Chapter 66 Docks of Blood

March 15, 2025. Saturday. 6:00 a.m.

The morning air was damp with salt and rust, the kind of heaviness that clung to skin and metal alike. I stood before the giant metal doors, scarred with decades of graffiti layered over each other in a chaotic collage of tags and insults. I was in full costume with a porcelain mask hiding every hint of my face, a suit crisp despite the wear, a backpack heavy with the special delivery, and C4 strapped openly across my chest with the timer locked at ten seconds. The message was clear: one press of the button on my wristwatch, and the world in front of me would be fire and shrapnel.

My gaze drifted toward the squat guard booth beside the gates. Even this early, someone sat inside, hunched over a flimsy table with a styrofoam container of breakfast. Steam from rice and fried fish fogged the small window. For a second, they didn’t notice me, too lost in their mundane ritual. I raised the megaphone, the plastic cold against my gloved hand, and let my voice carry through the stillness of dawn.

“Seamark, hear me people! I’m back, and I am here to finish what I started!”

The guard nearly dropped his fork. His eyes snapped wide, the container spilling onto the floor as he fumbled to react. I tossed the megaphone aside, letting the echo of my declaration hang in the air. A grenade slid into my hand, its pin already loosened, and with a flick of my wrist, I lobbed it at the booth. Glass shattered, smoke erupted, and I phased cleanly through the gates while the blast tore the quiet apart.

At first, the docks seemed deserted with just rows of stacked shipping containers, the faint groan of cranes swaying overhead, and the distant cries of gulls. Then, like rats flushed from the shadows, dock workers poured out of hiding. They carried submachine guns and rifles, and though most were ordinary men, they moved with the discipline of people drilled for this moment. They opened fire in bursts, bullets slicing through the space I occupied. I didn’t even flinch. The projectiles passed harmlessly through me, clattering against metal crates with hollow clangs.

I kept my grenades tucked away. Those weren’t for nameless laborers. Instead, I reached into my jacket, pulled free a single card, and flicked it across the air. It hummed with sharp precision before lodging into the throat of one unlucky shooter, phasing in and out as I willed it until blood sprayed across the rusted dock floor. The others panicked, scattering behind crates, yelling for cover. They still tried to fire potshots from their hiding spots, desperate but foolish. I sent more cards lazily in their direction whenever they revealed themselves, thinning the herd one by one as I advanced deeper into the maze of containers.

The problem was simple: I didn’t know where the Captain was hiding, and I needed to drag him out. Noise alone wouldn’t be enough. Fear had to be painted in blood.

A heavyset figure burst from behind a shipping crate, charging at me like a bull. His long hair whipped around his pale face, his jaw twisted with fury, and his bulk made him look more beast than man. Something about him was familiar as memories of Albert’s debt-collecting thugs in my surfaced in my mind. Flat Top? Juanit0? Tino? The name escaped me, but the ugliness was unmistakable. He wasn’t a cape, not officially, though he carried the kind of bruiser build that hinted at a touch of super strength.

He barreled through me, unable to connect, momentum carrying him forward. I caught his shirt as he passed, phasing it into his chest while keeping it solid. The fabric lodged inside him, tangling with his ribs and lungs. He spasmed instantly, choking, yet his body still resisted with stubborn resilience. He swung a fist wide, but it passed through me just as uselessly as the bullets had.

I tripped him with ease, forcing one foot intangibly into the ground, then snapped it back to solid. The explosion of trauma shredded flesh and bone, and his scream cracked the morning silence. He collapsed to one knee, clutching the stump where his foot used to be, blood soaking into the dirt. His eyes were wide with terror, not defiance, when I raised a card and swiped it across his forehead. The ace of clover shimmered between intangible and tangible in a heartbeat, and he crumpled without another sound.

Breathing steady, I stood over the body, then turned my attention back toward the maze of crates and the shadows that hid whoever dared oppose me. I raised my voice again, letting it echo against steel and sea.

“Seamark! Stop sending me your goons and weaklings. I’m not here to swat flies. Send someone worth my time… or I’ll tear this whole place apart while I wait.”

I stopped walking and planted myself firmly in the open, daring them to answer.

Seamark’s men didn’t let up. They fired relentlessly from behind their cover, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing through the docks, joined by the hollow clatter of shells bouncing across the pavement. Some grew bold, lobbing grenades from behind crates, their arcs whistling through the morning air before detonating uselessly against concrete and steel. An RPG screamed toward me, the warhead tearing a straight line right at me. Fucking idiot. You shoot at the ground for maximized damage with that thing, and not directly! I stood my ground, letting the rocket pass harmlessly through my body before it slammed into a container behind me, blowing open the rusted metal in a rain of sparks and debris.

Crow’s voice brushed against my ear. “You know, if this continues, you’d suffer power fatigue first before Seamark sends a cape your way. Or is your plan to exhaust their ammunition first? I guessed that’s a win for me too. But you and I know that’s impossible. Come on, you have to do better than this!”

The barrage slowed, as if my words carried through the smoke. I raised my voice, taunting the shadows where their shooters hid. “And here I thought Seamark was the strongest gang of the three. But I guessed I was expecting too much. No wonder the Captain nearly died by my hands… The man’s grown senile, and his ranks were filled with cowards!”

Silence followed. The gunfire died away completely, and that could only mean one thing. Orders.

Crow whispered again, sharper this time. “Even if they send their capes, remember there’s quite a lot of them. Seamark has the largest roster among the three gangs.”

He wasn’t wrong.

From the corner of a shipping crate emerged three figures I knew well.

Hookhand stepped forward first, dressed in his absurd pirate-themed costume, chrome plating glinting where flesh had been replaced. His right arm ended in the namesake hook, gleaming like freshly polished steel. Gravitykinetic-4, Technopath-2… he was versatile, dangerous, and, worst of all, pragmatic. Beside him waddled Salt-Eye, a bloated man with a grotesque singular eye swallowing his face. The pale orb shimmered unnaturally, a reservoir of crystallized death. His ratings were unknown, but his reputation was infamous. When he fired, salt peeled through flesh like they were acid. The third was Slipchain, her disfigured face half-hidden behind hair and shadow, glowing chains coiled like serpents around her arms. Conjurer-3, Telekinetic-1, Enhancer-1. I remembered how her chains could multiply and slither independently, every link a weapon in its own right.

Hookhand’s modulated voice crackled through his helmet. “Mind the C4. That timer isn’t just for show. Avoid close combat… he’ll gut you the moment you touch him.”

Salt-Eye gave a curt nod, raising one thick hand in a silent gesture, his lack of a mouth making speech impossible.

Slipchain bared her teeth in something that was half a grin, half a threat. “Let’s go make a name for ourselves.”

I lifted my hand, palm outward, a casual gesture as if to say, wait.

They froze. To my surprise, they actually obeyed. It was absurd, but the hesitation gave me the opening I needed. I snapped my right wrist, triggering a hidden mechanism beneath my sleeve. Metal unfolded, clicking into place, and a compact gun snapped into my waiting grip.

Slipchain reacted instantly, her chains hissing to life, snapping forward to shield her. She wove them into a wall of glowing links, a net designed to intercept whatever I fired. But I had already imbued the bullet with intangibility. The shot cracked across the docks, piercing straight through her defenses as if they didn’t exist. The round slammed square into her forehead, and the light in her eyes vanished before her body hit the ground.

Slipchain had always been the biggest threat. Her chains were extensions of her will, projectiles, whips, and gauntlets all at once. She could overwhelm me through sheer numbers, wearing me down until fatigue ate through my powers. Eliminating her first was the only move that made sense.

Salt-Eye let out a guttural cry, his singular eye narrowing into a burning point. His voice was rough, unshaped, more pain than language. “No! She’s my friend!”

I raised the gun and fired again, this time at him. But Hookhand was faster than expected. Chrome shifted along his body, forming an expanding shield that unfolded with mechanical precision. The bullet struck it, phasing partially through, the mechanism not entirely immune to my tricks. It slipped past the barrier’s edge and clipped Salt-Eye in the shoulder. He staggered back, clutching at the wound, thick salt crystals seeping from the injury like a grotesque discharge.

Hookhand’s cybernetics hummed, his hook glowing faintly as he adjusted for another defense. He was the type who learned quickly.

Salt-Eye roared again, his massive eye flaring bright white. A torrent of salt burst from it, spraying the dock like a living sandstorm, corrosive and blinding.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of landing the hit, running for my life.

“You got a shitty aim,” I taunted Salt-Eye. “And a small dick!”

“I DON’T HAVE A SMALL DICK!”

I didn’t prioritize Salt-Eye the way I had Slipchain. He was slow, clumsy, and his aim was absolute trash. That didn’t mean he was harmless. His blasts stripped matter like sandpaper grinding down steel, flaying flesh clean off bone, but the man couldn’t hit the broad side of a container unless someone helped him. That was where Hookhand came in. His gravity tricks weren’t subtle. He could only pull toward himself, but paired with Salt-Eye, it made the slob dangerous.

A sudden force yanked at my chest, dragging me across the concrete like a rag doll. I dug in with intangibility, tried to slip free of the pull the way I’d countered Janah’s telekinesis, but gravity wasn’t the same. It clung to me, an anchor gnawing at my insides, and I couldn’t phase out of it. Hookhand had me.

Salt-Eye lifted his swollen eye, a glimmer sparking inside it as the salt began to condense a second time, ready to slaughter me. The bastard had me lined up like a bullseye.

“Not today,” I muttered.

I unclipped a pair of grenades from my belt and let them drop. Gravity yanked it toward Hookhand like a gift. His helmet snapped toward it, panic sharp in his voice. “Shit!” The pull on me vanished immediately as he disengaged to avoid catching his own death.

I slipped intangible again, hitting the ground in a roll and straight to intangibility as the salt blast shredded past me. If that had connected, I’d be coughing blood and gasping with fatigue. Instead, I reappeared a few steps to the right as I phased off the ground, untouched. Salt-Eye wasn’t so lucky with shrapnel carving through his bulk. His body crumpled, pocked with jagged metal, and a bleeding husk before he even hit the floor.

Hookhand survived, but barely. His left leg dragged uselessly behind him, chrome plating sparking where the explosion had torn through. He staggered away, limping hard, blood leaking from under his armor.

I walked after him casually, whistling off-key, like a hunter toying with a crippled animal. The Seamark goons screamed orders, returning fire in frantic bursts, trying to buy him space. Their bullets raked through me harmlessly, ricocheting against steel containers and sparking the ground. I didn’t even bother acknowledging them.

The ground shook. A container slid, toppled, then flew aside like a child’s toy. A thunderous clamor followed as something massive charged out. It was a hulking power armor, thick plating hissing steam, and glowing ports across its frame.

Rustraw. One of Seamark’s infamous old hounds. A veteran with Researcher-6, too stubborn to retire, and too smart to underestimate. The old geezer finally decided to join the fun.

I grinned beneath the mask. “Finally. A heavy-hitter.”

But I wasn’t stupid. If he’d designed that suit himself, then anti-phasing measures weren’t impossible. One mistake and I’d be the one splattered across the docks.

From my left sleeve, I fired the grappling hook. The motor whirred, the line whipping out and sinking into Hookhand’s wounded shoulder with a meaty crunch. He screamed, but I reeled him in, the motor dragging his body toward me with absurd strength for something so compact.

Crow’s voice purred in my ear, smug. “I only equip my people with the best of the best.”

I caught Hookhand by the throat, pressing my chest against his back. He thrashed, cursing, but he was mine now. Rustraw slowed, his massive arms lifting, rocket pods shifting into position.

“Don’t even think about saving me!” Hookhand shouted hoarsely. “Kill this motherfucker! I know you can do it, old man!”

The irony made me laugh. I shoved him forward like an offering, three live grenades already phased into his torso.

Rustraw fired, but not after the grenades inside Hookhand went off at once.

The explosion painted the docks in gore, Hookhand’s body bursting into chunks that splattered against Rustraw’s armor, coating the suit in smoking viscera. Shrapnel whined through the air, embedding in steel crates and peppering the armor itself, damaging joints and ports.

Rustraw staggered, blinded by blood and mechanical error, but his arms still fired. Rockets launched wild, streaking with strange pink contrails before erupting in blossoms of energy that screamed and crackled unnaturally. Containers exploded in showers of sparks, flame roaring as metal crumpled. The shockwave rattled the ground, and Seamark’s surviving goons broke, scattering in terror.

I didn’t wait for him to recalibrate. I slipped right, hugging the shadows, dodging a stray rocket that lit the pier behind me with another of those warped pink blasts. Something about those explosions was wrong. There was too much noise and too much static in the air.

By the time Rustraw tried to compensate, I was already at his flank. His suit sparked, hydraulics wheezing, his desperation reeking from the way he clawed at the head panel. With a metallic screech, he pried it open, revealing the pilot inside.

A thin, gaunt old man blinked at me through smeared goggles, his face pale with shock.

I didn’t hesitate. I leapt, closing the distance in a blink, and dragged a card across his throat. The card flickered between intangible and tangible, cutting flesh as easily as paper. His gasp turned to a wet gurgle, and blood sprayed across the interior of the cockpit and painting my porcelain mask red.

The power armor convulsed, hydraulics seizing. Then the entire frame toppled backward, crashing onto its spine with a hollow metallic boom.

I landed lightly on its chest plate, standing above the ruin I’d created. Around me, the docks were chaos with the flames eating through containers, smoke rising into the dawn, and Seamark’s men broken and fleeing. I stood tall atop the wreck, surveying the destruction like a painter admiring his canvas.

“Oh Captain, oh Captain… how many of your toys do I have to break before you crawl out here yourself?”