Neville dragged himself out of bed and to the nearest window, just letting a little bit of light through the plastic blinds’ slats with his fingers.

Another day. Letting the blinds cut out the sun again, Neville quickly checked his calendar, crossing the current cell out with a red pencil.

Another day. He slid into his work attire; yellow plastic boots that showed their age through bumps and cuts but retained their neon-bright colour, a purpley-blue zip-up anorak made of latex, matching pants, a cumbersome but convenient utility belt that he had incremented with more and more stapled pouches.

Another day. Another attempt.

Neville Elire Schifozzo was once a GHH hero - or so he seemed to recall. His memories were so distant, so much so they might not have happened at all - or at least, not in the way he remembered them. Regardless of the past, though, these days, Neville was seen as a vigilante. ‘Vigilante’ was a term used by the press and government to designate people who fought - or claimed to fight - crime and abilitied crime, but were neither contracted nor endorsed by authorities, thus acting in plain illegality. A few resorted to vigilantism after failing the GHH’s job interview ; some found the GHH’s strict modus operandi too restrictive and contradictory ; others had an inherent bias against the GHH, either from their upbringing or because of some rumour, controversy or other.

Vigilantes had a poor reputation in pretty much every circle. To the government, they were entitled, incompetent and further hassle to deal with; to the underground, they were heroes that were harder to corrupt and deal with than actual GHH heroes. To civilians, they were dangerous and pretty much no different from villains; To super-fans, they were boring, usually lacking the spice of proper heroes and villains, given that they weren’t part of the refined chess game that was the villain-versus-hero scene. ‘Vigilantes’ as a term was an attempt to categorise anyone who even attempted to avoid being placed into the status quo categories - in other words, an attempt to spite people who dared go against expectations.

Neville, though, likely, because of his GHH days, didn’t suffer that same backlash. ‘Plumber’ wasn’t exactly the most glamorous of themes, nor was his costume the most appealing out there, but it was endearing enough to make him stand out. His machines were equally quirky, with their nonsensical pipes and gears and wheels and valves. They looked like something cartoon characters would make out of rubbish in their garage, and almost all of them did something different. The GHH wasn’t the only one making a list of them; there were entire fan-wikis wherein each and every one of Neville’s machines was listed and given silly nicknames. Forums would discuss and theorise about the details of his ability. Other forums hazarded guesses regarding his relations with the Enigma - that was the ‘official name given to that unknown portal-wielding pimp. Some went a bit far, making all sorts of oddball comparisons between him and Neville’s father or grand uncle, which the humble plumber would have found quite insensitive had he been aware of it. Luckily, he usually tried to stay away from attention - the flashy gear just happened to be the most appropriate outfit he owned for this kind of thing. He might not even have come up with the name ‘Spatial Plumber’ himself, but he couldn’t quite remember that either. He was too busy to make sense of all that mess. Even if some kid over the world wide web figured out his secret - and that was quite the ‘if’ - Neville didn’t feel it would matter to him in the long run. He’d just move on, like always.

January 25th, 12535. Just about two years after Alexander’s first public appearance. In just three attacks, the mysterious silver-clad clown had entwined the entire press and public around their finger, keeping the entire capital holding in their breath, wondering when, where, why, how the terrorist would strike next - Alexander had put such excellent effort into wiping away their tracks that no hint or pattern could be pinned down by the authorities ; despite the dozens of theories online, no one could claim for sure to know when the silver danger would show up next.

Neville had to be fast. Alexander was headed for District 6’s hospital complex ; this offered a rare occasion for him to stop them - but if he wanted to take that chance, he couldn’t afford to let the GHH catch on and catch up. The plumber needed to set up all of his traps - miniature cameras, tripwire, nets, oil puddles, smoke machines - before that. Filling a hospital with Neville’s M.O. gadgets would inevitably cause accidents - but those sorts of concerns were for the GHH to worry about. Neville, and most vigilantes per extension, focused exclusively on catching their target, disregarding all collateral damage.

If they were treated with more respect by the press, and had the sort of theatrical presentation villains and heroes were known for, vigilantes would likely be even more popular than most heroes based on this go-getter attitude alone. The GHH imposed strict protocols on its employees to ensure that no matter the emergency, they had the perfect plan to evacuate, protect and treat civilians caught in attacks before anything else. Teleported ambulances, dimensional shortcuts, group invisibility, heroes with optimal abilities in regards to evacuation were immediately informed of the latest incidents. The GHH did live up to its primary purpose ; protecting the people. It had saved in extremis hundreds of civilians in unsolvable situations and managed to undo every human trafficking ring the underground had tried setting up so far - though even there, the GHH wasn’t above controversy : after all, the Magnolia case had undeniably trumped them for decades. While in pragmatic and humanitarian eyes, the GHH’s dedication to this philosophy was its most respectable trait. But in the eyes of the heroism’s target audience, it lacked the appeal and romance of a thrilling chase punctuated by bloodshed and explosions - an appeal that old-school villains, Neville-like vigilantes and dissident heroes embodied.

Ironically, the GHH’s thoroughness had ensured that those three demographics would never reach the level of their predecessors : first-generation villains, who benefited from the GHH’s non-existence, the novelty of abilities and a decade of civil unrest. It was as though even the most insignificant of abilitied criminals would rack up an insane body count without trying - just as a side effect of using their ability in a world that barely understood them. The First District trio embodied this trend. Bleeding Heart alone, fondly as many remembered her, thrived on the brutal murder of policemen for the protection of the abilitied minority - 234 over her entire career as a magical girl, and an unclear number of additional deaths over the course of her dictatorship. Iron Will, Bleeding Heart’s right hand and consultant, had once frozen an entire building - its inhabitants included : the Ice Palace incident alone accounted for 59 casualties. Open Hand, the District’s ‘kindly prophet’ and emotional leader, nonetheless had spread her benevolent message through rising corpses from the dead - deaths she oft had a part in.

Even with these deaths in mind, history gave the trio the legacy of heroes ; the very first villains that were still remembered as such had an even bloodier record. Medea and Hyacinth's prison breakout and daredevil year-long road trip around the country had left dozens of hotels in shambles, the duo making a habit of massacring all possible witnesses as they drove back and forth ; after their return to the capital, the two founded MSW, which would grow exponentially and was indirectly responsible for the majority of hero and villain deaths from that point on.

Incalculable.

Such bloodshed was unheard of these days - Alexander aside - largely thanks to the GHH’s intensive ability research giving them a better understanding of and ability to predict them accurately - and of course, its large and diverse roster of heroes. The most common casualties were, ironically, the GHH’s employees’ own lives. A hero memorial served as the governmental parliament’s backyard - stone slabs upon stone slabs of engraved names, aliases and years. A place for grief and honour, that served as a grim reminder that the capital’s favourite form of entertainment involved real lives and deaths - pushed around like pawns by a flawed system. Even this place was stained by the ranking system. As of 12500, A through C heroes would only be marked if they died while on the field or at the hands of a villain, while all Ss were written down, even if they’d long retired or quit. Rebellious graffiti completed the picture - a grey and morose picture, a series of identical blocks of stone, grotesquely decorated by splashes of colours - both flowers from the grieving, and spraypaint from the disrespectful. Looking at the square as a whole, they blended together. The memorial served as an eerie diorama of the capital within which it stood.

Alexander wasn’t going to be caught so easily. Neville knew that much. He had to do it. He had to be fast. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. He needed to get to Snowdrop Hospital, and-

The plumber stopped in his tracks - he’d been spatially transporting himself from place to place, stopping on some defunct balcony. An unusual gathering caught his eye.

Police and GHH vehicles, deployed all around the Lighthouse, an office building, famous for the atypical architecture that had earned it its nickname, and for housing the HQs of three of the country’s most prevalent newspaper companies, among other less notable businesses. From floors 2 to 7, the government’s own news network, known simply as the 24”7, reporting mainly political, humanitarian and hero-related news, as well as search warrants. It had a bad reputation, though it usually relayed information accurately. Floors 9 to 16 housed the Grey Menteur, an extremely controversial tabloid newspaper that most accused of ‘pulling 90% of their articles out of their ass’ with good reason, but who had gotten enough lucky scoops and educated guesses turn out true to amass a large reader base and influence. They mostly reported hero, vigilante and villain related rumours and accusations, and employed nothing but espers of various calibre. Lastly, on floors 17 to 27 resided the single largest, independent news company in the country - the Dragon’s Breath. It had a nigh spotless track record regarding accuracy and professionalism, and even their detractors had to admit they were entirely innocent of yellow journalism, which couldn’t be said of many other newspapers. It was doubtlessly politically biased against the government, however. It was also the company Neville’s father worked in.

His father was in that building, surrounded by police and GHH vehicles and staff. Which meant there must’ve been an intrusion. A villain intrusion. Granted, if a villain was going to have an issue with any of the newspapers whose head offices laid there, it was most likely the Grey Menteur rather than the one his father worked in, but... He couldn’t take that chance. Hopefully, he could still get to the hospital on time, but if it came down to it, Neville would choose to ensure the safety of his father over catching Alexander.

Lesion glanced down through the Lighthouse’s lightly stained windows from up on Floor 9 ; the police were already there, making their way in. Good! With their exit secured and their target locked down, they wouldn’t be long ; they’d be gone so quickly, they worried the police wouldn’t even have noticed.

The redhead casually slid along the floor like an ice skater towards the elevator they’d just come out of, firing their pistol towards the ceiling in a second warning shot to keep their hostages in check. Thankfully - if a little disappointingly - the kinds of people that worked for the Grey Menteur weren’t exactly the courageous sort. The mere sight of Lesion’s trademark attire was enough to scare the lot of them into sitting still - a lavender corset around their waist with nothing underneath, matching dark indigo suit vest and pants that were just a little too large for their teenage figure, the former opening in a large V, letting most of their chest show through, a stand-alone shirt collar made of some thick, black fabric, knee-high leather boots, and a cutesy red string ribbon around their neck that matched the vivid red of their hair - a trait that Lesion shared with the late Acid - otherwise known as Sheryl Nozhnitsy.

A few years after Nozhnitsy T&I’s foundation - once the company was well established, leaving her with a little bit of extra free time - Sheryl had sought to find an heir, to ensure her life’s work would continue on posthumously. She considered simply leaving the Nozhnitsy group to her former gang and family - they were all loyal to her, quite competent and had lived in the underground for the large majority of their life. But in a way, they were the very reason she wanted a protégé of her own - though she’d endeavoured her whole life long to vent out her spite and misanthropy, she wanted a least one person that she could show the care and love she received in her youth to. That someone was Alistair Nozhnitsy - her child. No one knew if the two were blood relatives, but Sheryl had raised them since they were so young, and the two looked somewhat alike, so most assumed so - even if Sheryl had never shown the slightest interest in romance or intercourse, and had never been visibly pregnant as far as her closest acquaintances could tell.

In 12524, Sheryl passed away. She died quite young, much younger than most expected her to. Whether her infantile experience with AR had anything to do with it was unclear. She left behind a six-year-old kid, a growing crime empire, and a world that didn’t remember her existence, but would forever bear the mark of her accomplishments. Her death, like much of her life, had gone as planned. She’d dedicated herself body and soul to the Nozhnitsy Group, willingly living in its shadow, with no desire to take any credit for it beyond the grave. She’d had to step up in person enough times for the GHH to identify her and give her a villain alias, Acid, but they couldn’t even pin down her M.O. She operated in the background, never leaving a trace of her presence.

Alistair hated this. It was unfair. Sheryl had achieved so much, only to turn up a forgotten corpse amongst thousands of average Joes. Though they were determined to keep Nozhnitsy running in memory of their mother, they were horrified to think they might one day share her fate : hence, they applied the same dedication she had put into achieving anonymous revenge into making a name for themselves. Nozhnitsy was stable and running these days, so they had more time on their hand - that, and they mostly left the business side of things to Sheryl’s family, since they’d inherited the company so young that there hadn’t been much of an alternative. This left them able to do more or less whatever they wanted, as long as they vaguely kept Nozhnitsy’s interests in mind - a secondary priority to their main goal : to be remembered. To mark history as Alistair Nozhnitsy - as Lesion - as a villain - as a person.

The elevator rang as it arrived on Floor 12. Lesion had their two lackeys go on ahead of them, shoot a few warning shots, then slid out of the elevator and onto the scene, cocking their head mischievously at the cameras. They didn’t wear any sort of mask ; They’d always lived under a fake name, or rather, had no legal documents to speak of. Administratively, Alistair Nozhnitsy was a ghost. Even if they were recognised, so long as they weren’t tied back to Nozhnitsy, it wouldn’t compromise their affairs - which meant that they were free to show off as they pleased.

Their long, red hair flew behind them like a cape as they hopped over to some random desk, advancing confidently as though they knew their way around the place. This floor was an open space; they leaned their arm onto one of the partitions, starring down to the employee sitting at the desk. Lesion smiled their usual gleeful, shut-eyes smile, stretching across their smooth porcelain cheeks. Nonchalantly, they pulled out a scrap of newspaper from their pocket, twirling it quickly to unfold it. Barely moving their face and keeping their eyes shut all throughout, they pointed to the author of the article they’d cut out from the most recent edition of the Grey Menteur tabloid. They’d learnt from Floor 9 that he worked on the 12th, but hadn’t gathered further details. ‘Lead me to this person, will you?’ The skinny, ginger intern sat before Alistair was shaking for his life, to such an extent their stool looked like it was about to give out. He reached for a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling down some directions, then handed them over to Alistair, who quickly scaled over one of their henchmen to take it and localise the office in question. Lesion then cracked their knuckles, took a step back, and opened their golden-green eyes wide.

Turning their head around the partition, clawing onto it with their slender hands, they cocked their head horizontally, starring at the intern with childlike excitement. They pulled his office chair with a swift kick : it rolled away from the desk and into the open. The poor fool couldn’t do anything. It was too late : Lesion hadn’t been able to show off on the previous floor, and they weren’t leaving this one with the same frustration.

The intern’s shrill screams filled the rooms. His ankles suddenly twisted unnaturally on each side, as if pulled open by invisible hands. He pushed against the seat, trying to drag himself off the chair despite his wrenched feet, only for his elbows to crack and fold inside out, his spine giving out as he folded forward onto himself like a mousetrap, his chin hitting the chair seat then the floor as he slid along the floor like a wet rag, leaving a trail of blood from his open chin. His neck had turned fully around twice, audibly cracking as it did. His body creaked for a few elongated seconds as it slowly came to a stop. Eyes wide open, mouth hanging, dead cold - their skeleton shattered from the inside by Lesion’s ability.

The henchman who’d been given the directions waved in Alistair’s direction; the young chief gleefully glided over to a door in the corner of the open space, which led into a thin hallway, connecting small individual offices. Each door had a metal nameplate, including a job description. Leaving yet another one of their bodyguards behind, Lesion and their last companion stepped into the office of the reporter they were looking for.

Neville easily snuck into the building, using his ability to ‘teleport’ around until he reached the 9th floor : the first of the ones the Grey Menteur occupied, and the first one being kept hostage. He easily removed the henchmen keeping guard with gadgets of his - small ones even by his standards, since he didn’t have the freedom of installing larger ones ahead of time - which emitted sleeping gas from many tiny pipes. As he kneeled to ask one of the hostages who was behind this and where they’d gone, he heard a swarm of footsteps echoing from the stairs. No time, he couldn’t let the GHH see him. He rushed off to search every floor manually, trying his best not to waste time, all while picking up pieces of the computers and desks, mouses and keyboards, wires and whatever else, anything that came loose just from the pressure of his space-bending. He only carried a few scrap tools and micro-machines, so he needed the extra materials to set up tripwires and other practical traps. He had no other offence - none that he fancied using, anyway. He figured that, one day, he’d have to resort to brandishing his screwdriver and hammer in a last resort, but for now, he prefered to keep them to their intended use.

Rushing through the floors all while barely moving at all, letting air stretch and extend for him, Neville thought, in an attempt to figure out the details of this attack. 12535, January 25th - an intrusion in the Lighthouse, seemingly in the Grey Menteur’s offices. Who, and why - perhaps an article published recently had upset some underground eel. He ran a mental press review. Updates on Alexander’s mystery, political gossip regarding presidential candidates, and - gossip regarding Nozhnitsy Technologies and Innovations’ potential involvement in the criminal world. Neville almost stopped.

Lesion.

Neville looked around the room. It felt like hadn’t read the Menteur in years - but he knew who wrote that article. Joachim Cortez, who worked on Floor 12 - and had Lesion coming for his throat. And once they were done with the reporter, it was unlikely they’d stop there. Neville knew Lesion had a habit of wanting to one-up Alexander. Neville knew Alexander would show up today. Neville knew Alexander would blow up and hospital today. And Lesion would soon know too.

Neville hurried to the elevator and reduced the space between the elevator and Floor 12 with his ability, reaching it near instantly.

“Uh?” Joachim raised an eyebrow. Oh geez, an intrusion. And he’d been having such a nice nap, too. He blinked, slowly. Was that Lesion? He gulped, feeling his drowsiness leak out and soak his pants as he felt fear replace it. He didn’t want to die with his skeleton melted : he instinctively raised his hands. The murderous redhead eyed the odd reporter with a slight scowl. Coward. Instructing their henchman to keep him at gunpoint, they once again pulled out the newspaper scrap, slowly walked up to the desk, slamming a hand down and waving the newspaper cut-out below Joachim's nose, looking down at him. "You wrote this, did you?

- Y-Yes, I did.” In big, bold letters, the article’s title stretched across the glossy scrap - ‘Nozhnitsy Trumpery & Insincerity : Controversy UNVEILED’. Just his usual kind of article. Some big, pretentious claims about this or that relevant company based on fraudulent research. He hadn’t been hired to actually investigate or report - he had been hired because his ability allowed him to skip all that time-expensive riff-raff and get to the juicy redaction. Joachim had ‘visions’ : random, spontaneous images and revelations that taught him all sorts of things. Sometimes, he managed to weave marketable stories from those hazardous images, which had landed him a job in the haven of yellow journalism that was the Grey Menteur. Although, there had been one thing he’d lied - no, not lied, but kept… conveniently quiet about : his ability’s consistency. Whether his visions were accurate or false was kind of up in the air, and he himself couldn’t quite tell. It was reliable enough to pass off as infallible - since it gave him intel on things no one else could even know enough about to disprove - but deep down, he knew he was usually spouting lies. Ah well. This was the best job he could get. What else was a failed esper going to do? It at least offered him some amount of stability and safety… er, well, not right now, clearly. Joachim sighed internally. Of any of his dozens of articles to turn out true, it had to be this one. Of course it did. Ah geez… Lesion was a damn creep. Still, despite the imminent danger of death, Joachim derived some sense of pride from his throwaway ‘cryptic dream’ ability accurately revealing the largest tech company out there for the crime syndicate cover-up it was. A shame it would be shrugged off as made-up given its publisher - granted, he hadn’t exactly done any actually investigating, and a more trustworthy paper likely wouldn’t hire him, and even if it did, he enjoyed being able to slack off, watching chess tournaments on his office computer while waiting for inspiration to strike him - but still, he felt he deserved at least some-

“Hey. I asked you a question. Who’s your source?” He blinked out of his reverie to find himself still held at gunpoint, still faced with the red-haired devil, whose face and tone now showed clear annoyance. He stayed dumbfounded for a moment, unsure how to respond, then opted to just say the truth, because he couldn’t make up a convincing lie under pressure. “I don’t have a… source. I have ‘visions’, I guess. They’re like. Dreams. I see scenes unfolding, like a hazy movie. Sometimes they’re interesting enough that I can piece them together and make up the rest. That’s how I do my, uh, job.” Even as he spoke, all of his hopes of living long enough to change out of his pants resting on the gamble that his deep and captivating voice - others’ words, not his - would give his true but unlikely story some credibility.

Lesion didn’t buy it. Likely, they’d heard such an excuse a billion times. But they weren’t going to bend and snap this twink’s spine thirty-seven fold until he’d spat out his snitch’s identity. And if he was stubborn enough that Alistair got bored, that would be their excuse to look through his phone and kill anyone they suspected of being said snitch. The underground district was getting stale these days anyway, a clean-up was well overdue. Alistair went to open their mouth again - stopping as they heard an unexpected noise. They hesitated. “Knock him out and snatch him. I want him in my office by half past 8.” And then they headed back into the hallway.

Neville reached Floor 12 and secured it remarkably fast ; a quick smoke pellet propelled by his space manipulation served to distract Lesion’s guard while he snuck behind them and broke a computer monitor over their face, knocking them out... if not worse. Neville then hurried into the hallway, leaving the hostages behind to figure their way out. He needed to get Lesion out of the building, before -

There they were. He’d been too loud and alerted them. Making himself as discreet as possible, Neville used his ability to position a very simple trap: a tripwire made from cables he picked up along the way. Anything more advanced would have been pointless against Lesion. While the general public and the GHH believed their ability was limited to reducing skeleton to shapeless mush - which was terrifying enough, but the reality was even more chilling. Alistair’s power extended to any and all types of internal structure. If it was inside of something else, and its integral support, Alistair could destroy it any which way they pleased - melting it, exploding it, stretching it, whatever gorey fantasy they fancied that day. In other words, any complex machines, be they animals or gadgets, could be brought to their knees by Alistair. Neville usually avoided Lesion for that very reason. Unfortunately, he hadn’t that sort of luxury today.

“Who the hell are you?” Lesion stared, dumbfounded, at the plump, middle-aged man in latex standing before them. Before they could start to figure it out, the clown had vanished in a puff of smoke. No matter, he couldn’t run far now. Alistair’s remaining subordinates had already left the building, so all that was left was themselves and the unconscious goon on the floor his forehead bleeding from glass cuts, which they opted to leave behind - no time to waste. He was just a blackmailed mercenary anyway, no one loyal or worthwhile. Wrecking the elevator’s mechanism with their ability, and hearing it crash 12 floors below, Alistair climbed down the shaft, using the cables as a ropeway which they gripped with their gloveless hands, paying no mind to the rope burn. Once they reached the cabin, they bashed through the trapdoor with a swift kick, exiting the elevator on the ground floor. As they snuck out of the building, which many people had evacuated out of by now thanks to the GHH’s intervention, they took in a deep breath. Now the fun part began.

The Lighthouse was an immense skyscraper, kept standing by its foundations - and steel-reinforced concrete. Focusing intensely, Alistair pictured themselves crushing its metal structure, each individual pole like twigs, and gradually, from the bottom upward, the building began to shake as its inside structure collapsed inward, broken by sheer psychic force and brought to the tipping point, stable as a castle of cards in an earthquake. The tower fell apart in a grandiose display of Lesion’s ambition : panels of glass tumbling like dominos as they fell out of their frame and dived straight for the ground, mirrors to the setting sun which reflected all around, while the innards of the building slid out from the open gaps as each floor fell onto and into its predecessor like matryoshka dolls. The collapse took a few minutes - much longer than Alistair usually had to keep concentrating for. As they dragged themselves away from the rubble, they were panting, barely keeping themselves from breaking down out of fatigue - but though many spotted them leave, they relied on the mayhem and the smoke to distract anyone from pursuing them, keeping a hand to their mouth to avoid breathing in debris. Their henchmen held their shoulders up, help they were too exhausted to refuse.

The single-handed destruction of one of the capital’s most iconic buildings, and the dozens of casualties ensued. This was Lesion’s proudest work yet. Hah! Did Alexander have anything that prestigious under their belt? Of course not. This would ensure their victory over the silver-haired snob, surely. The thought of their guaranteed success in their race to glory comforted the teenaged redhead as they pathetically dragged themselves back to the underground district.

Neville felt just as pathetic. Well, that was that… the hospital incident was no good either.

Another day. Another attempt.