BurningCold
Silent Showers
flux
op2024
souleaterfan320
SmileyForTheCam
Cyberlad
Eviledd1984
ChronicleMan
Hope Lover
Dante Cross
A Few Weeks Ago
Ironclad
Dante sat at the bar of the Rusty Nail. A dive bar on the bad end of Ironclad that had seen its fair share of lowlifes and hapless wanderers looking for somewhere to drown their sorrows in a place they could avoid too much attention. Dante wasn't sure which best described him, but he hoped it was the latter. He'd been sitting at the bar for three hours, or five years depending on how you looked at things, and was sticking to his usual routine - nursing a beer and feeling sorry for himself. He couldn't help but think that if Marcus could see him now he'd be disappointed. All that work making him into the second Halcyon and it lead him to the bottom of a grave and his protoge to the bottom of a bottle.
Dante swirled the amber liquid in his glass before swigging back another gulp. The Rusty Nail wasn't much to look at with its flickering neon lights, scratched tables, and a jukebox that only played half the songs before skipping. But it was quiet, and the people here minded their business. Most of the time, anyway.
The door creaked open, letting in the cold night air along with a group of three men. They were loud, already halfway to drunk, and wearing that particular swagger that came with a complete lack of self-awareness. Dante barely glanced at them, his eyes instead settling back on his bottle.
He could hear the bark of their laughter behind him, the clatter of chairs as they shoved a few patrons out of their seats. The bartender muttered something in protest, but a sharp, slurred command to "shut your mouth and pour" was enough to silence him.
Dante sighed, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Not my problem, he thought, leaning forward as if to make himself smaller. He'd learned the hard way that standing out rarely ended well. He wasn't scared for his own safety, but using his power just painted a target on his back. These guys weren't worth his time, he could piss down any gutter and soak five of these losers, they were a dime a dozen in Ironclad.
Dante could hear their laughter rise above the faint music from the jukebox. Eventually, the conversation turned toward him as the group sauntered over to the bar.
"Check out this guy!" one of them sneered, jerking a thumb toward Dante. "Sitting here all moody, what's the matter buddy girlfriend left you for some other poor bum with a 20 dollar jacket?"
Another laughed, tipping his beer toward Dante's back and spilling it on the floor next to his boots. "Bet he’s writing poetry in his head. 'Oh, woe is me, my beer's gone warm, my life's gone cold.'"
"Looks like he tried to fight a lawnmower and lost." the third said, gesturing at the scars running down Dante’s face. The others burst out laughing, their jeers growing louder.
Dante ignored them, taking a slow sip of his drink. He'd learned a long time ago that responding only gave them fuel. After Marcus' death he'd have relished the chance to push these clowns through the wall, but these days he just wanted to be left alone.
One of the men, emboldened by the lack of reaction, leaned in close. "Hey, buddy." he drawled. "What's with the silent treatment? You too good to hang out with the rest of us?”"
Dante's fingers tightened on his glass, but he didn't look up.
"Leave him alone." the bartender muttered, but his voice lacked any real force.
"Oh, come on!" the man said, turning to the bartender with an exaggerated shrug. "We're just trying to get the guy to smile. He's bringing the whole place down."
The other two joined him at the bar, snickering as they loomed on either side of Dante.
"Maybe he's one of those wannabe superheroes." one said, nudging the man next to him. "Probably with some loser power. Control over dairy products or something!"
The first one smirked, leaning in closer. "What's the matter? Someone break your heart? Or just your face?" The group let out another laugh, taking their drinks and moving over to a table in the corner of the room. Dante and the bartender caught eyes for a moment, he could see the relief on his face.
Then, a scuffle broke out behind him.
The woman at the next table stood abruptly, yanking her arm out of one of the men's grip. "Don't touch me!" she snapped, her voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
The man leaned back, smirking. "Oh, relax, sweetheart. We’re just trying to have some fun. You’re the one getting all uptight."
"Leave me alone!" she said, stepping back toward the bar.
"C'mon now." the leader said, taking a step toward her, his voice oozing false charm. "No need to be rude. You could at least say thank you when a guy's being friendly."
Dante closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.
When the woman shoved past him to put more distance between herself and the men, the leader's mask slipped. He grabbed her by the arm, his grip tight enough to make her wince. "Hey, I'm talking to you!"
"Let her go." Dante said, his voice calm but carrying an edge. He hadn't moved from his chair yet, only moving his eyes to track them from the corner of his vision.
The men froze, glancing at him before bursting into laughter.
"You serious?" the leader asked, squaring up to Dante. "You gonna play the hero tough guy? You didn’t learn the first time? What’re you gonna do, tough guy? Drink us to death?"
Dante pushed back his stool and stood, his towering frame forcing the man to crane his neck slightly to meet his eyes. He kept a palm pressed firmly on the top of the bar, he felt a bit unsteady from the drinking.
"Last chance." Dante said, his tone steady as he stared the man down. "Let her go, and you walk out of here."
The man sneered, his free hand darting into his jacket. The glint of metal caught Dante’s eye just as the pistol came up, pointed at his chest.
"You don’t scare me, hero." the man spat, squeezing the trigger.
The shot cracked like thunder, silencing the bar. Dante staggered back a step as the bullet struck his arm. He gritted his teeth, the gravity field instinctively dampening the impact, but the pain still lanced through him as the round embedded itself shallowly. Blood seeped through his sleeve, the wound a dark stain against the dim light of the bar. The clown had the audacity to shoot him, and worse yet he'd put a hole in his second favourite drinking arm.
The leader blinked, his confidence faltering as Dante straightened, flexing his fingers. The room felt heavier, the air pressing down on them with an almost imperceptible weight. Dante shook his bleeding arm, cracking his neck as he clasped his hand around the barrel of the small pistol and snapped it upwards.
What was that quote about letting sleeping dogs lie?
Present Day
Nova City
The mid-morning sun gleamed off the mirrored glass of Nova City's towering skyline, casting patches of light across the busy streets below. Dante walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched against the weight of the world. The fresh scar on his upper arm throbbed faintly, a grim souvenir from his last run-in at the Rusty Nail. He barely remembered how he'd gotten home that night, only that the lowlifes hadn't been walking by the end of it.
His steps carried him into the heart of downtown, where the hum of life was louder and more chaotic. Office workers rushed along the sidewalks, coffee in hand, while cars honked in the gridlocked lanes. A street musician strummed a melancholic tune on a guitar, its melody briefly catching Dante's attention. For a moment, he paused, his gaze distant, before the buzz of his phone jolted him back to reality.
Reaching into his pocket, Dante checked the cracked screen. It was a news notification: "BREAKING: Armed Robbery in Progress at Bank of Nova City – Hostages Reported."
He frowned. The location was only a few blocks away.
Dante swiped the notification away and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Not his problem. Nova City was crawling with heroes these days, flashy types with big names and bigger egos. Someone else could handle it. He was still on the fence about returning to the hero business. He'd drunkenly made a pact with himself after that night in Ironclad that he'd dig up Marcus' legacy and start doing some good again. Right, sure, and maybe next week he'll quit the booze.
But as he turned the corner, the distant wail of police sirens drew closer. People were clearing the streets, their hushed voices and hurried steps thick with anxiety. He passed a mother pulling her child along, fear etched across her face.
"Isn't anyone going to do something?" the woman muttered to no one in particular.
Dante clenched his jaw. He kept walking.
His path veered into an alley, where he leaned against the brick wall and stared at his reflection in the cracked window of a boarded-up shop. His scruffy hair, tired eyes, and the weight of disappointment etched in every line of his face stared back at him.
"You're better than this, kid." Marcus’s voice echoed in his head, unbidden. He could see the old man staring back at him in the murky reflection of the broken window.
Dante's fists tightened. He didn't need a lecture from a ghost. But as much as he wanted to shove the memory aside, it clung to him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out Marcus' old red bandana and staring at it for a second. With a low growl, he pushed off the wall and turned back toward the street.
The bank was just ahead now. A police barricade had been set up, officers crouching behind their cars, weapons drawn. Through the glass doors, Dante could see flashes of movement, vines creeping up and rooting hostages in place, gas seeping up from the floor, and what looked like rats scurrying about on the floor.
Dante stopped at the edge of the scene, keeping to the shadows as he assessed the situation. He felt the familiar pull in his chest, the gravitational power that simmered just beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. He didn't need to get involved. He could walk away, disappear into the chaos like he always did.
But then his gaze landed on one of the hostages, a boy no older than ten, clutching his mother’s arm with tear-filled eyes.
Dante exhaled sharply.
Enough.
Stepping out from the shadows, he strode toward the barricade, tying Marcus' bandana his head as the scars underneath his eyes began to glow that same shade of red. The officers tensed, their attention snapping to him. One of them raised a hand to stop him.
"Hey! You can’t go in there!"
Dante didn’t stop. "I'm not asking permission."
Before the officer could argue, Dante stepped past the barricade, the gravity in his steps already shifting as he climbed the steps to the bank doors.
That’s when the temperature dropped. A sharp pulse of cold air spread outward like a wave, sending shivers through the assembled onlookers. The light bent and darkened for a fraction of a second before a figure appeared in a burst of black, otherworldly energy.
"HeLLo! Don’t WorRy everybody! Glutton fights for YOU! For JUSTICE!"
The declaration cut through the tension, though it left the crowd more confused than reassured. Dante's sharp gaze locked onto the being, a hulking figure standing six feet tall, its unnatural grin and piercing red eyes more menacing than comforting. Dante instinctively felt his feet plant into the ground and his hands raise in a fighting stance. For a moment he thought he was involved in the robbery, but his gut told him otherwise. Whatever this thing was, its motivations had nothing to do with the money in that vault.
He let himself relax, standing straight as he hooked a thumb underneath his belt. The hero business sure had changed since he'd been gone if this guy was being called in to save hostages. He rubbed his chin.
"Justice, huh?" He let out a grin, glancing down at the crowd looking up at them. "We look more like the villains than the ones to dish out justice here, pal. The only thing stopping those cops down there from sending some hot lead our way is the fear that you'd just eat the bullets." He moved over to the door, trying the handle only to find it securely locked by vines that must have been as strong as a metal bar. "Tell you what, you look capable enough, hows about I get this door open and we get to work before the boyscouts in leotards get here?" He said grinning back to the row of teeth behind him. This wasn't exactly the team-up he'd envisioned to kickstart his return to heroism, but he couldn't help but feel it made more sense than working with some of the guys he'd seen on the news. If anything they had similar taste in jackets.
He concentrated his energy through his body, and the air immediately felt heavier around them as the gravity within him grew stronger, heavier. He raised his boot and with one mighty kick he burst open the doors and blew free the vines holding them in place. Taking a step inside the bank as he motioned for Glutton to follow him.
