Chapter 33: THE STAGE
The park was perfect.
Sixty yards of open space, ringed by food vendors and benches, natural chokepoints at the north and south entrances. Vought had scheduled Groundhawk's "community hero appearance" here for maximum visibility—photo ops with kids, handshakes with veterans, the whole performative spectacle that passed for heroism in their world.
MM walked the perimeter with me while Frenchie set up his equipment in a rented van two blocks away.
"Sight lines are good," MM said. "Three elevated positions for media—that scaffolding there, the second-floor windows on the east side, and the hotel balconies to the north. Vought will have their own camera crews, but independent outlets can position freely."
"Exit routes?"
"South entrance is cleanest. Crowds will naturally flow north toward the subway, so going against traffic gets you clear faster. I'll have a vehicle staged on 42nd, ready to extract."
We stopped at the center of the park, where a small stage had been erected for Groundhawk's appearance. The podium was draped in red, white, and blue bunting. A banner read: "GROUNDHAWK: AMERICA'S PROTECTOR."
"Marcus Chen was seven years old," I thought. "And this is the man who killed him."
Frenchie's workshop in the van smelled like burnt copper and ozone.
"The suppressant is ready," he said, showing me a device about the size of a large smartphone. "Aerosolizer delivery, effective radius of ten meters. One press of the trigger and anyone with Compound V in their bloodstream experiences a ninety-second power glitch. Reduced strength, impaired coordination, minor sensory disruption."
"And after ninety seconds?"
"Powers return to full functionality." He met my eyes. "This is a window, not a solution. You have ninety seconds to do whatever you need to do, and then Groundhawk is back to being a Rank 2 who wants to kill you."
"Understood."
He set the aerosolizer aside and pulled up a map on his laptop.
"Hughie has the streaming infrastructure ready. Your personal channels will carry the feed, and we've tipped off three independent media outlets. If anything happens in that park, it'll be documented from multiple angles."
"What about Groundhawk's reaction? If he doesn't engage me, there's no confrontation."
Frenchie's expression flickered—something that might have been discomfort.
"Butcher has a solution for that."
The solution arrived via encrypted message an hour later.
Butcher: Frenchie will leak your location to Groundhawk's personal security through a compromised channel. Frame it as "the guy who leaked your files will be at the park." He'll come angry and looking for you.
I stared at the message.
"This makes me bait," I said.
"Yes." MM's voice was flat. "It does."
"If Groundhawk arrives angry and targeting me specifically, he's more likely to throw the first punch. Which means I'm legally defending myself on camera instead of instigating a fight."
"That's the logic."
"You don't like it."
MM was quiet for a long moment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say.
"I spent twelve years in the Marines," he said finally. "Learned a lot about using people as tools. The mission always comes first—that's what they tell you. And it's true, up to a point. But the people who treat other people as disposable assets? They become something eventually. Something that can't be undone."
He looked at me directly.
"You agreed to be bait. That's your choice. But I'm noting that Butcher asked and you said yes without hesitation. That's going in my ledger."
"The ledger he keeps on everyone," I thought. "The running tally of who's becoming what."
"Noted," I said.
Frenchie test-fired the aerosolizer in the warehouse corner—a brief burst of mist that smelled like burnt copper and ozone. The scent reminded me of something, a memory from before the transmigration that I couldn't quite place.
"The suppressant works on all V-derivatives," he explained. "Compound V, Temp V, the experimental variants. Groundhawk's powers will be compromised within two seconds of exposure. You'll see it in his movements—sluggish, imprecise, like he's fighting through water."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then you'll be fighting a fully-powered Rank 2 Supe without any chemical advantage." Frenchie's eyes were steady. "I suggest it works."
[TACTICAL ANALYSIS: GROUNDHAWK CONFRONTATION]
[ADVANTAGES: Chemical suppressant (90s), public venue (witnesses), media saturation, emotional target]
[DISADVANTAGES: Rank 2 opponent, unpredictable reaction, single-use suppressor, durability untested vs. enhanced strength]
[PROJECTED OUTCOME: HIGH RISK / HIGH REWARD]
The system's assessment was what I expected. This wasn't a sure thing—it was a calculated gamble with my body as the chips.
But the "enhanced strength" seed was at 8,800 believers. A public confrontation where I took hits from Groundhawk and stayed standing could push it over 10,000. Two crystallized powers. Real capability instead of just resilience.
"Worth the risk," I decided. "Probably."
The countdown started that night.
Nadia's article was scheduled for 6 AM on Thursday—early enough to dominate the morning news cycle, late enough that Groundhawk couldn't prepare a coordinated response before his noon appearance. Frenchie would leak my location at 10 AM, giving Groundhawk two hours to stew in his own rage before showing up at the park.
I spent the intervening days doing what I could: testing the durability against progressively harder impacts, memorizing the park's layout until I could navigate it blindfolded, practicing the body language of someone who wasn't afraid even when they should be.
The shoulder bruise from the rubber bullet had faded completely by day two. The durability was getting stronger—or maybe I was just learning to trust it more. The difference was hard to measure.
On Wednesday night, I stood in my apartment and looked at the system dashboard.
[BP: 5,847 | LS: 735]
["ENHANCED STRENGTH" SEED: 8,843 BELIEVERS]
[PROJECTED CRYSTALLIZATION: 1,157 BELIEVERS REQUIRED]
"One fight," I thought. "One public demonstration of what I can take. And then I'm not just durable—I'm strong."
Mrs. Okafor knocked on my door around nine with a plate of jollof rice. "You look thin," she said, the same observation she'd made the first week I'd arrived in this body. "Eat something."
I ate at my kitchen table while she watched with the satisfied expression of someone who'd successfully fed a stray. She didn't ask about the news coverage, didn't mention the Mythmaker hashtags, didn't seem to know or care that her neighbor was about to pick a fight with a superhero.
"Small kindnesses," I thought. "The things that matter when everything else is falling apart."
The article title leaked at 11 PM, spreading through tipster boards and social media like wildfire.
"GROUNDED: How Vought's Groundhawk Killed a Child and Got Away With It"
By morning, it would be everywhere.
By noon, Groundhawk would know who'd exposed him.
And by 12:15, I'd either have my second power or a very public funeral.
[CONFRONTATION: T-MINUS 13 HOURS]
The system offered no encouragement. No prediction of success. Just a countdown and the cold mathematics of belief.
I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and tried to sleep.
Get Early Access to New Chapters
Thank you for reading. For those who want to skip the wait, my Patreon is currently 21 chapters ahead of the public sites.
Schedule: 7 new chapters released every 10 days.
Benefit: Gain a significant lead of 7 to 21 chapters depending on your tier.
Support the project and start reading the next arc now: Patreon.com/IsekaiStories