Greg Vs Raid 9-25 (Patreon)

Greg knelt on the edge of the tar-paper roof, red leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers dug into crumbling concrete. New England wind bit through the open top of his helmet, whipping bright blond hair around his white lenses. The backstreet Greg had tracked them to was a dead end, following the path of chaos in the streets until they ended over a literal brick wall going nowhere. Below them at the very end of the alley, a girl huddled in the shadows while five figures fanned out in a perfect, silent half-circle to cut off the exit.

"All these Masters, man… ugh, hate these fuckers." A low hiss slipped through the yellow honeycomb grill of Sparky’s mask, the dark-haired boy shifting his weight from one high-top to the other. "Just punch me in the face, you know?"

"If they would, they probably could." Theo’s voice was a knife through Sparky’s static in the late afternoon air, arms across his chest as the oversized gray hoodie swallowed his chub. "But if a Master was also a Brute, then that would be a force multiplier worth worrying about."

“...So…” Sparky hummed out loud. “Glory Girl’s definitely a Master, right?”“Of course.” The pale white LED face on Theo’s silver mask tilted up into a smile. “There’s no doubting it.”

"Yeah, no, th-" Greg leaned further over the ledge as he tracked the girl backed against the dumpster; dark hair streaked red over a pretty face.

Wait.

"I know her.” The Hardkour rasp bled into his throat as his eyes narrowed behind his white lenses. “Isn’t she a Master too?”“Wait, she kinda look like me but older?” A third voice came from behind him.“...yeah.”“A lil’ slutty too?”

“I mean…” Greg turned his head, white lenses locking onto the smirking face of his hostage-turned-annoyance. “Yeah?”

"Yeaaaah," Alec drawled, lounging against an AC block with the absolute boneless posture of a guy waiting for a bus that was already late. "Sounds like my big sis. She’s a mega-bitch."

"No,” Greg shook his head. “I mean I saved her. A couple weeks ago. From some guy attacking her in an alley."

"Still a bitch," Alec added, completely ignoring the added context.

Greg stared at him. The sheer, unbothered audacity of the guy was a physical weight. "So, you want me to save her too?"

Alec blinked, light blue eyes shifting away to stare at a water stain on the roof. "I guess, sure if you want."

Regent’s tone scraped right against the edge of Greg's patience, the masked ninja-cape letting out a breath. "You’re not much of a family guy, are you?"

"I prefer American Dad."

A sharp, ugly snort blasted out of the honeycomb grill of Sparky’s mask.

Greg whipped his head around, glaring absolute daggers through the red polycarbonate of his visor.

Sparky held up both padded black gloves in surrender, shoulders still shaking slightly. "Okay, look. That was a little funny. You gotta admit, the timing was—"

"Shut up.” He couldn't deal with this right now, not when the five figures in the alley were closing the distance. Analyze. Analyze. Analyze. Analyze. Analyze.

Almost a half-dozen translucent blue boxes flared into existence, each one telling him everything and nothing.

[ Guillaume Vasil (Blackglass) ] [ Lvl 19 ] [ Opera Thief ] [ Trait: Multi-Sensory Monitor ] [ HP: 225/225 ] [ A prettyboy almost designed in a lab to make people hate themselves a little, Blackglass runs the Heartbroken and acts like the calm one, even though he’s just as damaged as everyone else in his family. And he’s also Canadian, so there’s that to deal with. ]

Greg’s eye twitched behind the mask. Okay, that’s the leader. The guy in the black silk shirt and the silver opera mask, standing right next to the shorter kid next to him in the dark hoodie.

[ Nicholas Vasil (Harrow) ] [ Lvl 15 ] [ Panic Prince ] [ Trait: Autonomic Terror Induction ] [ HP: 210/210 ] [ Yeah, look, trauma affects everyone differently, but this kid’s kinda weird, okay? And it’s not just the dead-eyed “don’t test me” stillness. Long story shorts, in a family full of sociopaths, fear comes in handy. ]

Autonomic terror. Great. A walking panic attack made all the craziness in the city make so much more sense. Greg’s eyes flicked over to the girl in the pale mask and the silver bracelets that chimed faintly even at a distance.

[ Valentina Vasil (Echochamber) ] [ Lvl 12 ] [ Nightmare Doll ] [ Trait: Recursive Affective Amplification ] [ HP: 130/130 ] [ The quiet one, but she somehow manages to make a room louder by being in it. Wears jewelry that makes the tiniest sound, like she’s reminding you she actually exists without a word. A big fan of heavy metal, which makes sense as much as anything else does. ]

The little girl in the white doll mask came next..

[ Florence Vasil (Hookneedle) ] [ Lvl 14 ] [ Miss Murmur ] [ Trait: Contact Compulse-Seed ] [ HP: 120/120 ] [ Small, and harmless-looking in the way a doll looks harmless. Granted, that kind of makes her look less harmless and more terrifying so… kind of backwards there. Anyway, she likes SpongeBob… a lot. ]

Finally, the little kid in the red scarf, already pacing like a caged dog.

[ Romeo Vasil (Bloodfire) ] [ Lvl 22 ] [ Rage Baiter ] [ Trait: Bidirectional Enragement ] [ HP: 135/135 ] [ Romeo doesn’t like to fight. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it either. The kid could sleep all day or stare at a wall if you let him, but he’s like basically emotional inertia and won’t stop with something unless he’s tuckered out. Also, he has this annoying habit of humming under his breath when he’s getting worked up. ]

All five screens vanished to nowhere with a thought as Greg swallowed, saliva thick in his throat. A fourteen-year-old, a twelve-year-old, and two eight-year-olds. A literal elementary school class of walking psychological warfare. 

"You guys stay up here.” He didn't look back at Sparky or Theo and didn’t even bother thinking about Alec. Can’t have them come down. Leading his best friends into a meat grinder of Master powers was just a terrible fucking idea if there ever was one. "I got this."

"Wait, you're gonna do a solo run up against five Masters?" Sparky stepped forward, hands up in the air. "Brah, that’s j-"

"Optimal” The LED smile grew bigger by a fraction of an inch. "We’re liabilities against most Masters, you more than me."

"It's my city.” Greg pulled the red scarf up slightly higher around his neck, gloved fists squeezing tight. "Nobody fucks around in my city."

He stepped off the ledge, gravity rushing up to meet him as he bent his legs.

Just a bit.

The impact was a shotgun blast, blood-red boots slamming into the asphalt of the dead-end alley. Pavement spider-webbed and loose gravel kicked up high in a cloud of gray as the five Heartbroken froze with a nearly three-hundred-pound kinetic missile directly in between them and their target.

Greg rose slowly from the crouch, shoulders rolled forward and head tilted down just enough that the white lenses glared out.

"S'il vous plaît.”

Blackglass stepped forward, hands resting in the pockets of his black slacks as the silver opera mask gleamed in the streetlight. "This is a family matter. If you would be so kind as to step aside, we will not leave a mess in your lovely city."

"Fuck off." Greg's voice was a rasp, edged with a hostility he didn't have to fake. These were the psychos causing chaos in his city, the same ones that probably killed Bitch too; nothing to pretend about here. “And leave her alone.”

The Master in the opera mask didn't flinch, acting little different from his brother as his head tilted slightly. "I am afraid that is not an option. She belongs with us."

Behind Greg, Cherie let out a breath that was half sob. "Don't let them touch me."

The kid in the charcoal hoodie took a half-step forward, shadowed eyeholes of his half-mask locked onto Greg.

A cold, suffocating pressure tightened around Greg's ribs, animal instinct screaming at him to turn around and sprint until his lungs bled. The terror was almost a physical weight, sweat pooling on his forehead for a split-second.

Ping.

A blue box flickered in his peripheral vision, bright and cheerful.

[Hysterical Panic] negated by Gamer's Mind.

Like a drop of freezing water hitting a white-hot skillet and flashing into steam, the panic vanished and left nothing behind but the perfectly placid pool of anger that had gotten him this far already.

Nicholas stopped moving, his head jerking back a fraction of an inch as if someone had slapped him.

The little girl in the white doll mask reached out a hand toward Greg, a painted smile on her mask probably no different than what she had on her face.

Ping.

[Contact Compulse-Seed] negated by Gamer's Mind.

Nothing.

From the far right, the eight-year-old in the red scarf stared knives at Greg, with his fists clenched anda hum in the back of his throat like a stalling engine. A sudden, blinding flash of pure, white-hot fury spiked in Greg's chest; a desperate, violent urge to grab the kid by the throat and smash his skull against the brick wall.

Ping.

[Bidirectional Enragement] negated by Gamer's Mind.

The rage evaporated into the void, leaving Greg staring down at an eight-year-old boy with the absolute, dead-eyed apathy of a statue.

And then the chimes started. The faint, metallic ringing of Valentina's silver bracelets as she stepped sideways, trying to amplify the hostility, trying to loop whatever emotion Greg was feeling and turn it into a feedback loop that would tear his mind apart.

Ping.

[Recursive Affective Amplification] negated by Gamer's Mind.

Hardkour stood in the center of the crossfire of five Master powers, the invisible barrage of panic, rage, compulsion, and amplification washing over him like rain; each one of them realizing exactly what wasn't happening.

"I'm going to say this once," Greg stepped directly into the lead Master’s personal space enough to loom, each word a growl. "Get the fuck out of my city. Right now."

Blackglass gasped.

It was an ugly sound as the older boy stumbled backward, polished leather shoes scraping against the asphalt. The other four kids froze, their older brother’s failing composure hitting them too.

"If I see any of you on these streets again…" Greg felt his teeth sharpen, gums itching as he felt the growl building in the back of his throat. "I'll just bury you under the seawall. And I don't care how old you are."

He didn't know if he could actually do it but it didn’t matter. 

Right now, he meant it.

Blackglass swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing against the collar of his silk shirt. He stared at the white lenses of Greg's mask and shuddered, a full-body tremor that rattled the silver mask on his face.

"...U-understood." 

With a final look, Hardkour made a ‘tsk’ sound and turned his back on all five of the Masters he’d just threatened— a suicidal move in most cases. With a single hand, he grabbed Cherie by the back of her jacket, her bare feet scrambling as he lifted her like a stray cat.

Wind exploded under his boots as Hardkour launched straight up, raw muscle and careful aerokinetic thrust carrying them both out of the alley and back onto the crumbling roof in a single arc. He landed light even as the concrete groaned under weight that wasn’t his and unceremoniously dumped the older girl onto the tar-paper right at Alec's feet.

He ignored the ping and the updating quest as he stared at the reunion in front of him.

Alec looked down at his sister, his coughing spluttering sister with mascara and snot running down her face. "Hey, long time."