Zeke shook his head, his frown deepening as his gaze shifted to the chaos unfolding across the parking lot. The Hulk—or, more accurately, the discount-store knockoff version—was tearing through hot dog stands like a starving frat bro at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Each bite was punctuated by unsettling, guttural sounds that made Zeke's stomach twist. The jade giant was practically foaming at the mouth as he wolfed down everything from nachos to entire condiment bottles.
"This is a whole new flavor of gross," Zeke muttered, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He turned away from the spectacle, trying to focus.
"No quest, no answers," he grumbled under his breath, scanning the wreckage around him, "and nothing to show for it." He paused mid-step, reconsidering. "Well, not nothing."
His fingers twitched, the urge to check his inventory bubbling up like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was almost unbearable not to inspect the shield he'd snagged off Captain Fauxmerica, but he clenched his fists, willing himself to stay focused. Loot could wait.
The remnants of the fake Ultimate Captain America and not-Wolverine were scattered across the lot like broken action figures, their hollow limbs and shattered torsos gleaming under the flickering streetlights. Zeke folded his arms, studying the pieces with a mix of unease and curiosity. "Where'd you come from, huh?" He muttered, narrowing his eyes at the nearest chunk of pseudo-Wolverine's shattered torso. "And why do I get the feeling this is way above my pay grade?"
He froze mid-thought.
"Wait..." His face twisted into an exaggerated grimace. "I don't even get paid!"
His frustrated declaration echoed briefly, swallowed by the distant sound of another explosion.
As if mocking him, a familiar notification blinked into view.
Mission Gained!
Not-so-Marvelous Mayhem
Ultimate chaos reigns as fictional heroes from another universe rampage through Boston's streets. Time to play detective and figure out who's behind this comic book catastrophe before the city becomes a real-life splash page.
Objective: Uncover the source of the animated statues and stop them
Success: 10000 XP
Of course.
Zeke rolled his eyes so hard he was sure the motion alone burned calories. "Uncover the source and stop them? Gee, thanks for being so specific."
His shoulders sagged slightly, weariness creeping in. He glanced around the wrecked parking lot, littered with splintered metal and scorched asphalt. "Well, at least I already have an idea," he said, his tone shifting to a weary sort of optimism.
Keeping Kent Nelson from biting it had come with a perk or two—Mana Vision being the weirdest of the bunch. It didn't do much most of the time, but occasionally, it decided to be useful.
"Mana Vision," Zeke muttered. His voice activated the ability, and the world shifted around him.
Everything took on a faint blue glow, as though he were suddenly looking through the world's most budget-tier 3D glasses. He blinked a few times, his goggles suddenly feeling redundant. Then, something caught his eye.
"There we go..." He whispered, leaning closer.
The broken remains of not-Wolverine shimmered faintly in his altered vision. A strange, purplish aura clung to the pieces, pulsing softly like a dying heartbeat. The glow wasn't constant; it flickered irregularly, like static on an old TV.
Zeke's breath hitched. "What the..."
The aura started to fade as he watched, its glow dimming and trailing into thin wisps of energy that floated upwards, vanishing into the night air.
Above him, the sky erupted in another burst of light and sound. Zeke glanced up just in time to see Captain Atom fire off a blinding energy blast. The fake Iron Man disintegrated mid-air, reduced to a cascade of glowing fragments. Not-Thor, however, roared in fury, slamming his lightning-clad hammer into Atom's side and sending the chrome hero careening across the skyline like a broken comet.
Zeke winced at the impact, but his attention quickly snapped back to the ground.
The fading energy from not-Wolverine wasn't just disappearing into the ether—it was coalescing. The faint purple glow thickened into a tangible trail, snaking through the air like smoke with a purpose.
The trail wound towards a nearby alley, pulsing faintly as it stretched into the shadows.
Zeke squinted, the ethereal path practically screaming bad guys this way.
A grin crept across his face, sharp and cocky despite his exhaustion. "Well," he said, shaking the lingering tension from his limbs, "this is easy."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?
Life changes in ways you might not expect, he thought bitterly as he stared at the stark white ceiling of the hospital room. The fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, a soundtrack backed by the muffled sounds of nurses chattering and wheels squeaking on linoleum floors just outside his door.
For instance, you could lose your dad at ten years old in a car accident.
Or, your mom could develop a drinking habit to cope with it and kinda forget you're around most of the time. The image of his mother, slumped on the couch with an empty bottle dangling from her fingertips, flashed through his mind, the acrid smell of cheap tequila lingering on her.
Or maybe, your mom could remarry to some dickhead bartender who likes beating you up every time he gets in a bad mood. His jaw clenched, his good hand curling into a fist at his side. The phantom ache of past bruises pulsed beneath his skin.
And even worse, all of those could happen.
If your name was Manuel Carlito.
All of that could happen and lead to this.
Lying here.
In the hospital.
With an arm broken in three fucking places.
"Fuck you, Steve," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He glared at the cast encasing his left arm, a stark white reminder of his stepfather's latest outburst. The pain throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of his powerlessness.
Manuel threw his head back on the cheap hospital pillow, wincing as the movement jostled his injury. The ceiling swam in and out of focus as he blinked back frustrated tears. The antiseptic smell of the room burned his nostrils, mingling with the lingering scent of fear-sweat that clung to his skin.
It was even worse, knowing that this was his life.
He was better than this.
Literally.
The irony of it all made him want to laugh and scream at the same time.
It had been a year now since he found out about his powers. A year of hope, confusion, and bitter disappointment. Manuel closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him.
The convenience store down the street was just another checkpoint in his daily routine, a place for a quick snack after school. Yet when he had stepped through its automatic doors that day, something had felt very different. The fluorescent lights had seemed brighter, the colors more vivid. Even the stale air had tasted electric on his tongue.
His senses had felt unnaturally alert, something prickling at the edge of his awareness. It was like an itch he couldn't scratch, a word on the tip of his tongue. Manuel had walked through the store counter after counter, trying to find out what felt so weird. The cool metal of the shelves beneath his fingertips, the rustle of chip bags, the hum of the refrigerators – everything felt heightened, more real somehow.
And then…
The man at the end of the snack aisle, looking over some chips. He was just some boring old guy in regular clothes and a receding hairline.
But still… Something about the man had pulled at him that day. It was like a magnet drawing him in, an invisible thread connecting them.
When the man turned around, Manuel pretended like he hadn't been looking at him, quickly picking up a bottle of soda and peering at it curiously through his round glasses. He thought he was insane, losing his mind or something, anything to explain why he felt so weird about a random stranger. His heart pounded in his chest, palms sweaty as he tried to act natural.
As the man's shoulder grazed his on the way to the check-out counter, Manuel had realized something.
Power.
He had always had it.
Never realized it, but it was always there inside him.
He just had to meet someone else with power. The sensation hit him like a bolt of lightning, electrifying every nerve in his body.
The man never used his power in front of him, but he didn't have to.
Wide brown eyes stared at the man's back as he left the store, as Manuel felt it. An invisible thread laced between them, and a surge of energy rippled through him. It was like being dunked in ice water and set on fire at the same time, every cell in his body singing with newfound energy.
Back in his room thirty minutes later, Manuel had been almost drunk on the power, energy coursing through him as he made things around him float and move. Books flipped open and pages fluttered wildly as if caught in a breeze every time he so much as glanced at them while a soccer ball in the corner of his room wobbled and levitated shakily into the air while his action figures and pencils danced several feet above the ground. The rush was intoxicating, better than any high he could imagine.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Less than ten minutes later, it was all gone. The power had ebbed and ebbed, until he couldn't even feel it anymore. It was like waking up from the most vivid dream, only to find the details slipping away with each passing second.
For weeks, he had visited that same convenience store, hoping it would come back or the strange man would return. No matter what he did, he couldn't bring the energy back. The memory of it haunted him, always just out of reach.
The one time he felt powerful.
It had been a year now and he almost thought he imagined it. That he had lost his mind.
When Steve had gotten in his face, Manuel had acted on instinct, fueled by a year's worth of frustration and fear. He had thrust his hand out like he was going to throw him back with the force of his mind, praying for that surge of power to return. But nothing had happened. No invisible force, no magical energy – just the harsh reality of flesh and bone.
"Fucking Steve."
Manuel's thoughts was shattered by the hospital's ambient noise suddenly spiking into his senses. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, the distant murmur of voices – it all blasted into a massive wreck of noise that made his teeth shudder.
But beneath it all, there was something else. A familiar surge of energy, like an electric current humming just beneath his skin.
His eyes widened, heart rate spiking. No way, he thought, it can't be. But the sensation was unmistakable, almost exactly like the way it had that day a year ago.
That invisible thread, connecting him to... someone.
Ignoring the protest of his broken arm, Manuel swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor sent a shiver up his spine as he hobbled to the door, peering out into the hallway just in time to see a gurney rush by. The glimpse he caught of its occupant was brief – an old man, face lined with pain, wisps of white hair peeking out from beneath an oxygen mask.
"Maria," he called out, recognizing a familiar face among the bustling hospital staff. The young nurse turned, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she took in his battered appearance and his arm in a cast. Manuel felt a flush creep up his neck, remembering how she used to babysit him, how she'd given him that kiss on the cheek when he was twelve. It had fueled more than a few fantasies since then.
"Hey, Manny," she said, her voice gentle. "How you feeling?"
Manuel plastered on a fake smile, ignoring the twinge in his arm. "I'm good." He jerked his chin towards the room across the hall. "What happened there?"
Maria sighed, fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes. "You know Don Pedro?"
"The old puppeteer guy?" Manuel's brow furrowed. He remembered Don Pedro – or Papa Pedro, as the kids called him – from birthday parties growing up. The way his puppets seemed to move on their own, how they'd talk back to him... it had seemed like magic back then.
"Yeah, the old puppet guy," Maria confirmed. "His store caught on fire." Her voice dropped, a hint of anger creeping in. "He was always talking about not paying the Cardenas, not bowing his head to criminals that walk over people. I guess they took that personally."
Manuel nodded, barely hearing her words. The energy thrummed through him, growing stronger with each passing second. It was like being hooked up to a battery, power flooding his system. "...yeah," he managed, his mind racing.
Even after they moved Don Pedro away hours later, the sensation lingered. Manuel lay in his hospital bed that night, flexing his good hand, watching with wide-eyed wonder as wisps of barely-visible energy danced between his fingers.
By morning, he knew. This time, it wasn't going away.
A month passed in a blur.
Manuel practiced in secret, learning to manipulate the energy, to shape the power into gossamer-thin strings that could stick to things and make inanimate objects come to life, acting under his will. With each passing day, his confidence grew.
And so did his restlessness.
The decision to run away wasn't a hard one.
His mom was too lost in her bottles to notice, and Steve... well, the less said about Steve, the better. Manuel packed a bag, pocketed what cash he could find, and slipped out into the night, the thrill of freedom and power singing in his veins.
Now, a month later, Manuel stood in the middle of a high-end jewelry store, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His fingers twitched, barely-visible strings of energy connecting him to the two animated statues that served as his muscle. Outside, he could hear the chaos of his other creations keeping the cops and would-be heroes busy.
This is it, he thought, surveying the glittering display cases. No more scraping by. No more feeling powerless. His heart raced with a heady mixture of excitement and fear. Part of him still couldn't believe he was pulling this off.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his skull. Manuel winced, his connection to three of his animated statues abruptly severing. Shit, he thought, someone out there's putting up a fight. He turned to his remaining creations, schooling his features into a mask of confidence.
"Nice job, ladies," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I... uh, I think that's enough."
The two superhuman sculptures were bent over, their backs to Manuel as they shoveled diamonds and gems into backpacks. At his words, they paused, grinning back at him in perfect sync. "Thank you, Siphon!" they chimed back in unison.
She-Hulk straightened first, her jade-skinned form towering over Manuel at 6'7". Her tight sleeveless jumper hugged every curve, the blue and white fabric straining against her muscular frame. She shrugged the backpacks higher on her shoulders, the motion drawing Manuel's eyes to her chest. Damn, he thought, a smirk playing at his lips. Who needs X-ray vision when you've got costume designers like these?
Next to her, Warbird rose to her full height.
Though shorter than She-Hulk, she still cut an impressive figure in her black and gold bodysuit, a lightning bolt emblazoned across her chest. Manuel's gaze traveled appreciatively over her form. She wore tactical fingerless gloves and combat boots as well as a pair of flight goggles but he usually had her take those off so he could look at her pretty face. He'd never heard of her before – she was new to the "Ultimates Unite" lineup – but he was quickly becoming a fan.
They ain't real, Manuel reminded himself, but does it really matter? He'd discovered his power could bring almost anything to life – statues, toys, even puppets. Anything that looked like it could be alive was fair game. It was his other power, the one that let him copy abilities, that still confused him.
It only seemed to work on magic, which was just... weird.
He'd hung around other meta runaways on his way North, trying to copy their powers, but nothing. The few magical types he'd encountered barely seemed aware of their own abilities. After a few hours near them, though, their power became his. Almost unnoticeable telekinesis, shitty barely-there precognition – bottom-of-the-barrel stuff, really.
But power was power, and now it was all his.
"Let's head back to the hideout," Manuel said, adjusting his green sunglasses as he hefted his own backpack. The weight of the stolen goods sent a thrill through him. This is it, he thought. No more scraping by. No more feeling powerless.
Warbird scooped him up in her arms, the sensation both exhilarating and slightly emasculating. They were at the temporary base in no time, She-Hulk landing beside them with a ground-shaking thud.
Manuel could still feel the connection to two of his other sculptures, keeping the heroes busy across town. Just my luck, he thought, the day I pull a heist and a freakin' Justice Leaguer shows up. But he hadn't let that stop him. His creations packed a punch, as strong as they were in the comics and shows that inspired them.
I can make heroes as strong as a Leaguer, he grinned to himself, unlocking the door to the abandoned brownstone. The possibilities made his head spin. All I gotta do is find someone to build me hero statues. Someone like Hyperion or something. His grin widened as he almost let out a giggle at the thought of it. Suck it, Zatarra. Hell, suck it, Superman. I can make my own Kryptonian.
Manuel barely noticed the musty smell of the brownstone as he stepped inside, his mind racing with plans. He'd show them all – his mom, Steve, every person who'd ever looked down on him. He wasn't powerless anymore. He was–
A throat cleared, cutting through his thoughts like a knife. Manuel whirled around, heart hammering in his chest. The dim light of the living room revealed a figure he hadn't noticed before, lounging against a window like they owned the place.
"Wh-who are you?" Manuel blurted out, cursing the way his voice cracked. He couldn't help it, his entire body froze, energy like he'd never felt before buzzing in his veins as the figure stepped forward and—