I stared up at the city skyline, my breath catching in my throat as the massive freak loomed closer. The sheer scale of it sent a chill down my spine. Then—something else. A streak of red tore through the sky, cutting through the chaos like a blazing comet.
My eyes widened. No way…
A grin spread across my face, and I barely held back a shout. "No way! It's Bruce!"
Yeah, that lone red figure blitzing across the sky? That's my big brother, Bruce. The world knows him as the Red Valiant—basically a superhero. But to me? He's just my big bro. The coolest one anyone could ask for.
My pulse pounded with excitement. If Bruce was here, that meant this fight was about to turn—and there was no way in hell I was gonna miss it.
"Move it, you moron!" someone barked, shoving past me.
The moment snapped me back to reality. Students were flooding into the school for lockdown. Teachers were yelling, sirens were screaming, and the intercom kept repeating its warning. The whole city was going into panic mode.
Perfect.
All this chaos made it way too easy for me to slip away. A fight like this was rare enough—I wasn't about to waste it sitting in some crammed hallway, waiting for the all-clear.
I moved with the flow of students, sticking to the edge of the pack. Then, as we rounded a corner, I slipped out of line and ducked behind the building. Keeping low, I crept along the wall, sticking to shadows. Years of stealth games and ninja shows had prepared me for this moment, and damn, I felt cool doing it.
Getting off campus was easier than expected—not surprising, given the giant kaiju monster attack and all. I cleared the fence on the far side, avoided the security camera at the corner, and just like that—I was home free.
Or so I thought.
"Where do you think you're going?!"
The loud, sharp voice hit me like a brick to the back of the head. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest as I flinched, letting out the most pathetic, bird-like squawk I'd ever made in my life.
Uncontrollable laughter followed. The kind I knew all too well.
I turned slowly, already regretting my life choices. There she was—doubled over, wiping away a tear, struggling to breathe between fits of laughter.
Rosalia.
My twin sister. A gender-swapped mirror of my face, with long bangs, a ponytail, and obviously feminine features.
I scowled. "Why the hell would you do that? You scared the shit out of—" I stopped mid-sentence and sighed. "Never mind. I know exactly why."
Her grin widened as she crossed her arms. "Damn right you do."
I groaned. This was so not part of the plan.
"Trying to scoop the news stations for your site again?"
"Naturally," she lilts, phone in hand, ready to record at a moment's notice.
Rosalia started her own news site two years ago, aiming to bring local, on-the-ground stories straight from the source. And somehow, against all odds, she's built a network of like-minded wannabe journalists in almost a dozen cities. Not bad for a teenager going toe-to-toe with mainstream media.
She smirks. "The twin vibes are strong today, so how about we skip the whole 'this is dangerous' argument and get moving before I miss my scoop—I mean, before we miss Bruce."
I roll my eyes but, don't bother arguing. There's no stopping her when she's on the scent. She's like a damn bloodhound with a press pass.
"Fine, but keep up."
I take off at a sprint, grateful to be free of the padded combat gear from the war games. If nothing else, this is gonna be one hell of a show.
We darted through alleyways and crossing the now empty streets. As we got closer we could feel the very air and ground shake and rumble with the force of the fighting ahead.
The terrain had slowly shifted from clean city streets (if you could call them that) to a debris field that would give my bedroom a run for it's money.
We could hear the fighting getting closer after about 3 minutes of brisk jogging. Rosalia lead the way as I could barely keep up.
"Keep up, Pete. I'll leave you behind if I have to, this is a big opportunity for getting the footage first and I'm not missing it!"
"Let's see how fast you are after playing punching bag for Nelson in JKT gym!" I snapped
The junior knight training course was no joke. At least one out of every five students enrolled dropped out, some were even voluntary.
She winced in exaggerated sympathy. Her green eyes showed her sincerity.
"Guess you could call this little disaster good timing then." She replied
Her callous disregard for the situation at hand was a stark reminder of how scary she can be as a reporter.
She threw up a hand like a traffic cop as we neared the next corner—suddenly all spy-movie serious. She peeked around it like she was checking for laser tripwires or a mob hit in progress. Naturally, I followed her lead, crouching beside her in a way that probably looked less tactical maneuver and more kid playing ninja.
Great. Police barricade. And we were just a block and a half from where we needed to be. I scanned the alley for options—because, y'know, the universe loves to give me puzzles with no clues. And then, like a cosmic nod of approval, I saw it: a fire escape, right next to one of those squat little bollard things meant to stop cars but perfect for giving short guys like me a boost.
"I guess we're going up," I muttered, making my way over. I clambered onto the bollard with all the grace of a baby deer on ice, nearly falling off twice before getting a grip on the ladder. It slid down with a deafening CLANG that echoed off the alley walls like a dropped stack of dishes during a midnight snack raid—not that I'd know anything about that.
Rosalia shot me a glare that could've curdled milk, but it disappeared as fast as it came. No time for blame. We scrambled up the ladder before the cops had time to investigate the racket.
I hauled her over the ledge just as we heard boots hit pavement below. Yeah, like anyone was gonna ignore the heavy metal solo we just played on that fire escape. We ducked, frozen, hands over our mouths, as a flashlight beam swept through the alley.
The officer gave a lazy walk-through, mumbled something to his partner, and eventually wandered off. I exhaled like I'd been underwater, only to get yanked forward by Rosalia.
Her grip on my arm had all the patience of someone dragging a cat on a leash—which, to be fair, is exactly how I felt.
"Okay, I get it," I muttered, pulling free just in time to see her point to a long wooden plank buried in some rooftop debris.
Seriously? We just got here. Can't we not Indiana Jones our way across rooftops for five minutes?
She didn't even wait for my protest. "You really think I'm gonna get decent footage from here, Petey? Ground-level coverage like this doesn't just fall into your lap—it takes effort. It takes people making it happen."
There was that fire in her voice. The 'I'm-on-a-mission' tone that made saying no feel like trying to stop a train with a feather.
"Now help me move this thing."
So, front-row seats to the kaiju battle it is.
I grabbed one end, and together we placed the plank across the gap like the world's sketchiest bridge. After making sure it was steady-ish, she hopped on and began her tightrope walk—arms out, focus locked. She glanced down once, wobbled, sucked in a breath like a vacuum, then hustled the rest of the way across. Her boots hit the far roof and she turned back with that classic 'see, easy' smirk.
I realized I'd been holding my breath. "Don't scare me like that!" I said, probably a little louder than I meant to.
Then it was my turn.
The board was wider than the balance beams at school but way more wobbly—and about a thousand times more terrifying. I stepped out, arms raised like I was about to take flight. The motion came easy thanks to drills and training... but then I looked down.
Bad call.
Every nerve in my body decided to scream in unison. My legs locked up like rusted joints, and the roof felt a million miles away. The shaking started in my knees and spread until I was practically vibrating.
Then her voice cut through the mental static: "Hurry up, you're almost there—just jump!"
I jumped.
Landed like a sack of bricks right next to her. Not graceful, not heroic—just alive.
As I stood, trying to reclaim some dignity, a tremor shook the rooftop. Something huge hit the ground nearby. We turned just in time to see the plank teeter, then fall into the void between buildings.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Glad I wasn't still on that thing," I mumbled, mostly to myself.
Rosalia, of course, was already halfway across the rooftop, phone in hand, chasing the shot as she scurried up a small ladder to the next building that was thankfully connected to this one.
I caught up to her at the edge as the clash ensued below, only a small handful of buildings separated us from the action, some of which were still standing.
—
A hail of rubble burst from the freak's massive arms, tearing a path of devastation in its wake as Bruce tore down the ruined street with the kind of speed that could be mistaken for flight.
He flipped through the air with practiced grace, energy surging into his arm cannon before discharging in a blistering beam aimed with deadly precision—only to fizzle against a wall of self-repairing armor. The freak wasn't just massive—it was a walking fortress.
The fight had dragged on past the ten-minute mark, and Roger's squad was wearing thin. Injuries mounted on both the Hunters and the police scrambling to contain the area. Casualties had already started stacking.
Bruce exhaled heavily, the weight of the battle pressing on him. He was thankful, in a strange way, that he'd been on a lunch date before this whole mess. The date itself had tanked, but the full stomach gave him a little more gas in the tank. The Valor armor fed off him—mind, body, soul. It didn't take long for it to wear a person down.
Suddenly, an explosion slammed into the freak's chest. Smoke billowed out—dense, rolling, and wrong. Something about it didn't sit right. Bruce slowed, instincts flaring. He focused on the way the smoke curled downward, not rising as it should. It swirled into tiny eddies, disrupted and drawn by something deeper.
Then he saw it.
Just below the collar, nestled in the plate-black armor, were three dark, sunken spots. Almost invisible against the patchwork of metal and asphalt, but definitely not natural.
He opened the comm, urgency sharpening his voice.
"Rodger! Have Franky scan this freak for internal air cavities or ventilation. He's breathin' somehow, and I'd bet good money that's our shot at takin' him down."
For the first time since the fight began, Bruce felt a flicker of hope. A plan was taking shape—one that didn't end in them getting buried under rubble.
Rodger's voice came through the comm cool and steady. "Franky, you catch that?"
"Already on it," Franky replied, his voice cracklin' with excitement and that ever-present Southern drawl. "Y'all are gonna love this. Looks like we got ourselves some weak spots."
His drones zipped across the battlefield like angry hornets.
"There's a whole mess o' exhaust ports, and get this—there's a chamber inside the chest. Vent feeds right in through the mouth. Ol' boy here kept it basic. You crack that maw open wide enough, we can send someone in and finish the job up close."
Murmurs filled the channel as everyone processed the plan. Rodger broke the silence.
"Claudia, Niña—you're on point. Franky'll boost you. Rest of us keep this bastard distracted. Bruce—" His voice softened, just a little, like a brother watching the youngest head into the storm. "Try not to die when this thing collapses on top of you."
Bruce smirked behind the faceplate. "No promises."
With a subtle nod, Rodger raised his heavy sword and pointed it forward.
The Freak Hunters moved as one, a coordinated wave crashing with fluid precision. A series of explosive blasts from both powers and munitions hammered the freak's left side, concentrating their fire with surgical brutality.
Bruce raced toward a still-standing wall, twin jets flaring to life on his back, boosting his speed until he ran up the sheer surface like it was level ground. He vaulted high into the sky, energy gathering along his armor's sleek frame. Below, Niña and Claudia wasted no time, darting across the battlefield atop Franky's drones like stepping stones across a fast river.
Claudia reached the beast's gaping maw first, her bodybuilder's frame straining with raw power as she landed solidly. Every fiber of her being, honed by years of brutal work, came alive as she gripped the mouth and forced it open, stepping into the monster's jaws like Atlas bearing the weight of the heavens.
Niña followed close behind, materializing bracing rods from her suit's constructs, wedging them deep into the cracked stone and tar that made up the creature's body.
Claudia grunted, sweat beading her forehead as the monstrous jaws fought against her strength. "Let's hurry this up. It may be made of street an' concrete, but it still feels nasty as hell in here."
The beast trembled, the force behind its jaws intensifying. Claudia's skin flushed a deep crimson as her strength rose in response, steam venting from her pores.
"I'm almost done! Get ready to jump!" Niña shouted, securing the final brace.
Their eyes locked—no words needed—as they leapt, grabbing onto the hovering drones that swooped to catch them.
A final explosion rocked the battlefield, staggering the beast.
High above, Bruce hovered a moment, steeling himself. A long breath filled his lungs. He willed his armor to shift—the heavy Valor plates dissolving into a lean, aerodynamic second skin.
"Activate turbo armor," he whispered.
With a burst of thrusters along his limbs, Bruce became a spear of kinetic fury. He launched downward like an arrow shot from heaven, driving straight toward the freak's vulnerable core.
A blinding flash seared the horizon.
For a breathless moment, the street fell silent.
A thick, heavy silence, filled only by the faint creaking of shattered structures and the distant whistle of wind through broken windows.
Then, with a low groan, the monstrous armor cracked. Fragments of asphalt and concrete began to slough away, cascading first as pebbles, then whole slabs tumbling down like a slow-motion avalanche. Freak Hunters scrambled back, shielding their faces from the debris.
Dust billowed up in thick clouds, casting the battlefield in a muted haze.
Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the swirling dust—first Claudia, then Niña and Franky. They scanned the ruin with grim faces, moving carefully across the unstable wreckage.
Standing atop the heap, Claudia gauged where Bruce had fallen. Without hesitation, she dug in, tossing aside massive chunks like they weighed nothing.
Rodger barked orders, his voice steady and commanding. The squad fell in beside him, digging with a frantic but practiced urgency.
"Bruce! Where are ya, kid?" "Keep diggin'! Watch the slime!"
Closer to the core, the rubble grew sticky—coated in a sickly green adhesive that clung stubbornly to gloves and boots alike. The smell grew worse, a sour, metallic stench that curled in the nose.
A faint thump.
Then another.
The digging slowed, everyone freezing for a breath.
Then, with a wet, sickening crack, a figure burst from beneath the wreckage—sending a shower of slime, blood, and pulverized asphalt spraying in all directions.
"I've been slimed..." Claudia grunted, wiping a heavy glob of muck from her face with a scowl.
"Sorry, Lieutenant Claudia. I'm sure it don't smell that bad… though I wouldn't know with this on," Bruce said, knocking lightly on the side of his helmet with a tired grin.
He was coated head-to-toe in the grotesque mixture, his armor slick and dripping. It was impossible to tell where the freak's gore ended and the battlefield's dust began.
Rodger approached, hands on his hips, his mouth twitching at the corners. He looked for a second like he was about to clap Bruce on the back in a gesture of camaraderie—but at the last moment, he reconsidered, stepping back instead.
"Good work," Rodger said simply, giving Bruce a nod that spoke volumes more than words could.
Bruce returned the nod, weariness seeping into every line of his body. The adrenaline was wearing off now, leaving him heavy and hollow.
A sudden cheer broke the moment—excited voices from a rooftop that had somehow survived the carnage.
Bruce turned his head slowly, following the sound.
Niña caught his eye and jerked a thumb toward the source with a wry smile. "Don't be too hard on your fan club, hermano. They just love their Bruce."
Bruce let out a long, exhausted breath, stepping carefully onto more solid footing as he primed his thrusters to reach them. His gloved hand scratched absentmindedly at his helmet—forgetting it was still on.
"Of course," he muttered. "Doesn't mean I'm lettin' 'em off easy."
Niña chuckled lightly, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back casually. "Wouldn't expect nothin' less."
The dust continued to drift around them like snow as Bruce set off toward the rooftop, a weary but determined figure against the ruined skyline.
Bruce landed atop the battered rooftop with a heavy, armor-clad thud, sending a puff of dust spiraling into the air. Peter and Rosalia jumped, wide-eyed, the giddy excitement draining from their faces.
Bruce's helmet retracted with a sharp hiss, revealing a face streaked with sweat, grime, and an anger that barely concealed the bone-deep worry underneath. His jaw tightened as he stared them down.
"What the hell were y'all thinkin'?" he barked, his voice like a crack of thunder against the stunned silence. "This ain't some damn ball game you can come watch! You coulda been killed!"
Peter's back straightened instinctively, fists balling at his sides even as his lower lip trembled. "We weren't scared! I knew you wouldn't lose, Bruce! You're—you're incredible! You're you!"
Bruce's scowl faltered for a fraction of a second. His sharp gaze flicked to Peter's earnest, shining eyes—the same stubborn glint he saw every time he looked in the mirror—and something heavy settled in his chest.
"That ain't the point," Bruce said, quieter now, but no less firm. His voice carried the kind of weight that came from too many close calls and too many funerals. "It don't matter how sure you were. Out here, even the best can die. One stray chunk of concrete, one bad step, and you're gone. And ain't a damn thing I—or anyone—coulda done to stop it."
Peter faltered, shame creeping into his stubborn expression.
From behind him, Rosalia tried to quietly step back, as if willing herself invisible. Bruce's eyes snapped to her like a hawk spotting a rabbit.
"Rosalia," he growled, pointing a grimy finger at her. "Don't think I didn't see that damn phone. You were recording, weren't you? Tryin' to get views?"
Rosalia froze, the blood draining from her face as she hugged the phone to her chest.
"This ain't a joke, Rosa!" Bruce thundered. "This ain't a stunt for your lil' page, or somethin' you post to get likes! You coulda been flattened, both of you! An' if that'd happened—" He broke off, biting the words back like they physically hurt to say.
For a long, aching moment, none of them spoke. Just the sound of the ruined city groaning in the breeze.
Finally, Bruce raked a hand through his matted hair, exhaling a shuddering breath that seemed to pull all the anger out with it. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, but not sharp.
"C'mon," he muttered. "We're gettin' your stuff from the school. Pickin' y'all up early."
Peter shifted, inching a little closer to him, hope flickering through the shame. Rosalia still hung back, her shoulders curled inward, the phone now limp at her side.
Bruce turned toward the street, then stopped, glancing back at them over his shoulder.
"And we ain't tellin' Dad about this," he added, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No sense givin' the old man a heart attack."
Peter's face broke into a relieved, crooked grin, and he scrambled after Bruce, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry. Rosalia followed more hesitantly, dragging her feet—until Bruce, without even looking, reached back and tousled her hair with a gloved hand.
She blinked up at him, startled. Bruce met her eyes for a second, his expression softer now.
"We'll talk more later, Rosa. I ain't lettin' this slide. But for now... you stick close, hear me?"
She nodded silently, clutching the phone tighter—but this time, more like a security blanket than a trophy.
The three of them walked together through the battered remains of the city—still bruised, still a little broken, but side by side.
A family, battered but unbowed, moving forward together.