Chapter 1: Exposition and Stuff
Hello there. You must be new to Fillydelphia!
I’m the Spectacular Steel Renegade, protector of this city. Have you read that new article in the Canterlot Times about the “Fillydelphia Renaissance”? Most of that was brought around by yours truly. I’m not really bragging, just paraphrasing the article.
At any rate, despite the forty-fold decrease in violent crime in the past few weeks, I’d still advise caution. The streets are still super dangerous after dark because, let’s face it, I can’t be everywhere at once and the cops are still not particularly helpful.
What’s that? You want to know how I got my start in the superhero business? I’m sorry, but I- You’re offering to buy drinks? Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?
Now I’ll only tell you this stuff if you promise to never try and take up hero-ing yourself, okay? It’s not a career for just anypony. Take it from a stallion who knows.
Now, where to begin?
Well, I guess the very beginning is a pretty logical place.
It all started in a bar on the corner of Dill and 23rd (which, by the way, I highly recommend. Their cauliflower bites are the BOMB)...
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(Several Weeks Ago)
“I think you’ve had enough, buddy.”
The bat pony sitting at the counter looked up blearily, the soft grey fur around his mouth matted and his breath smelling strongly of cider already.
“Look here ‘buddy’,” he said thickly, “I just learned that on top of losing my job and my house, I’m gonna lose my life next. I think that justifies a few more hard ciders.”
“I’m sorry,” the bartender said, his tone suddenly full of concern, “Is there anything I can do?”
The bat chuckled grimly and slammed his hoof down on the counter. When he lifted it again, a single bullet was sitting there.
“Put that right here,” he said, tapping his forehead, “and if that doesn’t work, make something up.”
“Cancer?”
The bat snorted with mirthless laughter, peering into his mug to check for any last dregs of alcohol. He was already visibly more sober, and his eyes were clearing up more and more by the second.
“I wish. No, for me it’s a super-rare condition called ‘Runway Mitosis’. It’s a fancy way of saying ‘your cells are having a population explosion and it’s gonna kill you’.”
”I’m very sorry,” the barkeep said again, “but I cannot legally serve you any more. Despite the fact that, erm… You appear to be sober again...”
The bat shrugged wearily and shoved a bag of Bits across the table for the bartender. “Another side effect of RM. I metabolize everything at super speed to fuel the constant cellular activity. Thanks for getting me this far. Keep the change.”
The bartender waved as the bat left his bar. “Good luck pal!”
“I’ll need more than luck,” the bat called back, pulling on his jacket, “I’ll need a friggin’ miracle!”
“You never know!”
The bat chuckled as he left, shivering slightly in the frigid wind.
(Yep. I needed a- What’s that? Why is this section in parenthesis? Well this is my little fourth wall-breaking narration/voice-over piece and it seemed like the best way to go about it. Anywho… I needed a friggin’ miracle to save me.)
The bat shuffled through the streets of Phillydelphia, hood pulled up, when a hoof was thrust roughly in his path.
He looked around and saw several hoodlum types leaning against a shop front. He sighed, knowing what was coming, and resigned himself to a beat-down.
“Gimme yer Bits,” the leader said roughly, “an’ dem pills we seen youse poppin’ all the time.”
“Those pills are my prescription chemo tabs. They’ll kill you. As for my Bits…” he shrugged, “Go to Tartarus. What’s mine’s mine. Unlike you lot, I actually made something of my life and earned these through hard work and an honest-to-Faust job.”
The thug’s nostrils flared in anger and he took a swing at him.
The bat moved with lightning speed that seemed out of place for such a seemingly despondent pony, and caught the thug’s poorly-weighted strike. Before the poor sap had any idea what was going on, he twisted his foreleg savagely, breaking it.
The thug’s scream of agony set the rest of the gang in motion. Most of them ran but two, either the bravest or the dumbest, took a run at him.
The bat socked the first thug in the face so hard that he was effectively clotheslined, then whirled around to face the second, drawing two silver-plated handguns from the depths of his jacket and aiming them at the thug.
“Buddy,” He said wearily, “Please don’t make me pull these triggers. I’m having a bad day as is.”
The gangbanger glanced down at his incapacitated gang mates, then at the two guns being aimed at him, then ran for his life.
The bat holstered his empty guns and continued on his way, leaving his attackers broken in the street, sighing and shaking his head. The gang activity was getting out of hand around this town. Not that the mayor cared…
He tried to swallow his bitterness at the dismal state of his beloved city, but only partially succeeded. It disgusted him how much the city that he had been born and raised in had deteriorated since his childhood.
He kept walking until he reached a wagon in an abandoned lot beside an industrial garbage incinerator and went in. His home was cramped and musty-smelling, but it was windproof and the incinerator next door kept things toasty.
He hung his jacket on a peg by the door and pulled out a small bottle of chemo tabs from one of the pockets.
Swallowing two of the bitter pills, he grabbed a water-filled canteen from the shelf above the privy. Every day he came back to this little wagon and waited for his chemo tabs to run out and kill him. It wasn’t the most pleasant of existences, but it was what he could afford and besides, if he was gonna die, might as well not get too comfy.
Snorting, he rooted around in the cabinets and found an old MRE from a military surplus store. He stared at it for a good long while before finally deciding that he wasn’t quite that desperate yet and set it back down, closing the cabinet.
He etched a tally mark on a battered wooden cabinet door with a knife and sat on the sofa that doubled as his bed.
The sofa made a funny clinking noise as he sat, and he was immediately on his hooves. He grabbed the knife and lifted the sofa cushion.
Under the piece of furniture was a small puddle of liquid that looked like quicksilver. He frowned. To his certain knowledge, he had never had mercury in this wagon.
Out of curiosity, he poked the metallic liquid with his hoof.
(Yeah… not the smartest move, but I was already dying. YOLO, and all that jazz.)
Instantly the liquid raced up his foreleg. He staggered back with a yell, slashing at his arm with the knife. The knife blade sparked and shattered on impact. Then the liquid began to sink under his skin. He screamed. It felt as though his entire foreleg was on fire.
Then the sensation began to spread.
He stepped back, still screaming, and tripped.
His head hit a chair on the way down and at once, everything went black.
Chapter 2: Birth of a Hero (Yeah Right)
The bat opened his eyes slowly, rubbing his head with a groan, and sat up.
He frowned as he realized that he was sitting on the sofa. He could have sworn that he had fallen on the ground last night.
Hello.
The bat leapt up, grabbing a knife from the knife block resting by his sink. That voice had not been his own, and that could mean only one thing…
“Where are you?” He growled, baring his fangs and scanning the wagon and the lot it sat on with his luminous gold eyes.
There is no intruder, Thunderhead, the voice said, Nopony as robbed you or even approached your residence all night.
“How do you know my name?” Thunderhead demanded, “Where are you?”
I know your name because you do, Thunderhead, the voice said again, I am a part of you now.
“Give it to me straight,” Thunderhead snarled, “I hate riddles.”
I am Brawl, the voice said, I am an Infernal parasite, the second such entity to come to this world. I am essentially living liquid metal that feeds on life forces. I bonded to you last night.
“Wait,” Thunderhead said, “You’re telling me that this new little voice in my head is the quicksilver stuff from last night, and you’re it? Or am I just going insane because my brain is growing new neurons and short-circuiting?”
That is correct. The former conclusion, that is. You have not gone insane.
Thunderhead staggered and sat down hard on the sofa.
“I need a friggin’ drink…”
His arm suddenly flew out of its own accord and a thin stream of liquid metal shot from his hoof.
It formed into a cable and wrapped around one of his canteens and retracted into his arm, yanking it into his grip.
He raised an eyebrow as he uncorked the canteen and took a drink.
“Neat trick. But if you’re really a parasite, you might want to find yourself a new host. This one won’t last too much longer.”
Perhaps ‘symbiote’ would be a more apt term, Brawl said, Don’t you feel it, Thunderhead? You’re not dying anymore.
Now that Brawl mentioned it, Thunderhead realized that the burning pain followed him everywhere because of his condition was gone. His head was clearer than it had been in years and he felt.... Strange… Like some of the vitality and strength he had possessed when he was 20 had returned.
We make each other better and keep each other alive. You provide me with the small stream of constant life energy I need to maintain my form in this world, I enhance your physical abilities and keep your condition at bay.
Thunderhead looked down at himself.
“Where are you? I know you’re somewhere on my body but-”
Not on, Brawl corrected, In. I am currently resting in a dormant layer over your bones.
Thunderhead tapped his forehead, and sure enough it made a clinking noise.
“Okay, that’s cool,” he admitted “But it was like you controlled my body earlier. What’s with that?”
If I try hard enough, I can take control of your body to perform simple actions. But it’s incredibly draining and I can’t do it often.
“Thank the Almighty Faust for that…”
He sighed and looked around his little wagon.
“Brawl, don’t get me wrong, I’m honored that you think I deserve a second chance and all, but why would you ever choose to bond to me? I’m a total failure. I’m 47 years old, borderline homeless, unemployed, and living in the worst city in Equestria. I used up all my potential years ago.”
Because you are not a failure. Not even close, Brawl said, and Thunderhead looked up in confusion, Six tours of duty in the Lunar Guard as a Marine. Received the Silver Star with valor twice, a Distinguished Service Cross, and eight Bronze Stars. Only discharged after injuries sustained from rushing into a radioactive mine to save twenty comrades and causing a basal-cell cancer to mutate into Runaway Mitosis as a result. The better question is: why not.
Thunderhead was taken aback. Almost nopony knew about his service in the Lunar Guard, and even fewer knew about his achievements during his service. Slowly, he opened the cabinet with the tally marks on it, revealing a shoebox full of medals and ribbons.
Of all the ponies in Equestria, you deserve this second chance the most.
Thunderhead sighed. “Well now that I’ve got it, what do I do with this second chance?”
Whatever you wish. Though preferably something that benefits others.
Thunderhead though for a moment.
“Well first I want a drink and some breakfast.”
He grabbed his jacket before heading out.
“So Brawl-” he began, but Brawl interrupted.
Try not to talk to me in public. Ponies will think you’re crazy. At any rate, I know what you’re thinking. You can indeed utilize me to form a wide selection of items from metal.
Thunderhead didn’t reply, but his eyes sparkled as he thought of the possibilities.
Except money.
Before he could protest, a horribly familiar smell reached his nostrils. Smoke, with the unmistakable stink of gasoline.
He looked around and spotted a plume of thick black smoke rising from a spot several blocks away.
He galloped off, and nearly fell. He was much faster than he had ever been before, his muscles moving with a strength and precision that he had never enjoyed before.
Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth (ba-dum tss), he raced on.
A little more than a minute later he skidded to a halt in front of the building, barely winded.
His stomach dropped as he realized that the building was a small clinic. The stench of burning was everywhere, and right as he took a step towards it, the roof collapsed with a roar, sending sparks skyward. The flames leapt even higher as the absence of a roof allowed more oxygen to reach the heart of the fire and fan them to even greater intensity.
There was nopony in there, Brawl said quietly The last time there was a benign life force in there was yesterday.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Thunderhead said, staring at the ruined building, “The thing that matters is that this here’s one less place for ponies in need to get medical care.”
His eyes found a lighter in the gutter and he stomped on it, crushing the little pink plastic object.
“Gangs have been targeting little clinics like this for several months now. They raid them for the painkillers and then torch them. And the worst part is that all the city officials are either too busy lining their own pockets or dead from the neck up to care!”
He stared at the crushed lighter in the gutter and something hot and dangerous began to boil in his stomach.
“I know what I’m going to do with my second chance,” he growled, “I’m gonna clean this city up!”
He looked around, anger still rising in him.
“This city is my home, and the gangs have ruined it. Well I’m not gonna stand for it! You say I’ve got powers now, right?”
That’s correct.
“Well I’m gonna do something about it with them. I’m gonna become a superhero!”
There was a pause, then Brawl said, You know what… that isn’t a half-bad idea… I must admit that Fillydelphia is a bit of a mess. But it will be a massive undertaking. Are you sure you’re up to it?
“Heck yeah! And I know where to start!”
“Nice doin’ business wit’ ya.”
Thunderhead grinned as he lugged his new “lightly used” wagon out of the discount lot. “You too pal!”
He trotted through the streets, whistling and ignoring the strange looks that he was getting from dragging an occupation-rated wagon along like it was nothing. However, almost everypony seemed to attribute it to bat ponies’ greater strength.
I must admit… When you said you knew where to start I wasn’t expecting this. What purpose does this serve?
“That old cart was just a place to stay until I died,” Thunderhead muttered under his breath, “I’ve only been there for a few weeks and it was already getting unbearable. Now that I’m gonna live I need to upgrade to more livable conditions.”
He pulled into the lot that he had bought, where his old cart still sat, and carefully backed the wagon up to the cart. When the two bumped he grabbed the boards and toolbox strapped to its side and set about fastening the two together.
“That should do it,” he muttered to himself, then began searching behind the old cart, “Now where’d it go? I installed the stinkin’ thing, so how… Aha!”
He brushed aside some leaves and loose garbage, revealing a heavy cast-iron manhole cover.
I’m afraid I’m still not understanding, confessed Brawl, Why are you fooling around with the sewers?
“Before my condition got out of control and I resigned, I was a sanitation worker for the city. I was actually slated to oversee the installation of a new treatment plant in this lot, but the location was changed last second. Now there’s just a huge underground tank that’s never been used and connects to the whole city’s plumbing.”
Thunderhead could almost picture Brawl’s eyes widening with the realization.
So if you set up shop down there, you’ll have access to the entire city through an invisible superhighway. Brawl’s telepathic voice sounded impressed. Ingenious.
Thunderhead grinned a little.
“I also own the lot now. The city put it up for sale after the location moved, and I was the only one who wanted a place that was gonna be a sewage plant next to an incinerator.”
He cocked his head at the cover.
“Hmmph. I need a crowbar to get this up…”
He made to turn and retrieve the toolbox, but Brawl interrupted him.
Picture a crowbar in your mind and hold out your dominant hoof.
Thunderhead raised an eyebrow, but complied.
No sooner had he pictured the crowbar than liquid metal flowed from the limb and solidified into the tool.
Thunderhead’s eyebrow climbed a little higher.
“Now that’s what I call a useful ability!”
He pried up the cover, and Brawl piped up again.
Now picture it turning back to liquid and flowing back into your arm.
As soon as he did so, the crowbar returned to fluid form and retreated into his arm.
With a smile on his face, Thunderhead pulled the double caravan setup back so that the smaller, older wagon was resting over the new hole. He then clambered back into the smaller wagon and pulled a lever. There was a loud thunk as three panels, one on each free side of the wagon, dropped down, hiding the cover and locking the once-mobile home in place.
He shut the door behind him and pulled on a handle that had been concealed in the carpet, opening a hatch that lined up almost perfectly with the manhole.
I take it that this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Brawl said drily.
Thunderhead shrugged, not caring that the gesture was pointless when speaking to a literal part of himself.
“This little wagon used to be my base when I was in the sanitation field. I’d park over a manhole, then drop down and do my job before climbing back up and trotting off.”
He leapt down the hatch and spread his wings, flapping them to keep aloft as he scanned the pitch-black underground chamber.
To any normal pony, the chamber would have been too dark to see more than a few centimeters in any direction. However, Thunderhead was a pure-blooded thestral. His kind had evolved with incredible darkvision, allowing him to see effortlessly in the darkness.
His new hideout was MASSIVE. It was the size of a house, with a pre-existing system of catwalks and a lighting system consisting of caged light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, although they were turned off at the moment. He flew down to the power switch, and flicked it on. A deep thrumming sound filled the space as the lights flickered to life and the ventilation fans spun up for the first time in years.
(Hi. Me again. In case you’re wondering, my little hideout was going to be the main treatment area, but the project was scrapped before construction was finished. The catwalks were so that workers could inspect the treatment vats without getting too close.)
The air smelled musty and stale, and the faintest hint of ammonia tainted the otherwise reasonable scent.
May I inquire what that rather sharp smell is? Said Brawl, mild disgust evident in his voice.
“Piss,” said Thunderhead simply, flying up to one of the catwalks and testing its strength before landing on it, “I’m not sure whether it’s rats or ponies, but it’s piss. I’m a connoisseur of eau de toilette.”
Odors aside, said Brawl, This is a perfect hideout. It’s well-hidden, links to the sewer system, and it’s a part of the grid. It’s almost like you planned this.
“Not really,” Thunderhead replied, “I honestly only set up shop here because this place is a nice way to get away from the summer heat.”
He flew down to where one of the sewage treatment vats was supposed to have rested and looked around the cavernous space, internally planning out the ultimate superhero den on a budget.
“I can put a worktable here,” he said, gesturing at where he was standing with a wing, “And once I get a rudimentary suit, I can put a rack over there.” He pointed at a spot to not too far from a grate that he remembered led to the storm drain system.
About that, Brawl interjected, How are you going to conceal your identity tonight? You have no suit.
Thunderhead reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a pair of fitted black pants, a black hooded jacket,a black ski mask, and a pair of flight goggles.
“While you were ‘going dormant’, whatever that means, I bought these. They’re not much, but they’re a start. I can eventually add armor plating, gear pouches, and other stuff to these once I get more time.”
He could sense Brawl’s surprise.
Huh. That’s surprisingly well thought-out. But how are you going to get the materials and furnishings for this venture. For that matter, how are you getting the money to buy some of these things?
Thunderhead tested the grate, and was pleased to find that the hinges were still in reasonable condition even after so many years of disuse, before replying.
“I have a pretty impressive pension from my time in the Corps, and I get a respectable Federal Unemployment check every month. It’s not much, but it’ll keep me fed. As for the materials… Well, there’s a garbage incinerator right next door. I’m pretty well known by the staff there, and they’ll usually let me scavenge whatever I need and even let me use the secondary furnace as a smelter when they’re not using it.”
He pulled on his “super suit”, and ran through a few hoof-to-hoof combat drills to test his mobility.
Now out of curiosity, Brawl said, How many gangs are in Fillydelphia?
“Oh a few hundred, I’d wager,” Thunderhead said off-hoofedly.
If Brawl had a jaw of his own, it would have dropped.
A few HUNDRED? He yelped, gobsmacked, And how do you propose taking on A FEW HUNDRED gangs by yourself?
“By beating the ever-loving crud out of them,” Thunderhead said simply.
His hoof suddenly flew up of its own volition and smacked him across the face.
“Alright, alright,” he relented, rubbing his now very sore jaw, “Sheesh. In truth the gang system here makes taking them on a lot easier than in most other cities.”
He sat beside a tap that protruded from the wall and pictured a mug forming in his hoof, and as soon as it finished solidifying, he turned on the tap and poured himself a mug of cold, clean water.
“I call it the pyramid system,” he continued, “There are four “tiers” of gangs. At the bottom, we have Tier One gangs. They’re small-time thugs whose influence might extend from one street corner to a small neighborhood. They’re not much of a threat.
“Then there’s the Tier Two gangs. They’re a little more organized, and control the larger neighborhoods. Singing Trees in particular is a gang hotspot. Not even the cops go in there unless they’re backed up by that SWAT officer from Canterlot. They may be a bit of a challenge.
“Next, there’s the Tier Three gangs. There’s five of them they control entire districts and all of them have at least two government officials on their payroll. They’re completely untouchable unless I either decide that the overall benefits outweigh the legal ramifications, or get an official on my side.”
Should that be hard?
“Remember,” Thunderhead said, “Almost all the officials in the city are either corrupt, brain-dead, or corrupt and brain-dead. Given time, I might be able to find somepony young and idealistic enough to side with me, but that’s a gamble I can’t take yet.”
Pouring himself a fresh mug of water, his face turned grim.
“And finally, we have the Tier Four Gang. The Last Laugh. They run the entire city, and eliminate anypony who challenges that rule. However, it’s very rare that they act themselves. There’s so many lower-tier gangs and random mooks in the city that they really don’t have to.”
Satisfied that his hideout was in good condition he flew back up into his new home and, closing the hatch behind him, walked into the newer caravan and flopped down on the bed in the bedroom.
A happy sigh escaped his lips as his aching body sank into the first decent bed he’d ever owned.
“Oh man… I wish I had more time to rest here…”
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As night descended upon Fillydelphia, the city’s smarter inhabitants scrambled to get indoors. In the Meanest City in Equestria, the night meant only one thing.
Gangs.
It was common knowledge that as soon as Celestia’s sun left the sky, the nasties of the city came out to play. Unfortunately, some ponies had no choice but to brave the darkness and the shadows to reach the safety of their homes.
One such pony, an off-white pegasus mare with a brown mane and tail, was running down a darkened street as fast as she could. She had a bag of groceries clenched in her teeth, and her eyes were narrowed as she made a beeline for an apartment building at the end of the street.
Unfortunately, before she could make it, several burly ponies wearing hoodies and bandanas over their mouths stepped in front of her.
“Oh horse apples,” she muttered.
The biggest of the thugs approached her, clearly grinning under his bandana.
She sighed and resigned herself to what she knew was going to happen.
However, before the thugs could do anything, there was a loud thump from behind them.
The entire gang turned as one, and squinted at the source of the disturbance.
Crouching in the light of the single working light on the street was Thunderhead, fully dressed and with a pair of gleaming silver tonfas (courtesy of Brawl) in his hooves.
“Hello gentlecolts,” he said mildly, making his voice sound incredibly deep and gravelly, “Not getting into trouble are we now?”
“Youse stay outta this, freak,” the head of the gang spat at him, “Keep on steppin’, or youse is next.”
“And what if that’s exactly what I want?” Thunderhead growled.
His tone was still mild, but there was an undeniable note of menace in his voice. A couple of the gangbangers in front of him appeared to take notice of this and took a few steps away. However, the ringleader decided to try and intimidate the newcomer. He got way up in Thunderhead’s face, standing over a head taller than the thestral.
“Then we’re gonna have to teach youse a lesson. Who are youse?”
That suddenly brought to the front of Thunderhead’s mind that he had forgotten something rather important.
“I’m-” Shit. I forgot a name!
He thought quickly and threw something together that sounded workable.
“I’m the Spectacular Steel Renegade, and this city is now under my protection.”
Under his mask, he winced. Well that sounded a lot better in my head…
The thug apparently agreed, because he snickered before continuing, “Well listen here, Steel Renegade. Youse can claim all ya want that the city’s yours, but this block here, it’s mine. And ya don’t come onto my turf without payin’.”
With speed that seemed impossible for a pony as large as he, he brought out a switchblade and flicked the blade open. Then, with a yell, he plunged the small knife into Steel’s face.
Steel didn’t even twitch as the blade made contact… And crumpled like tin foil.
The thug gaped at his destroyed weapon, and Steel smiled under his mask.
“Well if you wanted to play like that…”
One blow. That’s all it took. Steel’s tonfa slammed into the thug’s jaw in a blistering uppercut. The amount of force behind the blow was sufficient to actually lift the poor stallion a good foot into the air before he crashed back to the ground, out like a light and with a severe concussion to boot.
There was a brief pause, then Steel looked up from the fallen leader and smiled at the remaining hoodlums.
“Anypony else want to try their luck?”
As one, the entire gang turned tail and ran for it.
Steel hauled the thug over to the light post and zip-tied the gang leader to it before turning to the pegasus mare, who hadn’t moved an inch since the start of the encounter.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” He asked, retracting his tonfas and dropping the false voice, “Where do you live?”
Wordlessly, the mare pointed to her apartment building.
Following her hoof, he extended a wing and took her groceries gently. “I’ll escort you.”
The two of them traversed the remaining fifty feet of street with no trouble, Steel’s eyes constantly scanning the shadows. When they reached the door, Steel set down the mare’s groceries and she turned a wary eye on him, reaching for her coin pouch.
“How much? I know how these protection rackets work.”
Steel cocked his head as though considering deeply, then pushed the pouch back to the mare. “My price is that you eat a good dinner, take a hot relaxing bath, and get a good six hours of sleep,” he said, much to the surprise of the mare, “It’d be wrong to put a price on doing the right thing.”
The mare looked flabbergasted. “Wh-what?”
“I’m not here for personal gain,” Steel clarified, “I’m only doing this for the good of the city.”
He spread his wings and nodded his head to the mare. “You have a good night now, you hear?”
She nodded, but before Steel could do anything more, she hugged him tightly.
“You’re my hero, Steel Renegade,” she said quietly into his shoulder, “I get mugged every night on this street, and nopony’s ever stood up for me like that before.
Steel’s eyes widened slightly.
“I’m no hero, ma’am,” he said, gently disengaging from her, “I’m just a stallion trying to do what’s right.”
With that, he spread his wings and flew away.
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Thunderhead alit upon a lone cloud well outside the city limits and took off his mask, dropping the Steel persona.
“That went surprisingly well,” he said mildly, reaching up to where he’d been stabbed. To his astonishment, the wound was gone. The only evidence that it had ever been there was a bit of dried blood and the hole in the ski mask.
Like it? Brawl asked with an unmistakable air of smugness, Since your cells already multiply at an abnormally high rate, I can just stop suppressing the Runaway Mitosis at the site of an injury, which makes it heal at an accelerated rate. Your condition has gone from your downfall to your greatest strength!
“Huh,” Thunderhead said , tucking his mask and goggles into his pocket, “Now THAT’S gonna be useful!”
Yes indeed. You are well on your way to becoming the hero this city needs, Brawl said, I do have one question, however.
“Oh?”
What the heck kind of name is “Steel Renegade?”
Author's Note
Here's chapter 3 after a massive delay.
I must say, I was rather surprised to see that this story is doing better than my other story, Battle Forged. I honestly saw this one as the inferior of the two. Ah well. As always, let me know if you spot any errors in the comments, as well as any other feedback!
