Chapter 200: The Backlash
Three miles away, inside the dark pedestrian tunnel beneath the transit hub, the handheld tactical monitor strapped to Selena’s forearm blinked once and hummed to life.
Beside her, Nicholas stopped mid-stride, his lone visible eye shifting down to the screen.
Across the world outside the barrier, every major news network, emergency broadcast channel, and civilian mobile feed that had tapped into Julie’s hijacked frequency suddenly flickered. The static broke. The black screen exploded into crystal-clear, high-definition panoramic video.
The world finally saw what had become of their saviors.
A collective, horrified gasp echoed across two billion screens as the camera lens zoomed in on the stage.
Kneeling in a neat, humiliating row across the blood-stained platform were the titans of the Hero Association.
Eric sat at the center, his massive, hulking frame battered and bruised. Heavy, matte-gray anti-kinetic suppression collars were clamped around his throat and wrists, the cold metal biting deep into his flesh. His head hung low, breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, stripped entirely of the overwhelming physical dominance that had once made him an immovable pillar.
To his right knelt Nectron, the man who commanded gravity itself, reduced to an ordinary, exhausted man whose trembling arms were locked behind his back in reinforced carbon cuffs. Beside him, Walküre’s brilliant armor was shattered, her wings torn away, dark bruises lining her pale jaw. Mercury and a dozen other top-ranked vanguards were bound in identical fashion, kneeling like prisoners of war before an executioner’s block.
Standing directly above them, looking down at his captive audience with the serene calm of a scholar reviewing an open ledger, was the Master—Malik Vance.
He wore a pristine, dark tailored coat, utterly untouched by the dirt and chaos of the city. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his sharp, weathered features illuminated by the glow of the broadcast array.
Seated on a carved wooden chair just three paces behind him was Joan. The young girl sat in a dreamlike, compliant trance, her eyes glazed over as her small, pale fingers traced the yellowed parchment of the open manuscript resting on her lap. Every few moments, her lips moved in a silent whisper, sending a faint, almost imperceptible ripple through the sky above.
Around the platform stood the Master’s inner circle, arrayed in a flawless defensive perimeter.
To the left flank, Hexi stood with arms crossed, a cruel, mocking smirk playing on her lips as thick tendrils of purple, necrotic miasma curled around her boots like eager serpents.
To the right, Zayx leaned casually against a broken pillar, his massive, scarred arms crossed over a chest wrapped in reinforced battle armor, his predatory gaze sweeping the perimeter barricades with bored impatience.
Shadow hovered half-submerged in the darkness beneath the stage’s rear scaffolding, an elusive, shifting silhouette that flickered between the physical world and the gloom like a living blade.
And perched casually on the stone balustrade of the municipal library terrace, one leg dangling over the edge while a half-smoked cigarette burned between his fingers, was Sniper. His long-barreled, custom anti-material rifle rested across his knee, its heavy muzzle pointed idly toward the southern avenue.
Down in the drainage conduit, Selena stared at the screen, her knuckles turning white around the grip of her pistol.
"They’re all there," Selena whispered, her voice tight with suppressed fury and horror. "Eric, Nectron, Dana... they’ve chained the entire leadership. If Malik decides to execute them on that broadcast, the association collapses in a single night."
Nicholas did not answer immediately. He leaned closer to the high-definition feed, ignoring the despair on the heroes’ faces and the theatrical presence of the Master.
His hitman’s mind was operating on pure, cold geometry.
He cataloged the distances. Four hundred yards between the clock tower and the stage. Three hundred yards from the western choke point to the central fountain. Sniper’s elevated line of sight covered the northern and southern avenues, creating an overlapping kill zone with Hexi’s miasma along the main road.
"The stage is fortified, but the perimeter is arrogant," Nicholas said, his voice flat, steady, and utterly chilling. "They think Joan’s script makes them invincible because no hero can step past the wall with an ability. They’re waiting for a rescue force that will never come."
He looked up from the screen, meeting Selena’s gaze in the subterranean gloom.
"Julie gave us the entire board," Nicholas said, adjusting the heavy rifle strap across his shoulder. "Now we take their pieces."
-----
The silence over St. Jude’s Plaza was broken only by the low hum of the broadcast device and the rasping, strained breathing of the captive heroes.
Master stepped to the edge of the elevated stone platform. His dark coat caught the stagnant draft of the dome, fluttering slightly against his boots. He did not yell. He did not posture. He simply stared into the floating broadcast lens hovering before him, knowing that behind that tiny circle of glass stood the collective gaze of billions.
"For twelve years," he began, his voice calm, resonant, and dripping with quiet venom, "the Hero Association has kept an archive. A gilded record of triumphs, medals, and fabricated salvation. You teach children to look to the sky for protectors. You tell the terrified that uniforms bring justice."
He turned slowly, looking down at the row of chained figures.
"Twelve years ago, District 4 burned. The official record calls it a tragic structural collapse brought on by an impure outbreak. They wrote that the noble hero Ignis Prime arrived swiftly, contained the blaze, and minimized civilian casualties to a miraculous few."
Malik let out a soft, humorless sound that was closer to a sigh than a laugh.
"My real name is Malik Vance. And I am the sole survivor of the home on 4th and Ash."
Around the world, in crowded shelters, packed living rooms, and city centers where giant public screens flickered with Julie’s hijacked stream, the silence turned suffocating. Across every major network and forum, the name hit like a seismic tremor. The District 4 catastrophe was legendary in association history, the very event that had launched Ignis Prime into legendary status.
"Ignis Prime did not rush into the blaze," Malik continued, his eyes darkening. "He stood on the asphalt forty feet from the front porch. The fire had trapped my mother and my younger sister beneath the collapsed beam of the second floor. They were screaming his name. I was eight years old, clawing at his cape with blistered hands, begging him to step through the wall of flames he had the power to snuff out with a wave of his hand."
Malik pointed a single, steady finger toward the camera.
"He told me to wait. Do you know why? Because the local news van was still turning the corner at the end of the block. He waited three full minutes for the spotlight to hit his chest, for the camera crew to frame him against the rising inferno. He posed with his arms outstretched while the roof fell inward, crushing the screams into ashes. The next morning, his face was plastered across every newspaper on the continent. A hero, they called him. A savior."
Kneeling on the blood-stained stone, Dana lifted her head with agonizing effort. The anti-kinetic collar bit cruelly into the skin of her neck, but she forced words through cracked, bleeding lips.
"That... was twelve years ago, Vance," Dana gasped, her voice trembling as she fought to buy even a sliver of time for whatever rescue might be crawling in the dark. "Ignis Prime was rogue... the system investigates misconduct... you cannot indict thousands of lives over the sin of one man!"
Malik did not even turn to look at her. "One man? No, Ignis Prime was not a rogue. He was the standard. The association buried the inquest because his merchandising revenue funded three regional branches. You gave him a pension when his joints stiffened, and when he died quietly in his bed two years ago, you buried him with full honors in the Memorial Gardens."
Eric let out a guttural roar, surging upward with every ounce of raw physical muscle remaining in his massive frame. The heavy steel chains strained, groaning under his bulk, but without his impure strength, the cold iron held firm, slamming him back down onto his bruised knees.
"You coward!" Eric bellowed, spit and blood flying from his lips. "Take it out on us! Leave the world out of your sick revenge!"
"It is not revenge, Eric," Malik said softly, finally looking down at the struggling titan. "It is an overdue correction. You are not guardians. You are actors in expensive armor, feeding off the terror of the sheep you pretend to herd."
The impact of his words reverberated across the globe with devastating force.
Across social media platforms, emergency chat rooms, and public forums, the reaction was immediate and venomous. The chat logs that had once praised the heroes began to spiral into chaotic fury.
[Tyler_Man: Wait... my uncle lived in District 4. He always said the heroes took forever to engage... is this real?!]
[Wrathsflame: Ignis Prime was my childhood idol... tell me this is a lie.]
[Harry_Hart_3085: The association literally sealed the investigation archives from that year. You can check the public records, the entire month of July is classified under security codes!]
[Nyr01: They let his family burn for a photo op?! How many other rescues were staged like this?!]
[Thegreatestscape67: We trusted them with our lives. If the top heroes are kneeling there powerless and admitting nothing... who the hell was actually protecting us?!]
[DaoistLIMIL1o: Disband the association! Hypocrites in capes!]
The foundation of public trust, built painstakingly over decades, began to fracture in real time. The association’s pristine image dissolved into the ugly, undeniable reality of its darkest secrets.
Meanwhile, three hundred yards away on the upper terrace of the municipal library, Sniper leaned his back against the stone balustrade.
He blew a lazy ring of blue cigarette smoke into the still air of the dome, watching the spectacle on the stage with mild, detached amusement. The heavy barrel of his anti-material rifle rested comfortably across his thighs.
As he tilted his head back to tap the ash from his cigarette, a faint, unnatural glint of glass caught the corner of his eye.
High up in the ruined clock face of the municipal tower, nearly four hundred yards out, a tiny lens reflection flickered against the violet gloom. It was imperceptible to an ordinary observer, but Sniper had spent half a lifetime staring down scopes.
"Well, well," Sniper muttered around the filter of his cigarette, a lazy, curious grin spreading across his stubbled face. "Looks like our little streamer brought a friend with a bird’s eye view."
He casually slid his boots off the ledge, rolling the heavy rifle into position and racking the bolt with a sharp, heavy click.