?"
"You know how to pull a punch right?"
"Well yeah but.."
"But nothin'! Back when you were, for lack of a better term, normal, you were taught to fight using limited muscle power. You were basically taught to punch or kick *through* something. You can't do that anymore."
"But..."
"No listen. I've helped train dozens of super-strength types like yourself to fight. I can train you too, it's good physical therapy. You just gotta be willing to learn."
"Yes sensei..."
"Just for that crack, ten more sets. Well...as soon as I get a new bag hung."

"Good! Good! You're getting the hang of it."
"So. Golden Gloves next year?"
"Yeah right! They don't have an ultra-heavyweight division. And if they weren't suspicious by you being eight feet tall and purple-haired, they'd be looking at you funny after you knocked your opponent into the tenth row on the first punch."
"Well yeah. But what a record!"
"Okay enough with the jokes. You're moving a lot easier now. You aren't tripping over yourself anymore. How're you doing on pain management?"
"Not too bad. It's like working out too hard and being really sore the next day. But it never really goes away. But it's a lot better than it used to be."
"What do the sawbones say about that?"
"Doc Milton says it's a side-effect of the increased healing factor. It's basically trying to constantly repair everything, even when it doesn't need to. So I'm getting small amounts of inflammation everyplace as the repair process does its thing. They don't think it's going to go away completely, so I'm essentially going to have to live with it and only use painkillers if it gets really bad. Four thousand milligrams of Tylenol 3's ain't cheap."
"How're those gloves doing for your hands?"
"Great! The padding and reinforcement are making the difference. If I punch barehanded, I'm still tearing up my hands. But not so badly. With the gloves, I can basically haul off and whack something at nearly full strength and I barely feel it. The gloves don't even get damaged. So whatever the heck they made them out of is ridiculously durable."
"Probably Impervium mesh. You'll have to replace the coverings every now and again. But the basic underglove should be good for pretty much ever."
"I can't believe my insurance actually paid for these."
"Insurance? Pfft! They didn't drop dime one for these puppies!"
"Then how the heck did I get them?"
"Hero Registration."
"Hero reg... Oh come on man! You can't register me for that kinda thing without my consent!"
"What consent? Registration for someone in your power class is mandatory. Even if the only thing you ever bust is a move."
"Oy..."
"No. Seriously. Someone like you needs to be registered. This way if there are any problems, like you accidentally rip a door off its hinges or something, the police don't immediately try to respond with lethal force."
"You're gotta be sh...no. You're not are you?"
"Nope. It's not like you have to go and get your hero ID card. But the city needs to keep tabs on all metahumans. The last thing they want is a lawsuit because some poor schmuck gets his fool head blown off because he's meta and unregistered."
"Well why are they sending me stuff like these? This is crimebusting gear isn't it?"
"Yes and no. By registering, you're going to get pestered by some of the "hero for hire" groups. Like Hero Corps. It's kinda like being a top prospect for collegiate or pro sports."
"Recruiters? Bribes?"
"Kinda. Yeah to the recruiters. And kinda yeah to the bribes. But hey, you have any idea what a set of impervium mittens like those cost? More than *I* will ever see in my lifetime. And you need them kid. Even if you never throw another punch save in training, you still need them until they find some way to toughen your hands up enough."
"So basically just go along, make nice noises and smile a lot. Like I did in high school."
"Now you're getting it!"

"Ma! Come on! I'm fine!"
"No! Seriously! I'm good! I've been out of rehab six months now and I'm working part time as an auctioneer at this place called Wentworths."
"Yeah mom. I'm getting enough to eat. Heck, if this job didn't pay so well, I'd go broke."
"I know. I know. I tried talking to the police union again. But they essentially pensioned me off after the accident. I couldn't get a job as a mall cop now."
"Yeah. I have some paid time off coming up in a couple months. I'll make the flight back to Chicago for a couple days."
"Mom! I swear! I'll get back there if I have to fly myself!"
"What? No! I told you! Yes! Yes I did! I can fly! Yeah. It's still weird. But I can! No it's slower than a jet, but hey, you can't beat the view. Or the price."
"No! I'll stay close to the ground. I promise. If I have to, I'll skim a couple feet off the ground all the way."
"Mom. MOM! I know you love me, but can you go do the "concerned mother" thing to Ben or Aaron for a while? It's driving me nuts! Well...nuts-ER!"
"Okay mom. Gotta go. I'll talk to you later."
"No mom! I haven't been seeing anyone!"
"Because most women see someone who's eight feet tall with a head of hair like a mop and find someplace else they need to be."
"Yeah. Yeah. It doesn't work mom. I could buzz it off right now and it'd be back at shoulder length tomorrow."
"Yeah mom. It's abnormal! So's being eight feet tall, super-strong and bulletproof."
"Okay! Gotta go now! Bye!"

---

"Very funny Agnes. Just here for my weekly deposit."
"..."
"What? Agnes, put your hands down."
"NOBODY MOVE! MOVE AND YOU'RE DEAD!"
"Oh crap..."
"Shakes! We got a meta here! Put him down!"
"Look man! I don't want any trouble. Just calm dowOOF!"
"He's still moving! Hit him again!"
"Look! I'm down! Just stop! AH! Come on man!"
"How about THIS big boy? I figure all the tough'll go outta you when I put a bullet in your ear. How's that grab ya? Huh? How's that grab YAHHHH!!!"
"You asked for it..."

"Jeeze man."
"Yeah. I kinda lost it."
"Lost it? That guy was a heavy-duty meta tank and you came close to busting every bone in his body!"
"C'mon Spitz. What was I supposed to do?"
"And the gunman. I've seen capes bend up guns before. But usually they take them out of the guy's hand first!"
"Can you be serious for even a second?"
"Listen. I AM being serious. You're a meta who's NOT registered for crimebusting. And here you are, smack dab in the middle of busting up a bank heist!"
"Again! What was I supposed to do? Let him put a bullet in me?"
"No man! I'm just saying, you have to look at this from our perspective."
"I guess..."
"Don't guess! I'm serious here! You can't go around pulling stunts like this without registering. It's only the fact that we have witnesses corroborating your self-defense story that's keeping you out of jail now."
"Okay! Okay! My bad! But what do I do now?"
"Well, I have to issue you a citation for illegal vigilante action. It's a mandatory court date and a hefty fine. But it's either that or haul you off to jail and you go to court anyhow."
"Jeeze. Okay. Okay. What else do I need to do to make this go away?"
"Well, I dunno about you. But I can think of one thing I'd do to make the judge go easy on me."
"What?"
"Get your plus-sized backside down to Atlas Park and register as a cape. Today."
"Me? A spandex guy? C'mon. What the hell am I gonna do."
"Need I look around this bank again?"
"Uh. Point taken."
"And when I say today, I mean as soon as I let you go."
"Lemme guess. So I can argue I was going to register anyhow right?"
"Wow. Maybe that siesta you took during the Rikti Invasion actually allowed you to grow a brain."
"Oh ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."
"I kill me."
"Promises promises. So, what's with all the hard-case cop routine man?"
"The aforementioned Rikti Invasion man. While you were vacationing in the land of Valium, it was absolute hell on earth out there."
"Crap! I'd heard things, but I really never got a chance to dig into it before it was over."
"Well, they don't like to talk about it but we lost nearly half the force. And even now, we're still at only about seventy percent. That's why we've been more lax with capes in the last few years. We need the help that bad."
"Damn. If I'd known how bad it was, I'd have fought harder to return to duty."
"Wouldn't have done you any good. The meta divisions really have no place for you. You're too big for the power armor division. You've got no psi. And I'm fairly sure I know what your answer would be if you were asked to bond with one of those squiddy Kheldians."
"Man. Just thinking about that makes my flesh creep."
"That's a lot of creeping."
"Ah. You hunger for a big knuckle sammich eh?"
"Nah. On a low knuckle diet. But seriously. About the best they could have done was chain you to a desk answering phones."
"Just what I'd need."
"Seriously though. The department needs help. You may not be able to wear a shield anymore. But you can contribute."
"I dunno man. I still think I'd look stupid in tights."
"I don't think. I know. And yeah, you would."
"Thanks."
"No charge. But whether you look dumb or not, register. You'd look even dumber in a mugshot and locked up as a public menace."
"Point taken."

"Okay. We have your registration papers in order. We've got a lock on your MediPort tag for priority access. And we've given you your contacts sheet. And while there's no regulations against working in street clothes, we highly recommend some form of uniform. It'll help the authorities identify you as something other than a random vigilante."
"Tights?"
"Uhm. No. You probably want to look at something a bit more...durable. Maybe some kind of ballistic cloth. Kevlar. Maybe even armor."
"Okay. And how am I supposed to afford this?"
"Well, the various super-tailors around the city are fairly reasonable for new heroes. They tend to like to try out some of their experimental stuff before they go into full production. From what I understand, you can pick up something at least serviceable for cheap. It's only the really famous guys who come away several pounds lighter in the pocketbook."
"Okay. I'll see what I can do about that."
"All we need now is an ID or callsign."
"Captain Kaboom?"
"Known villain. You don't want that."
"Ow. Okay, Thunderstrike?"
"Taken."
"Hyperslam?"
"Taken."

"Taken."
"Jeeze! We've been at this over an hour! Are all the names taken?"
"Well, there are a lot of you guys out there."
"I guess. How about ..."
"Got it!"
"Phew!"
"Okay. Paperwork good. Tracking good. Callsign?"
"Hyperstrike."

---

Interesting... it's a narrator-less transcription of a radio program.

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"Goodbye, Jean-Luc. I'm gonna miss you... you had such potential. But then again, all good things must come to an end..." -- Q

Part 2 added.

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Wow Hyper! This is freakin' awesome!!! Enjoying the hell out of it so far!

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Updated with part 3

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Part 4 has dropped.

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Last portion up.

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WHEEEEEE GREAT new story.

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@tiggy

Beware the attack cat

Okay, now I really need to figure out a story for some of my characters, I'm getting left in the dust here!

Very Impressive writing, Hyper.

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"Don't you know dead is spelled m-e-n-t-a-l in CoH? - SapphireShot

Thanks to everyone who read it.
And double-thanks to those who thought enough of it to actually say so.

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I wasn't going to read it (I generally don't read these kinds of threads), but I'm glad I did. It really fits you. And kinda makes me want to do something similar for those of mine who don't have their background fleshed out.

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Thanks Daemon.

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