The first time the D2 were seen clearly, it was already too late.
Not shadows. Not distortions.
Not rumors.
Seen.
A rescue unit had been sent into what used to be a functioning district—communications had gone silent, but thermal scans still showed movement. Survivors, they thought.
Five armored vehicles entered the zone.
Only one signal came back out.
The footage was incomplete. Corrupted. Skipping frames. But the parts that remained were enough to change everything.
At first, the streets looked normal.
Empty, but untouched.
No signs of destruction. No fire. No bodies.
Then one of the soldiers spoke.
"…why is it so quiet?"
The audio cut for a second. When it returned, something was wrong.
The buildings weren't aligned the same way anymore.
Doors that had been on the left were now on the right.
Shadows stretched in directions that didn't match the light.
Then the first one appeared.
Not by entering.
By *being noticed.*
It stood in the middle of the road, tall and thin, its shape bending slightly as if it wasn't fully stable. Its surface wasn't solid—more like layers of something folding over each other. Where a face should have been, there was only a smooth curve… until it tilted.
And an eye opened.
Not on its head.
On its chest.
It looked at them.
And it smiled.
The soldiers fired immediately.
Rounds passed through it—and then slowed.
Not stopped.
Slowed.
Like they were moving through water.
The thing watched the bullets reach it… and then turned its head slightly, curious.
"…inefficient," it said.
The voice didn't come from its mouth.
It came from everywhere at once.
Then it moved.
The footage shook violently. One soldier disappeared mid-step—no sound, no impact, just gone. Another was lifted off the ground without anything touching him, his body distorting before the signal cut briefly again.
When it returned, only one soldier remained, breathing heavily, running.
"…they're not animals," he whispered.
Behind him, more shapes began to form.
Watching.
Learning.
Waiting.
The transmission ended there.
That was the moment humanity understood:
The D2 were not mindless.
They were aware.
And they were studying them.
—
The deaths escalated immediately after.
Entire zones were lost within hours of confirmed D2 presence. Evacuation routes failed. Reinforcements disappeared before arrival. Every attempt to hold territory resulted in the same outcome—total loss.
And the D2 did not rush.
They spread carefully.
Intentionally.
Like something mapping out the world piece by piece.
—
The first Meta(H) awakenings during this time were not heroic.
They were desperate.
Uncontrolled.
A boy trying to protect his family shattered an entire building without meaning to. A girl who could manipulate light blinded everyone around her—including herself. Others collapsed immediately after their abilities manifested, unable to handle the strain.
And some…
were taken.
Not killed.
Taken.
The D2 would pause in front of certain individuals, observing them longer than others. Sometimes, those people vanished without resistance, as if something had accepted them.
No one knew why.
—
The first team was not formed out of strategy.
It was formed out of fear.
Five teenagers.
Different awakenings. Different backgrounds.
Trapped in the remains of a transit station that had collapsed during a failed evacuation.
Above them, the D2 moved through the city.
Below, there was nowhere left to run.
They didn't know each other.
Didn't trust each other.
But they all understood one thing:
Alone, they would die.
—
The first to speak was a boy with unstable flame output—his hands still shaking from a power he clearly didn't understand.
"We can't keep running," he said, his voice uneven. "They're… herding us."
A girl sitting against the wall laughed weakly.
"Great. So what's the plan? Fight them?" she asked.
Silence followed.
Then another voice, quieter.
"…not alone."
They looked at each other.
Really looked, for the first time.
Different abilities.
Different reactions.
But something connected them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
Just… necessity.
—
When the D2 came, they didn't charge.
They entered slowly.
Two of them at first.
Then four.
Their forms shifted as they moved, adjusting, refining. One dragged its shape along the ceiling, watching from above. Another remained near the entrance, blocking escape without making it obvious.
They were learning positioning.
Learning pressure.
Testing reactions.
"…they're studying us," one of the teens whispered.
"Then we don't give them time," another replied.
And just like that—
They moved.
—
The fight was not clean.
It was chaos.
Flame surged forward too early, forcing one D2 to shift form before it had fully stabilized. Light burst across the space, disorienting both sides. A third teen moved faster than expected, striking—but misjudging distance as the target adjusted mid-attack.
Mistakes.
Constant mistakes.
But something began to change.
They adapted.
Not perfectly.
But together.
One created an opening.
Another took it.
One failed.
Another covered it.
And slowly—
The D2 stopped advancing.
Not retreating.
Observing.
Recalculating.
"…interesting," one of them said, its voice overlapping itself.
"You adapt under pressure."
It tilted its form slightly.
"Continue."
That was when they understood.
This wasn't just a fight.
It was a test.
—
They pushed harder.
Not because they were winning—
But because stopping meant being studied longer.
And being studied meant death.
—
When it ended, only three of the five were still standing.
The remaining D2 withdrew.
Not destroyed.
Not defeated.
They simply turned—
And left.
As if they had learned enough.
—
That was the first recorded instance of a successful Meta(H) team survival.
Not victory.
Survival.
—
After that, more teams formed.
Not by design.
But by instinct.
Groups of awakened teens began finding each other, either by chance or by shared encounters. Those who fought alone rarely lasted. Those who worked together… had a chance.
And the D2 noticed.
Their behavior changed.
They began targeting groups differently.
Separating them.
Isolating weaker members.
Attacking coordination itself.
It became a war not just of strength—
But of understanding.
—
In one of the earliest large-scale encounters, multiple Meta(H) teams were forced into the same battlefield when a Rift tear expanded beyond containment.
The sky above fractured again, just enough to remind the world of what had started all of this.
D2 entities emerged in numbers no one had seen before.
Not scattered.
Organized.
Positioned.
Watching from above, from structures, from the ground itself.
The teams didn't have time to prepare.
Didn't have time to plan.
But they didn't scatter either.
They held.
And for the first time—
They fought as more than separate groups.
—
Flame users pushed forward, forcing D2 entities into movement. Speed users intercepted anything that tried to break formation. Defensive abilities held lines where collapse would have meant complete loss.
There was no command structure.
No leader.
Only instinct and reaction.
And somehow—
It worked.
Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
—
And then the cost revealed itself.
Mid-battle, one of the fighters faltered.
Not from injury.
From something else.
The presence behind him—the unseen connection that had been fueling his power—flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then vanished.
He collapsed immediately.
No energy left.
No response.
Gone.
Others began to notice.
Every use of power was doing something.
Taking something.
Not from them—
But from what they were connected to.
—
The realization didn't stop the fight.
It couldn't.
But it changed it.
Every decision became heavier.
Every action carried weight.
Because now, survival didn't just depend on winning.
It depended on how much they were willing to lose to do it.
—
When the battle finally ended, the Rift tear stabilized again.
The D2 withdrew.
Not defeated.
Not destroyed.
Just… gone.
Like they had decided something.
—
The surviving teams were recovered soon after.
Studied.
Separated.
Then brought together again under controlled environments.
Not as individuals.
But as units.
For the first time, they were given names.
Not for recognition.
But for record.
For tracking.
For control.
—
Years later, those same teams would be remembered as the first heroes.
Statues built in their likeness.
Stories told about their strength.
Their courage.
Their victories.
But the truth was quieter.
They had not won.
They had learned how not to die.
—
In the present, those statues still stand.
Perfect.
Unmoving.
Unchanged by time.
People pass them every day without looking twice.
But one person stops.
A boy, standing just far enough away that his face is partially hidden in shadow.
His gaze moves slowly across the figures.
Not admiring.
Not questioning.
Recognizing.
As if he had seen them before—not as stone, but as something else entirely.
The air around him feels… off.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough.
"…so this is what you became," he says quietly.
No one responds.
Nothing moves.
But for a brief moment—
The faintest distortion passes across the surface of the statues.
And then it's gone.
The boy turns and walks away.
And the silence returns.