Chapter Text
The doors slid shut behind them with a muted, almost considerate thud, sealing away the raised voices and crackling tension of the atrium. What lay beyond was a long corridor washed in even, clinical light, the kind of institutional quiet that didn’t echo so much as hum, a low, constant presence that pressed in on the ears if one listened too closely. The floors gleamed with polish, reflecting the overhead lights in thin, distorted bands, while pale walls were broken at intervals by wide glass panels.
Through them, Gazerbeam caught glimpses of sprawling training grounds below. They were far larger than the room Edna Mode had once used to test his abilities; wider, deeper, and layered with retractable obstacles and reinforced barriers. Where Edna’s space had been controlled and precise, these looked built for scale and collateral, the kind of place where Supers learned the hard way how much force was too much. The view felt distant, insulated, as though the building itself had drawn a careful line between spectacle and function, noise and necessity.
Fironic walked a few paces ahead, his stride unhurried but purposeful. His posture was upright without being stiff, relaxed without slipping into slouch or swagger — the bearing of someone who didn’t need to announce his competence. The dark maroon of his suit absorbed the light rather than reflecting it, matte and utilitarian from collar to boots, save for the silver detailing that caught faint highlights at the seams. His cape was the only indulgence: a smooth, silky fall of fabric that flowed behind him like a banked ember, moving with each step in quiet arcs.
Fironic didn’t look back. He didn’t wave or gesture for Gazerbeam to keep pace. And yet, without effort or thought, their strides fell into alignment all the same.
Gazerbeam was no stranger to silence. He found it easier than conversation, easier than guessing the right inflection or timing. Still, a part of him — small but persistent — wondered about the Super leading him now. Fironic was not one he remembered from headlines or briefings, not one of the loud names that floated through hero circles. There was something about that anonymity that made him curious rather than wary.
As if responding to that unspoken thought, Fironic glanced back over his shoulder, brows lifting slightly.
“Congratulations,” he said, tone even, almost casual. “First mission a success.”
Gazerbeam blinked beneath his visor, caught off guard. He was once again grateful for the darkened red lens, certain his reaction would have betrayed him otherwise — the faint heat in his face, the reflexive urge to downplay. He straightened a fraction and gave a small nod.
“Thank you,” he replied, polite as ever. “I… didn’t expect it to go in my favor.”
Fironic’s mouth curved into a grin — not wide, not mocking, but knowing.
“Luck was on your side.”
That earned another blink. Since Fironic couldn’t see the confusion flicker across his eyes, Gazerbeam voiced it instead.
“Why do you think so?”
Fironic turned his gaze forward again, eyes tracking the corridor ahead, though the grin lingered as if it had settled in place.
“Most Supers’ first successful mission,” he said, emphasizing the word just enough, “is only successful by technicality. Half-disasters are common. Powers still unfamiliar. Judgement not fully calibrated.”
Gazerbeam’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the image of the car splitting apart under his beam — metal screaming, glass shattering, momentum arrested a heartbeat too late. He could catalogue a dozen ways it might have ended worse, a dozen variables he had not fully accounted for.
“I wouldn’t call it so lucky,” he said after a moment, voice quieter. “I’m fairly certain I burned through a… considerable amount of money in the process.”
Fironic let out a soft scoff and finally looked back at him again, one brow raised now.
“A chunk of money lost,” he said, “is preferable to a portion of innocent civilians gone.”
Gazerbeam considered that. The logic was clean and uncomplicated. He nodded once.
“That’s… a fair point.”
Fironic’s grin eased into something more neutral as they continued down the hall, the space between them no longer quite as wide as it had been when they started.
After a few more stretches of quiet, Gazerbeam found his curiosity nudging forward again. He adjusted his grip on the edge of his glove before speaking.
“Who had the hardest time adjusting to Super protocol?” he asked carefully,
Fironic huffed at that, a sound that was clearly meant to be neutral and failed rather spectacularly. His shoulders lifted just enough to suggest he was holding something back.
“Blazestone,” he said without hesitation. “No contest.”
Gazerbeam tilted his head slightly, unsurprised yet amused. Fironic continued, his tone shifting into something more explanatory — the voice of someone who had told this story before, usually to people who already knew the punchline.
“I have the closest power set to hers when it comes to heat repression and control,” Fironic said. “Flames that do not respond to intent or restraint are not just dangerous — they are indiscriminate. In a city like Metroville, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
He glanced sideways at Gazerbeam, as if gauging his reaction, before adding, “So I was assigned as her temporary mentor. Until the NSA felt comfortable letting her roam free.”
Gazerbeam managed to keep his expression neutral, but inwardly he almost laughed. The image of Blazestone — loud, fast, incandescent in both voice and movement — being “let loose” upon the city like a regulated variable was… generous. He could only imagine the paperwork that phrase alone had generated.
Fironic seemed to catch the flicker of humor anyway, his mouth twitching.
“Her first mission didn’t help her case,” he went on. “Villain made the mistake of insulting her. Personally.”
Gazerbeam’s brows lifted beneath the visor.
“She set his entire laboratory on fire,” Fironic said, shaking his head in quiet amusement. “To be fair, she destroyed every weapon and stockpile of stolen illegal goods he had. The problem was, she also destroyed all the evidence.”
That earned a small, understanding nod from Gazerbeam; not just as a Super, but as a lawyer. His mind immediately ticked through the implications: lack of physical proof, weakened prosecution, defense counsel’s delight.
“I imagine,” Gazerbeam said carefully, “that complicated the court proceedings.”
“Complicated is a polite word for it,” Fironic replied dryly. “The villain walked with a reduced sentence. Lack of admissible evidence.”
Gazerbeam exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of recognition. It also suddenly made a great deal of sense why Frozone was so quick with sharp retorts whenever Blazestone spoke — not just irritation, but experience. The kind that came from having seen firsthand what happened when enthusiasm outpaced restraint. It was obviously well known that Frozone was the one who always stepped in when her powers got the best of her.
“I can see why protocol matters so much,” Gazerbeam said after a moment.
Fironic nodded, approving but not patronizing.
“Power isn’t the problem,” he said. “Control is. And control takes time, even when you don’t want it to.”
Gazerbeam wondered, not for the first time, whether Fironic’s words were meant as a general truth, a lesson learned from watching others stumble, or a quiet warning aimed directly at him. He didn’t voice the question. He rarely did. But if the comment had been meant for him, then Fironic didn’t need to worry. Control was not something Gazerbeam treated lightly or overlooked — it was the axis his life had always turned on.
He had no interest in letting it slip past his eyes.
Literally.
The thought lingered as they stopped before a familiar door. Fironic raised his hand and knocked. After a moment, a gravelly, “Come in,” answered from inside.
Fironic opened the door and stepped aside, giving Gazerbeam the space to enter without ceremony. Gazerbeam paused just long enough to incline his head in thanks before stepping through. The door shut behind him with a solid click that felt final in a way the hallway never had.
Rick looked up from a spread of documents, reading glasses pushed down his nose. He gave Gazerbeam a nod — not warm, not cold, just… acknowledging. Gazerbeam had already learned that this was as close to friendliness as the man came, and he accepted it without expectation.
He took the seat across from the desk, folding his hands neatly in his lap.
Rick reached for a file — his file, and opened it, scanning the pages with practiced speed before looking back up.
“I saw what you did out there,” Rick said, sliding his glasses off completely and putting them to the side. “Honestly? I’m impressed. It’s your first day as a Super and you are already giving yourself a good name to the public.”
Gazerbeam blinked, then hesitated. Interrupting was not his instinct, but precision mattered.
“…Which incident?” he asked politely. “The attempted burglary at the jewelry store, or the robbery chase… where I cut the car in half?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Rick’s face as he scribbled something onto the page. Not a smile — never a real smile — but the faint lift at the corner of his mouth suggested he found the clarification interesting.
“Both,” Rick said. “And I mean both.”
He flipped a page, tapping his pen once as if organizing his thoughts. “You showed restraint at the jewelry store. You didn’t escalate, didn’t panic the civilians or police officers, and you resolved it without unnecessary force.”
Rick looked up again, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
“And during the chase,” he continued, “you made a call under pressure. A risky one. But you aimed the outcome away from civilians. That matters.”
Gazerbeam nodded slowly, absorbing the words. Praise still felt unfamiliar — especially when it came without theatrics. His shoulders loosened just a fraction.
Rick leaned back slightly in his chair. “Most new Supers either hesitate too long or go too far. You didn’t do either. You evaluated.”
The pen tapped again.
“Collateral damage isn’t ideal,” Rick added, tone blunt but fair. “But it’s weighed against loss of life. You made the right call.”
Gazerbeam considered that, then spoke carefully. “I’ll… work on minimizing it next time.”
Rick huffed softly — approval, this time unmistakable.
“That,” he said, “is exactly the answer I wanted to hear.”
He closed another file with a decisive motion. “Which is why we need to talk about what comes next.”
The room seemed to quiet further, the hum of the building distant and subdued, as Gazerbeam straightened slightly in his chair.
Rick leaned back in his chair once he finished writing on a side note, pen tapping twice against the paper before he set it down with deliberate care. He regarded Gazerbeam the way one might regard a complicated legal clause — not hostile, not warm, just… thorough.
“Before you ask,” Rick said, tone flat, “no. You’re not getting a permanent team yet.”
Gazerbeam stiffened slightly in his chair. Not offended — more startled. He hadn’t expected anything yet, really, let alone a decision. His shoulders squared as if bracing for a verdict.
Rick noticed. Of course he did.
“That wasn’t a punishment,” Rick added. “That was a statement of fact. You didn’t screw up badly enough to earn probation, and you didn’t screw up spectacularly enough to get promoted.”
Gazerbeam blinked behind his visor. “…Sir?”
Rick waved a hand. “That was a joke. Mostly.”
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk. “You’re going into observation rotation.”
That phrase settled heavier than Gazerbeam expected.
Rick continued, “Short deployments. Controlled environments. Supervised partners. No long-term team assignments. No solo work unless I sign off personally.”
Gazerbeam nodded, slow and careful. That… actually sounded reasonable. Familiar, even. Like conditions a court would set.
“I assume,” Gazerbeam said politely, “this is because I’m new.”
Rick snorted.
“No. It’s because you’re dangerous.”
The word landed cleanly. No malice. No accusation. Just fact.
Gazerbeam’s fingers curled against his knee, barely noticeable
Rick went on, unbothered. “You don’t spit venom or fire. You don’t punch buildings to dust. You don’t cause collateral by existing in the general vicinity of a problem.” His gaze sharpened. “You make decisions. Fast ones. Permanent ones.”
Rick tapped the file with one finger. “That car you split? Clean cut. Narrow beam. No fatalities. Minimal injuries. That was not luck.”
Gazerbeam swallowed. “I—”
“And before you say it,” Rick cut in, “yes, it could have gone wrong. Everything could have gone wrong. That’s not the point.”
Rick leaned back again. “The point is that you didn’t hesitate, and you didn’t panic.”
He paused, then added dryly, “You also didn’t showboat, which already puts you ahead of roughly seventy percent of this building.”
Gazerbeam let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. “…Thank you?”
Rick shrugged. “Don’t thank me. I’m explaining why you’re being watched.”
That snapped Gazerbeam’s attention right back.
“Watched,” Rick clarified, “not restricted. Observed. There’s a difference. One means I don’t trust you. The other means I’m making sure no one breaks you.”
That… caught him off guard.
Gazerbeam tilted his head slightly. Rick noticed that too.
“You’re not like Gamma Jack,” Rick continued, blunt as ever. “He burns hot, fast, and louder than a damn train horn. When he crashes, everyone sees it coming. You?” Rick gestured vaguely toward Gazerbeam’s visor. “You don’t.”
There was a beat of silence.
Rick added, as if remembering something trivial, “That wasn’t a compliment or an insult. That was a warning.”
Gazerbeam nodded slowly. “I… appreciate the clarity.”
Rick gave him a look. “Most people don’t.”
A corner of Gazerbeam’s mouth twitched below the visor despite himself.
Rick flipped open a nearby file. “You will be rotating with different Supers. Fironic when possible. Elastigirl if scheduling allows. Frozone occasionally — though I will regret that paperwork.”
Gazerbeam hesitated. “Sir… may I ask why Fironic?”
Rick’s lips twitched — almost a smile. Almost.
“Because Fironic doesn’t need to prove anything,” he said. “People who don’t need to prove anything make excellent buffers.”
That made sense. He guessed…
Rick’s tone shifted, quieter but no less blunt. “You watch. You listen. You learn how this place actually works — not how it claims to.”
Gazerbeam nodded again.
Then Rick said, casually, “And you learn when to step back.”
Gazerbeam’s posture changed. Not visibly.
“That’s the part people like you struggle with,” Rick continued. “You’ll keep going long after you should’ve stopped because no one told you to.”
Gazerbeam opened his mouth — then closed it again.
Rick smirked faintly. “That silence? That right there? That’s why you’re not getting a permanent team yet.”
“…Is that another joke?” Gazerbeam asked carefully.
Rick considered. “No.”
Then, after a pause, “But it is why I’m telling you this now instead of after it becomes a problem.”
He leaned forward again, lowering his voice just a fraction. “You’re observant. You catalog everything. Tone. Body language. Risk. Probability. You do it automatically.”
Gazerbeam stiffened — not defensively, but because he had not realized it was that obvious.
Rick waved it off. “Relax. I’m not diagnosing you. I’m explaining you.”
That earned a quiet, startled huff from Gazerbeam before he could stop it. He quickly ducked his head.
Rick raised a brow. “Was that laughter?”
“…Yes, sir.”
“Huh. Mark the calendar.”
Rick’s expression softened — only slightly. “People like you don’t burn out because you’re reckless. You burn out because you’re reliable.”
Gazerbeam smile faded a bit.
“You’ll take on more than you should,” Rick continued. “You’ll fix problems before anyone notices they exist. And one day you’ll realize you’re exhausted, and everyone thinks you’re fine.”
Rick paused. “That’s when Supers disappear.”
Gazerbeam’s hands tightened together in his lap.
Rick straightened, businesslike again. “So. Observation rotation. Mandatory check-ins. You tell Fironic if something feels off. You tell me if someone pushes you into something you’re not ready for.”
He added, deadpan, “And if Frozone tries to ‘throw you into the deep end,’ that counts.”
Gazerbeam let out a small, genuine chuckle before he could stop himself. He covered it quickly with a polite cough.
He stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “You did well today, Paladino.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Try not to make a habit of splitting vehicles in half though.”
Gazerbeam rose too. “I’ll… do my best, sir.”
Rick nodded. “Mmm. That’s all anyone can ask.”
As Gazerbeam turned for the door, Rick added one last thing — tone unreadable as ever.
“And Paladino?”
“Yes, sir?”
Rick looked at him steadily. “You don’t have to earn your place here every day.”
There was a pause.
“…Unless you want to,” Rick added dryly. “In which case, please don’t. Move at your own pace, find out what makes you tick, and do not hide any problems or issues you may have.”
Gazerbeam froze for half a second — then nodded, deeply this time.
“Yes, sir.”
And for the first time since walking into the building, he left the room feeling not lighter…but steadier.
Rick’s door shut with a soft, decisive click that carried farther down the hallway than Gazerbeam expected.
He remained where he was for a moment afterward, standing just outside the office as if his feet hadn’t yet received the memo that the meeting was over. The hallway beyond stretched long and deep into the building, its pale lights arranged in careful intervals that made distance difficult to judge. Rick Dicker was already moving away, stride brisk and purposeful, one arm pinned tight against his side to keep half a stack of documents from slipping. The other half—Gazerbeam noted—had been left behind on the desk, likely finished, reviewed, or considered less urgent. Rick did not slow, did not glance back. He never did.
Gazerbeam watched him go.
It wasn’t curiosity exactly—at least, not the idle kind. It was the same instinct that had followed him through courtrooms and deposition rooms for years, the quiet compulsion to understand systems rather than people. Rick Dicker was not a man who did things by habit or personality; he worked by function. Everything about him suggested layers: what he said, what he meant, what he did not say at all. Gazerbeam found himself wondering where that hallway led—deeper into the building, certainly, but also deeper into whatever work Rick handled when Supers were not involved. Classified briefings. Damage control. Decisions that never reached the newspapers or the public. Decisions that probably never reached most Supers, either.
The thought lingered.
How much did any of them really know?
Gazerbeam had already learned, in the span of a single day, that visibility and knowledge were not the same thing. Supers were visible—celebrated, criticized, photographed, debated. The NSA was not. Rick Dicker sat squarely in the space between those worlds, translating chaos into paperwork and danger into protocols. Gazerbeam suspected that most Supers did not ask questions about that divide. Or if they did, they were quickly discouraged from pursuing answers.
He wondered—briefly, carefully—whether any of them were trusted enough to know more. Not the loud ones. Not the reckless ones. The steady ones. The kind who followed rules even when no one was watching.
The idea did not unsettle him so much as it lodged itself neatly into place, another fact to be aware of, another variable to keep in mind.
With a sigh he had not realized he was holding, Gazerbeam finally turned on his heel.
And nearly walked straight into a new complication.
Fironic stood near the end of the hallway, partially angled toward a man in a dark suit with an NSA badge clipped neatly at his collar. The employee—agent, handler, something in between—was speaking in hushed tones, posture attentive but not tense. Fironic listened with an easy stillness, hands relaxed at his sides, head inclined just enough to signal engagement. His maroon suit absorbed the overhead light, the silver accents muted rather than showy. The cape fell straight down his back, motionless.
At Gazerbeam’s movement, Fironic’s eyes flicked toward him.
The glance was quick, assessing, and oddly warm—like he had been expecting Gazerbeam to still be nearby. The NSA worker noticed too and concluded whatever he was saying with a short nod before stepping away, boots quiet against the polished floor. He didn’t spare Gazerbeam more than a passing look.
Fironic turned fully now, one brow lifting as his mouth curved into a familiar, faint smile.
“Well?” he asked lightly. “Was the second meeting with Rick as terrible and boring as the first?”
Gazerbeam blinked, thrown just enough by the casual tone that it took him a second to respond. He shook his head instead, visor catching the light as it moved. “No,” he said after a beat, polite as ever. “I wouldn’t say boring. He… had good advice. Useful information.”
Fironic’s expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough that Gazerbeam caught it. The smile faded into something thoughtful. Fironic looked away down the hall, considering that response as if weighing it against his own experiences.
“…Yeah,” Fironic said at last, nodding once. “That sounds like him.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s probably the only good thing about Rick. If you asked any other Super here, they would agree.”
Gazerbeam’s hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the metal band around his wrist. His thumb traced its edge, grounding himself in the familiar weight. As Fironic spoke, Gazerbeam’s gaze shifted—not to Fironic, but to the ceiling corners, the wall seams, the places where cameras would logically be mounted. He doubted they could see through his visor, but the doubt was thin and hopeful.
“Um,” Gazerbeam said, lowering his voice just slightly, “you do know that… your words are probably being heard.”
Fironic let out a short laugh, genuinely amused this time. He turned and began walking without hesitation, lifting a hand in a casual gesture for Gazerbeam to follow. “Rick himself would probably agree with me,” he said over his shoulder. “His pride is not so easily hurt, so you’d have a better chance at saying whatever comes to your mind when you speak to him.”
Gazerbeam hesitated only a moment before falling into step beside him.
They walked back toward the main hall, their footsteps measured and unhurried. Gazerbeam found that Fironic matched his pace without effort, neither rushing nor lagging. It was a small thing, but noticeable.
After a few moments of silence, Gazerbeam cleared his throat. “So… what am I supposed to do now?”
Fironic glanced sideways at him, expression shifting into something appraising but kind. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked a few more steps, as if giving the question the respect of proper consideration.
“Lookout rotations,” Fironic said finally, smiling. “With me. For the rest of the week until you switch.”
Gazerbeam’s head tilted a fraction. “Lookout… searches?”
“Mm-hm.”
“And what exactly does that entail?” Gazerbeam asked, genuinely curious.
Fironic slowed just enough to turn his upper body slightly as he explained. “Behind-the-scenes work. Not flashy. Doesn’t make the news.” He shrugged. “We observe. We listen. We position ourselves where we are useful without being seen. If a team needs backup, we are already close. If a criminal tries to flee a scene, we intercept. If someone panics, we de-escalate.”
He glanced back forward, tone steady. “Think of it as insurance.”
Gazerbeam absorbed that quietly, mind already mapping scenarios. “So we wouldn’t be… leading?”
“Nope.”
“Or engaging directly unless necessary?”
“Exactly.”
Fironic smiled at him again, this time with something like approval. “You’ll be surprised how often ‘unless necessary’ comes up—if you’re paying attention.”
Gazerbeam nodded slowly. He could see it already: the value in standing just outside the frame, watching angles others missed, noticing exits before they became problems. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was effective. Familiar, even.
“I think,” Gazerbeam said after a moment, “that I’d be… good at that.”
Fironic chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why Rick paired you with me.”
After that, Gazerbeam found himself following Fironic out of the building and into the city proper—not along the wide, sunlit streets where traffic flowed and people gathered, but through the quieter arteries that threaded Metroville together behind the scenes.
Fironic moved with intention, choosing routes that slipped between buildings and curved away from main roads. He didn’t fly, despite the cape at his back that clearly allowed for it. Gazerbeam noticed that immediately.
“Most Supers take the sky,” Fironic said after a few minutes, glancing back with a knowing look. “You miss a lot that way.”
Gazerbeam nodded. “Perspective changes when you’re grounded.”
Fironic smiled at that. “Exactly.”
They turned down a narrow side street where the buildings leaned closer together, brick facades patched with old paint and newer repairs. Fironic lifted his hand—not pointing outright but angling his fingers toward a recessed doorway half-hidden behind a dumpster.
“See that?” he asked. “That shop looks abandoned. It isn’t. Pawn front. High turnover. Low questions. If something small goes missing in this district, odds are it passes through there first.”
Gazerbeam followed his gaze, committing the location to memory. He wanted—desperately—to write it down. Street names, building features, angles of escape. His mind worked best when he could organize information visually, neatly categorized. Without a notebook, he was forced to build a mental map instead, layering details carefully so they would not slip away.
“I’ll remember,” he said, mostly to himself.
Fironic continued walking, turning down an alley that curved like a question mark behind a row of closed storefronts. “This stretch?” he went on. “Low activity. Too exposed. Criminals don’t like feeling watched, even when no one’s around.”
He tilted his head toward a fire escape zigzagging down a building’s side. “But up there—rooftop access. That’s where runners go if they’re cornered. Bridges into the next block.”
Gazerbeam looked up, visor adjusting automatically to the change in light. He nodded again, absorbing everything. Fironic spoke without rushing, never overwhelming him with information all at once.
They crossed a street where the pavement dipped slightly, collecting old rainwater and oil stains. Fironic slowed, gesturing with his chin toward a fork where one path narrowed sharply while the other opened into a wider service lane.
“Criminals choose the narrow one,” Fironic said. “Feels safer. Less visible. But it’s a dead end three blocks down unless you know the ladder behind the bakery. Police don’t. Supers should.”
Gazerbeam mentally filed that away. Ladder. Bakery. Dead end that was not one.
“You memorize all this?” Gazerbeam asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
Fironic shrugged lightly. “Over time. Repetition helps. And mistakes.” He glanced back with a faint grin. “You only forget once.”
They moved again, deeper into the shaded routes Fironic clearly favored. He pointed out sewer grates that had been tampered with, abandoned construction zones that provided cover, alleys that funneled sound in strange ways. Every place had a story, a purpose, a reason for being watched—or ignored.
Gazerbeam listened intently, hands flexing at his sides. His mind buzzed, not with anxiety, but with focus. This was familiar territory in a strange way. In court, he had learned to read rooms, anticipate movements, track contradictions before they became arguments. Here, it was the same skill applied outward instead of inward.
At one point, Fironic paused near a crosswalk partially obscured by overgrown hedges. “This intersection looks harmless,” he said. “But it’s a favorite for handoffs. Too much foot traffic to notice one more exchange.”
Gazerbeam frowned slightly. “So some of the criminals hide in crowds,” he murmured.
“Sometimes,” Fironic agreed. “Other times they hide where no one bothers to look twice.”
They turned another corner—and nearly collided with a small cluster of pedestrians exiting a café. The moment they were recognized, the energy shifted. Gasps. Wide eyes. Someone whispered a name—Fironic’s, then Gazerbeam’s, tentative but awed.
A man waved enthusiastically. A child tugged on their parent’s sleeve, pointing.
Gazerbeam froze for half a second before managing a small, polite wave. Fironic lifted his hand in an easy, practiced motion, smiling just enough to be reassuring without encouraging a crowd.
“Come on,” Fironic said softly, already guiding them down another shaded path.
They slipped out of sight again, the noise fading behind them.
Gazerbeam exhaled, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath. “I… I’m going to have to get used to that, aren’t I?”
Fironic chuckled. “Eventually. Or you learn which streets to avoid.”
Gazerbeam smiled at that, the expression warm and a little disbelieving. It felt strange—being seen like that. Not for winning a case. Not for standing behind a podium or desk. But for stopping something. For acting.
As they walked, the feeling settled deeper.
Pride.
It was not loud or overwhelming. It didn’t swell his chest or make him want to boast. It sat quietly, steady and unfamiliar, rooted in the memory of decisive action—the falling planks at the jewelry store, the split car skidding harmlessly apart. He had felt pride in courtrooms before, yes, in victories and reassurances given. But this was different.
This pride was not about being right.
It was about being useful.
Gazerbeam glanced at Fironic walking beside him, cape brushing softly against the back of his legs, and felt a surprising surge of gratitude. For the guidance. For the patience. For being trusted with this knowledge.
After they had finished winding through the last of the main roads and narrow backstreets, Fironic slowed near the base of a long exterior stairwell attached to the side of a broad, concrete building. The stairs climbed high—far higher than Gazerbeam would have expected for something so unassuming from street level.
Fironic lifted a hand and made a small circling motion. “Up here,” he said simply.
Gazerbeam raised a brow behind his visor but followed without comment. The stairwell groaned faintly beneath their steps; metal warmed from a long day under the sun. As they climbed higher, the city seemed to peel away layer by layer—noise dulling, movement shrinking. The last strong rays of evening light spilled across the steps, painting everything in gold and copper.
By the time they reached the top, the air felt warmer, thinner somehow, and Gazerbeam paused just long enough to take it in.
Fironic walked to the edge and gestured outward. “Higher ground changes what you notice,” he said. “You stop seeing individuals and start seeing patterns.”
Gazerbeam stepped closer, resting a hand on the low barrier. From up here, Metroville stretched endlessly—streets like veins, buildings clustered and separated in deliberate rhythms. In the distance, the main train thundered along its elevated tracks, horn blaring as it always did. The sound echoed between the buildings, deep and familiar, a heartbeat the city never lost.
Gazerbeam scanned the view automatically, a habit formed long before today. But the reason was different now.
Before, he had watched from a distance—an observer. A man who cataloged Supers as they passed him, who noted damage reports and collateral costs from a desk. Now, he was looking for things that shouldn’t be there.
Now, he was responsible.
Fironic pointed out rooftops that offered clean sightlines across districts, old water towers that villains had used as vantage points, and narrow bridges connecting buildings that made for quick escapes. Gazerbeam nodded, absorbing it all, the mental map in his head expanding upward instead of outward.
Still half listening, Gazerbeam reached up and pressed a small button on the side of his visor.
The world sharpened.
The zoom engaged smoothly, optics tightening around distant details the naked eye would miss. He swept across far streets first, then slower—corners, alley mouths, rooftops, fire escapes. His gaze lingered where shadows pooled unnaturally, where geometry didn’t quite make sense.
Useful, all of it.
And then—
“Hold on,” Gazerbeam said, interrupting Fironic mid-sentence.
He leaned slightly forward; visor trained on a patch several blocks away. Something dark spread across the ground there, irregular in shape, bleeding into nearby structures.
Fironic followed his line of sight, squinting. “Looks like a burn site,” he said after a moment. “Old fire, maybe.”
Gazerbeam frowned. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “If it were old, the staining wouldn’t be that dark. And if it were recent, we would smell smoke. There would be cordons. Fire crews. Police.”
He adjusted the zoom again, narrowing the focus. “That damage is fresh. But it’s… wrong.”
Fironic stared longer this time. The casual ease he had carried all afternoon drained away, replaced by something harder. His jaw tightened.
“…Follow me,” Fironic said finally.
They descended the stairs quickly, Fironic taking them two at a time. At street level, they moved with purpose, cutting across blocks toward the darkened area. The closer they got, the quieter the streets became—not empty, but wary.
Two blocks out, Fironic lifted into the air without breaking stride, cape snapping as he soared ahead.
Gazerbeam jogged the rest of the way, pulse steady but alert. He glanced around, expecting at least a few curious onlookers.
There were none.
Civilians lingered far from the site, crossing the street to avoid it entirely. Storefronts nearby were shuttered despite the hour. A woman waiting at a bus stop shifted farther back when Gazerbeam approached, eyes flicking nervously toward the blackened ground before darting away again.
It wasn’t just caution.
It was fear.
Gazerbeam slowed as he reached Fironic, standing side by side as they surveyed the damage without the visor’s enhancement.
The ground was scorched black—grass reduced to brittle ash, pavement cracked and darkened as if something had burned hotter than fire had any right to. The nearest buildings bore the same marks; their lower walls stained with soot-like residue that didn’t smear or flake when Fironic brushed it with his glove.
But what unsettled Gazerbeam most was the absence of damage beyond that.
The surrounding area looked untouched—too untouched. As though something had burned the life out of this place without spreading, without chaos.
“This isn’t normal,” Gazerbeam murmured.
Fironic nodded. “You’re right. Fire does not behave this cleanly.”
Gazerbeam turned to him. “Did Blazestone have another incident?”
Fironic shook his head slowly. “She’s off duty today. And if she so much as sneezed near a warehouse, I would know. NSA too.”
Gazerbeam looked back at the scorched earth, unease settling into his bones. Whatever had happened here had not left smoke, had not drawn attention—but it had left fear.
And fear, he knew, was never an accident.
Gazerbeam lifted his wrist toward his mouth, already forming the question—whether protocol demanded the NSA first, or Rick directly.
But when he turned his head back toward Fironic, the words died before they ever left him.
Fironic wasn’t looking at the ground anymore.
His eyes were closed.
The maroon-and-silver Super stood perfectly still, shoulders squared, one hand loosely clenched at his side as he drew in a slow, controlled breath through his nose. He exhaled just as deliberately, the sound sharp in the quiet street, as though he were steadying himself against something unseen.
Gazerbeam hesitated. Slowly, he lowered his wrist.
“…Fironic?” he asked.
Fironic didn’t open his eyes right away. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than Gazerbeam had heard it all day—measured, careful, and each word weighed before it was released.
“I know what this is.”
The air seemed to shift completely.
Gazerbeam’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his tone even by sheer force of will. “If it’s not fire, then—”
Fironic opened his eyes and looked at the ground again, scanning the blackened earth, the dead grass, the unnatural edges of destruction. He turned slowly, checking the surrounding buildings once more, as if confirming something he already knew but hoped to be wrong about.
“This isn’t fire,” Fironic said. “And it isn’t electricity.”
He paused.
“It’s radiation.”
Gazerbeam felt the drop immediately—like the floor had vanished beneath him.
“Inactive radiation,” Fironic added quickly, glancing at him. “Whatever waves passed through here is gone. There’s no immediate danger.”
But the damage was already done.
Gazerbeam swallowed hard, his pulse loud in his ears. The word radiation echoed in his head, dragging with it images he had only ever seen in files, in censored reports, in carefully worded testimonies.
“Inactive,” he repeated, more to himself than to Fironic. “You’re sure?”
Fironic nodded. “Positive.”
Gazerbeam exhaled shakily, only then realizing he had been holding his breath once again. Still, the fear did not ease—it only changed shape, settling heavier in his chest.
Fironic noticed.
He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not wrong to be scared,” he said. “Most people don’t ever see this kind of aftermath. And when they do, it’s usually already buried under cleanup crews and sealed reports.”
Gazerbeam looked back at the scorched ground. “Then how do you—”
Fironic hesitated.
And that hesitation told Gazerbeam more than words ever could.
“…When Gamma Jack’s in a bitter mood,” Fironic said slowly, “and he’s assigned a mission that requires him to deal with certain people… it usually ends like this.”
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Gazerbeam’s gaze snapped back to Fironic. “Gamma Jack,” he repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. “You’re saying he did this? This is normal from him?”
Fironic didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.
Gazerbeam turned again, taking in the damage with new eyes. What he had thought was scorch was something else entirely—energy stripped away, life erased without flame or sound. The clean edges made sense now.
“How…” Gazerbeam started, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “How do criminals survive that?” he asked quietly. “If he’s using active radiation, then—”
Fironic finally looked at him fully.
His expression was flat but not unkind.
“They don’t,” he said simply.
The words hit harder than any shout could have.
Gazerbeam’s eyes widened, his mind scrambling to catch up. “They—what?” His voice cracked despite his effort. “Then how—how do people still support him? How is he still—”
He gestured helplessly, the city around them suddenly feeling fragile, like glass.
Fironic turned away, staring down the street where civilians kept their distance, pretending not to look.
“When villains die to Supers,” he said, “a lot of civilians see it as us doing our job. Cleaning up what would’ve hurt them. Hurt their families.”
He paused; shoulders stiff.
“Dead criminals don’t reoffend,” Fironic continued. “They don’t escape. They don’t come back for revenge. And for people who are tired of living in fear, that’s enough.”
Gazerbeam felt cold.
He thought of courtrooms—of due process, of evidence, of verdicts weighed carefully by juries who never saw the aftermath firsthand. He thought of how easily words like necessary and effective could erase the weight of a life.
He looked at the blackened ground again.
No bodies.
No reports.
No witnesses willing to talk.
Only fear—and silence.
Gazerbeam curled his fingers into his palm, the metal of his wristband biting slightly into his skin. For the first time since putting on the visor, since stepping into the role of a Super, the pride he had felt earlier twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
This city was not just being protected.
It was being decided for.
And standing there in the fading light, surrounded by something that should not exist and yet clearly did, Gazerbeam realized—with a slow, sinking certainty—that not all Supers were fighting to save people.
Some were simply erasing problems.
And the city, it seemed, had learned to look away.
Later that evening—long after the sun had slipped beneath the horizon and taken the city’s warmth with it—Rick Dicker returned to his office.
The building had quieted in that peculiar government way: not silent, exactly, but muffled. Phones no longer rang, footsteps were rare and distant, and the hum of fluorescent lights filled in the gaps where people used to be. Rick liked it better this way. Fewer voices. Fewer opinions.
He shut the door behind him with his heel and crossed the room, setting a thick stack of folders down on the corner of his desk with a dull thump. Useless records, the lot of them—outdated requisitions, redundant reports, paperwork that existed purely to justify someone else’s job. Rick knew damn well they could be tossed straight into a shredder and nobody with a shred of common sense would notice they were gone.
But they had to exist. So here they were.
Rick lowered himself into his chair with a tired exhale, the leather creaking under his weight. He stared at the more important documents laid out before him—forms that actually mattered, that required signatures and final decisions before the night was over. He reached for one—
—and stopped.
His eyes drifted instead to a thinner folder sitting just off to the side.
Simon Paladino.
Rick clicked his tongue softly and dragged the file toward himself. The folder slid easily across the desk, its edges worn from handling far more than a rookie Super’s paperwork usually was. That alone said something.
He flipped it open.
The first few pages were already familiar: background checks, academic records, legal credentials impressive enough to make most seasoned attorneys sweat. Rick scanned them anyway, pen in hand, jotting down a few final notes in the margins—observations from earlier, small things most people would overlook. Posture. Eye movement. The way Paladino listened more than he spoke. The way he noticed.
Smart kid, Rick thought. Too smart.
That was usually where the trouble started.
Rick closed the file halfway and leaned back in his chair, pen tapping against the paper once… twice. The real issue sat heavy in his mind now, unavoidable.
What team should Gazerbeam be a part of?
The NSA wouldn’t wait forever. They were already itching to move on to their next major project, and Rick knew better than to stall once the gears started turning. Assignments needed to be finalized. Lines needed to be drawn.
The easy answer came first, as it always did.
Beta Force.
Fironic. Blazestone. Universal Man.
It would be a safe start. Controlled exposure. Decent coverage zones. Fironic alone made it a solid option—steady, experienced, good instincts. Gazerbeam had already shown he worked well with him. It would be neat. Logical.
Rick frowned.
He didn’t like it.
He really didn’t like it.
Rick had been doing this long enough to trust his gut, and his gut was telling him that Simon Paladino wasn’t built for “easy.” The man wasn’t just intelligent because he’d gone to law school—Rick had met plenty of idiots with degrees. No, this was something else. The way Paladino processed information, the way he questioned without challenging, observed without intruding.
If Rick and the NSA buried that kind of mind in low-risk patrols and routine response, they’d be wasting him.
And worse—Paladino would know it.
Rick sighed through his nose and pushed his chair back, standing. He crossed the room to the bulletin board mounted on the wall near his desk. It was a mess, by most standards—pins, notes, scribbled updates layered over one another in controlled chaos. Rick saw patterns where others saw clutter.
He scanned the names.
Mr. Incredible. Frozone.
Rick snorted quietly. Good assets. Reliable. And together? A walking disaster for anyone trying to maintain sound judgment. Too much time with those two and even the sharpest mind started slipping into bravado and bad ideas. Paladino didn’t need that kind of influence—not yet.
Blazestone was an immediate no. Rick didn’t even linger on her name.
Universal Man? Absolutely not. That pairing would implode in under a week, and Rick didn’t have the patience for the paperwork that would follow.
Elastigirl gave him pause.
She’d be a good fit on paper. Focused. Practical. Smart enough to appreciate Paladino’s approach. But she preferred working solo, and Rick wasn’t blind to the reality of the Super community. Pair Gazerbeam with her too often and he’d be fielding “friendly” comments from male Supers who didn’t understand boundaries—or professionalism.
Rick wasn’t in the business of throwing new assets into that mess.
Everseer bored him just thinking about it.
Macroburst and Stratogale? Interesting, sure—but those kids needed guidance, not another variable. They were still figuring themselves out. Paladino had already done that.
Rick rubbed at his temple, the beginnings of a headache forming as his gaze moved across the remaining names.
Downburst. Dynaguy. Plasmabolt. Psycwave. Apogee. Thunderhead. Stormicide. Splashdown.
And then—
Gamma Jack.
Rick stilled.
He stared at the name longer than the rest.
Gamma Jack was powerful. Effective. Feared. A walking solution to problems nobody wanted to linger on. He was also volatile, unpredictable, and—if Rick was being honest—dangerous in ways that didn’t always show up on paper.
Rick exhaled slowly.
Paladino had already seen something today. Rick knew it. He could see it in the way the man carried himself afterward—quieter, more deliberate. Gazerbeam wasn’t blind. He wasn’t naive.
And maybe that was exactly why.
Rick returned to his desk and sat down, pulling Paladino’s file fully back in front of him. He uncapped his pen, hesitated for just a fraction of a second—
—and wrote:
Gamma Jack.
The ink dried dark and final against the page.
Rick leaned back again, staring at the name as if it might argue with him.
“Let’s see what you do with that,” he muttered under his breath.