The baroness swung open the door to her five-star hotel suite, her arms weighed down by shopping bags stuffed with new clothes.
A cheerful whistle slipped from her lips as she stepped inside, taking in the luxurious space—marble floors glowing under soft golden lights, velvet drapes drawn back to reveal a sweeping balcony, and a king-sized bed dressed in silken sheets. Satisfaction warmed her chest.
She crossed to the minibar, plucked out a bottle of wine, and grabbed a crystal glass for form’s sake. Then drifted onto the balcony.
Below her, Utopia unfurled like a dream. Sleek silver towers spiraled toward the sky, neon rails traced the flow of sky-traffic, and the streets buzzed with life. People strolled along floating walkways while caped heroes soared overhead, streaks of color against the sunset.
The sight tugged at her. It reminded her of the Tyrants—how exhausting and frightening it had been to keep her composure in a room full of ticking bombs.
“Nope,” she muttered, popping the cork.
She examined the glass for a moment, then she decided to drink straight from the bottle instead. The wine burned warm down her throat, drowning the thought she didn’t want to surface.
She turned away from the balcony, leaving the city and its ghosts behind.
With a graceless flop, she let herself fall onto the soft, overstuffed bed. The mattress seemed to swallow her whole. She exhaled—long, relieved, bone-deep.
*Finally,* she thought as her eyes drifted shut.
*I can rest.*
The baroness sank deeper into the pillow’s comforting embrace. Half-asleep and fully spoiled by luxury, she lifted her wrist toward her face.
“Hey, box thingy,” she called lazily to her Thinker.
The slim band lit up with a soft blue glow. “Yes, Sofia. How may I assist you?”
“Clear my plans for tomorrow. I don’t feel like sightseeing anymore… I just want to sleep,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against the impossibly soft pillowcase.
“I have cleared all of your plans for tomorrow. Is there anything else I can do for you Sofia?”
“Yeah… I don’t like the name Sofia. Try changing it to Maria.” She suggested.
“Very well. I have changed your username to Maria. Do you like it, Maria?”
The baroness frowned.
It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like her.
Names were surprisingly difficult. How did parents do this—pick something powerful, meaningful, fitting—for a baby?
She chuckled softly, realizing that, in this situation, she was the baby.
“Baby, huh…” she whispered to herself.
The word snagged a memory—The Tyrants.
Their chaos. Their egos. Their unbelievable talent for destruction. And, of course, her unofficial role as their babysitter.
And then, gently intruding on her thoughts—
The Pretender.
The one who admired her.
The only one who didn’t scare her.
The one who, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, wanted to protect.
“Ugh… I shouldn’t have told her off like that,” she mumbled, annoyed at herself.
That was the last thing the Pretender saw of her. That was how she would remember her.
The Thinker chimed softly, still awaiting new instructions.
“Box thingy, can you call the Pretender?” she tried, hoping it might understand.
“Very well. The Pretender is an enigmatic figure and the lead—”
“Stop.” The baroness cut it off.
“Of course you don’t get what I mean,” she groaned.
How was she going to contact her?
Should she even try?
Or care?
She sighed, sinking deeper into the bed.
Then, suddenly, an idea came.
“Hey, box thingy—try calling Dolly for me,” she ordered.
_________________________________
From a distance, he might have passed for Havoc—but up close, the differences were impossible to miss. His frame was too thin, the padding sloppily painted, the military vest stuffed with random bullet magazines that clinked when he moved. What should’ve been a bodysuit underneath was just a wrinkled green hoodie in the completely wrong shade.
Up close, it got worse. No mask—just smeared clown makeup, uneven and oily, stretching his smile into something lopsided. Dyed red hair jutted out in stiff clumps, like bristles on a broom.
This wasn’t Havoc.
But a strange man wearing the idea of him.
“Y–yeah, I’m fine,” The Pretender said, her voice thin, aware of how close the knockoff clown stood.
“You don’t seem fine,” The clown said mildly.
“Mind if I ask what’s bothering you?”
She stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ground, hoping he’d understand and leave.
“Let’s see…” He tapped his chin
“Someone died?”
The Pretender gave no reaction.
“Lose your job?”
Still Nothing.
Across the park, people begin to stare. Parents whispered as they passed, steering children away, casting uneasy looks at the clown. It made sense—he was dressed as Havoc, an actual supervillain. He didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Did your boyfriend break up with you?”
“Someone you care about left you behind?”
She flinched. It was close enough to sting.
“Ah. That’s it.” He dropped onto the bench beside her and scooted close enough that his sleeve brushed hers.
“I get how you’re feeling,” he said, softer now.
“Being betrayed is one of the worst things that can happen to someone. Betrayal never comes from enemies, you know?”
“With Utopia being run by degenerates, the amount of rats just keeps racking up these days.”
She blinked, not following. Before she could respond, his tone shifted without warning.
“People here are too cozy with the idea of a city built by superheroes they can’t see the how Utopia itself was built on betrayal.” He gestured wildly, as if unveiling a conspiracy.
“When Victory invited the world to come here, he promised us the Utopian dream.”
“Twenty years later, all those thirty-five million people he invited work like slaves for the companies owned by him and The Elites. Turning Utopia as largest private entity the world had ever seen overnight.”
“You see what I’m saying?” He leaned in.
“Um… I don’t know,” she said, scanning the park for a way out.
“What I’m trying to say,” he sighed,
“It's not your fault people left you. This city rots everyone’s without they realizing. You’re just another victim of its corruption.”
“O…kay?” she said, already shifting forward.
“Bunch of selfish assholes running the world. If it weren't for The Elites everyone would be happier. Your girlfriend wouldn’t have dumped you, you wouldn’t have lost your house or your dog.” His words spilled out faster now, more to convince himself rather than her.
“Someone has to fix this city. That’s why people like me exist.”
He held out a gloved hand. The leather was cracked, darkened with age and grime.
“I am Havoc of the Workers’ Association. Our mission is to end Utopia’s corruption and I’m offering you a chance to join our cause.”
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“We won’t abandon you. We’ll get what is owed to us.”
“I—I have to go,” Robin said quickly dismissing her hand and pushing up from the bench.
But his hand clamped around her arm before she could walk away.
“What—what are you doing?” she gasped.
“I’m helping you!” the clown snapped,
“I don’t want your help!” she shot back, but his grip only tightened
The crowd around them thickened. Parents pulled their kids away while whispers rippled through the onlookers.
“You need to understand—no one's coming back for you! I can show you the truth!” he yanked her arm more aggressively this time.
“Take your hands off her!” a familiar voice cut through the crowd.
All eyes turned to see a spiky brown hair, tanned skin, a plaster across the bridge of his nose.
Nikolai. The man from yesterday.
The crowd parted as he strode forward, their thinker already rising to record him.
“Sir,” Nikolai said evenly, “I’m going to ask you to let go of her.”
“Why? I’m not doing anything wrong!” the clown protested.
Nikolai glanced to her. “Do you need help, ma’am?”
The moment the clown was distracted, The Pretender tore her arm free and vanished into the shelter of the crowd.
“Whoa, calm down. I barely touched you.” The clown grumbled—offended, not apologetic. “You people love playing the victim.”
“Leave her alone,” Nikolai warned
The clown scoffed. “Look at you— playing the hero! She’s not gonna sleep with you, dude!”
Nikolai’s tone softened ignoring the rude remarks “I get it. You get screwed over. But taking it out on everyone else is wrong.”
The crowd murmured in agreement. A few nodded, openly criticizing the clown. The clown noticed the shift—
“The double standard is disgusting! If it was the Elites who did it, you wouldn’t care—this is what’s wrong with society!” he snapped, pointing wildly at the crowd.
“Sir, please calm down,” Nikolai said firmly.
“You’re no hero! You don’t even know a damn thing about being one!” he shouted, a faint red glow flickered through his fingertips.
“Breacher!” People screamed. The crowd broke—shoving, scattering, bodies colliding as panic surged through the park.
“We don't have to do this,” Nikolai voice rising
“Too bad! I’m about to teach you what a true superhero is!” the clown roared, charging toward him.
Nikolai raised his arm, getting into a defensive stance.
"Lesson one: Never let your guard down!" the clown snarled.
KRATHOOM
The crowd fled in full panic now—screaming, trampling, abandoning bags as they poured out of the park in every direction.
Nikolai quickly pushed himself back to his feet.“That’s the second psycho clown I’ve run into this week,” he grumbled under his breath.
The clown sauntered toward him with a lazy swagger, rummaging through a pocket on his military vest and pulling out a bullet magazine.
“You’re as tough as you look,” the clown called arrogantly from across the street.
“But I used to be an actual superhero!” He plucked a single bullet free and twirled it between his fingers.
“Your second lesson…” He rolled it between his index and middle finger, then raised his thumb—forming a finger-gun aimed squarely at Nikolai. “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight!”
Red energy began to coil between his fingers—focused, dense, far more potent than before.
THOOM!
Nikolai twisted his body aside, narrowly dodging the shot.
BOOM—CRASH!
"Stop it!" Nikolai shouted. "You're putting civilians in danger!"
"Then take the bullet for them!” the clown yelled back mockingly. He twirled another bullet between his fingers. Daring Nikolai.
"This guy's lost it," Nikolai muttered.
Nikolai inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly and steadily. His feet planted, setting his stance. His body squared. Fists rose into a tight boxing guard.
“You shit-for-brains! Are you actually going to take it?” the clown jeered, taking another aim.
KA-THOOM!
Nikolai held firm. He drew his fist back and drove it forward the moment the bullet came into range.
BOOM!
“Heh,” he chuckled, proud of his move.
“WHAT?! The fuck was that?!” the clown shouted, his voice cracking in disbelief.
“Lesson number three!” Nikolai called back. “Never reveal your hand!”
“You son of a bitch!” the clown cursed.
Brimming with confidence, Nikolai broke into a run toward the clown.
KA-THOOM!
BOOM! Nikolai smash it with a right hook.
KA-THOOM!
BOOM! Nikolai’s uppercut split the next one
“Deflect this, bitch!” the clown roared, shoving bullets between each finger this time—both hands loaded.
KA-THOOM! KA-THOOM!
The first bullet came into reach—Nikolai snatched it out of the air while it still spun.
The second approached—he backhanded it with the same hand, shattering it into fragments.
He uncurled his fist, letting the first bullet drop to the ground with a dull clink.
“Hmph.” He smirked again.
“No! No! No!” The clown scrambled through his vest, panic overtaking his bravado as he searched for more ammo.
Nikolai didn’t hesitate.
Taking advantage of the moment, he closed the distance in a blink.
Pow! And drove a brutal jab straight into the clown’s face—a clean payback for the sucker punch earlier.
The clown flew backward, ragdolling across the ground
"Arrrgh!" The clown groaned and collapsed. Blood spilled from his nose, splattering onto the ground.
Nikolai advanced, ready to finish the fight.
The clown dragged himself upright, dropped to one knee—and raised his hands again.
But this time, he wasn’t aiming at Nikolai.
He pointed his crackling arm toward a cluster of civilians frozen nearby. Their Thinker raised to take pictures of their fight, unaware they were being held hostage.
"Don’t you fucking dare take another step!" the clown threatened.
Nikolai froze instantly. He was just a few steps away from reaching him.
"Stay back, or they’ll get it!” the clown shouted.
“Alright,” Nikolai said, backing away slowly. “Just don’t hurt them—.”
"Stop acting like a hero!" the clown roared. "You think you’re better than me?!"
“Just shut the fuck up!” the clown warned.
Nikolai clenched his jaw and snapped his mouth shut, forcing himself not to provoke him further.
“Good…” the clown sneered. Blood dribbled from his nose into his mouth, giving him an unsettling resemblance to the real Havoc. “Now—arms above your head.”
Nikolai hesitated, then raised them.
The clown giggled. “You’re not a hero… I’m the real hero. Javelin—ever heard of me?” He tilted his head, daring Nikolai to answer.
“I worked for those shithead Elites my whole damn life. I thought I was doing good.” His grin stretched wildly.
“Turns out they don’t even care if I die.”
With his free hand, the clown pulled another bullet from his vest, aiming it straight at Nikolai.
“The same goes for you.” He leaned forward.
The bullet steadied, energy crackling—
THUD!
The clown was struck hard in the back of the head, collapsing onto his back.
"Arrgh…" he groaned, his breath hitching as blood trickled down his forehead.
The Pretender stood over the fallen clown, a brick clenched in her right hand, arm raised.
"Never let your guard down," she recalled his advice with an ice cold tone.
THUD!
THUD!
THUD!
The brutal assault she unleashed on the defenseless clown rooted Nikolai in place with horror. The clown had stopped moving, yet the brick kept coming down.
THUD!
Her arm rose again, the brick in hand, casting a long, sharp shadow over the crumpled body.
THUD!
--------------
The Pretender sat silently by the curb, police surrounding the area as they secured the crime scene and kept overeager onlookers from snapping pictures.
Nearby, Nikolai head bowed in shame while officers continued to scold him for his recklessness.
The clown was loaded onto a stretcher and hauled into a flying ambulance.
The Pretender stared into the distance, lost in thought, already weighing what would come next for her.
“Hey… you okay?” Nikolai approached gently.
“Am I in trouble?” she asked, avoiding eye contact.
"The cops won’t bother you. I handled it," Nikolai said, shaking his head softly.
"Are... you okay?" he asked.
Her eyes snapped up, sharp and guarded. “Are you about to ask me to join a cult too?”
Nikolai let out a chuckle—then instantly stopped when her expression didn’t change.
“Oh… you’re serious.” His voice dropped. “Sorry. No. I’m not trying to do anything.”
The Pretender exhales quietly under her breath without another word.
The silence now stretched between them. Nikolai fidgeted, uncomfortable with the quiet.
he wondered.
His lip curled as he forced himself to speak.
“Th—thank you, for saving me back there.” Nikolai complimented her, hoping it would cheer her up.
“You saved me first,” she replied quietly, studying him without making it obvious.
she thought.
“What's the deal with the clown? Why’s he dressed like that?” she asked, trying to make up a conversation to test him.
“Oh, that? He’s a member of the Workers’ Association,” Nikolai explained.
“Workers’ Association? Dressing like that?"
“They went off the rails years ago,” he explained. “Started blowing up government buildings, kidnapping people. They wear costumes to provoke the public—especially superheroes. That’s their main target.”
“The clown was an ex-hero called Javelin who got fired for harassment,” he added. “So he was probably more than eager to join them.”
She nodded slowly, as if filing the information away.
“You seem to know a lot about them,” she asked, keeping her tone light “Are you a hero too?”
“Nah, but I am in the process of joining the hero program.” Nikolai replied with an easy smile.
“Hero Program? That’s cool,” she said, leaning forward as if merely curious.
“So you fought The Tyrants or something?” The question was light, teasing—meant to catch his reaction.
Nikolai chuckled. “That’s above most people’s pay grade,” he said, amused, though she caught the flicker of uncertainty in his posture.
she thought.
“Plus, they're dead,” Nikolai explained. “But we do learn about them in class.”
“Tell me more,” she said gently, pressing just enough.
“Nothing interesting—just the Tyrants’ history, theories about who they might’ve been.” He shrugged. “Honestly, not really my thing.”
She tilted her head, interest flashing briefly before she smoothed it away.
“That sounds interesting,” she continues.
“You must be really excited to begin your studies at…” She let the sentence trail off, inviting him to fill in the blank.
“Kingsley Academy,” he supplied.
“Kingsley Academy,” she echoed, rolling the name over her tongue
She smiled, filing everything away.
Nikolai tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face, and smiled back—sheepish, unguarded.
“Look at the time,” she said suddenly, glancing at her Thinker and rising.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go now.”
“Oh,” Nikolai muttered, disappointment creeping into his voice.
“Thank you again, for everything. Nikolai.” The Pretender said with a small smile as she offered a polite nod, then turned to leave.
“Wait—I still haven’t caught your name.”
She paused mid-step, then glanced over her shoulder. Her smile was warm, teasing, completely in control.
“Until we meet again.”
She held his gaze just long enough to see if he would move, then turned and quickly melted into the crowd, leaving him with more questions than answers.
Nikolai stood there, watching her disappear among the people.
He chuckled, glad just to have talked to someone his age—but a small disappointment lingered at not learning her name.
He frowned.
He shrugged and let it go.
---------
The Pretender pushed through the crowd, determination burning in her chest. She wasn’t lost anymore. She knew exactly what she had to do.
Her steps quickened, thoughts racing. She needed to infiltrate Kingsley Academy and dig into the Tyrants’ history. Maybe there, she’d find answers about her own past.
“Hey!” a voice called, but she didn’t hear it.
It wasn’t much, but it was a lead—and that was enough.
The problem: how to get in. Sneaking in? Security would be tight.
Applying for a job? She barely understood how the world worked.
Applying as a student? That might actually work—she was about Nikolai’s age, after all. But she had no resume, no credentials, not even a proper identity. Could she forge them?
Come on. You’re The Pretender. Your whole thing is being someone else.
She pushed deeper through the crowd.
“Where are you going?” someone called louder, but she still didn’t notice.
She didn’t know how to use her power yet. But now, it was her only option. She had to learn—somehow.
This would be so much easier if the Tyrants were here. But they weren’t. They had abandoned her. She could rely on no one but herself.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm.
“Hey, are you even listening?” the voice demanded, urgent.
She snapped her head around. The clown? No. Someone she knew.
The Baroness.
“What’s wrong with you?” the Baroness exasperated. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“What… what are you doing here?” the Pretender whispered, shock softening her voice.
“Didn’t you get the messages? We’re going back.”
“Going back?” The Pretender’s heart raced.
“To the White House, with everyone,” the Baroness replied, tugging her along.
