For a long time Chris had believed that all the visions were a product of his sick mind. All those strange images, sounds no one else could hear, dreams that were too real and tangible to dismiss... Chris had thought it was simply an illness. That the doctors were right. They said it was delusion, illusions, that his mind was simply trying to cope with stress and had become overloaded. But he had known. Chris had known from the very beginning that something was wrong. That it was more than just the game of a sick and lonely mind.
But could you really blame doctors who were simply doing their jobs? Could you blame people for measuring his circumstances against their own objective reality?
To them, Chris behaved like a madman and looked like a madman. Who in that situation would ever suppose that Chris Wallace, a small boy, an orphan from the most criminal neighborhood in the city, genuinely had... superpowers?
Especially when it had taken Chris himself a full nineteen years to come to terms with this... incredible truth. Though the circumstances under which he'd discovered it left something to be desired.
But now...
He would finally be able to look the truth in the eye.
Without uncontrollable panic attacks. Without endless self-calming techniques and self-suggestion. Just take a breath and concentrate.
And finally freed from that heavy psychological burden, Chris was able to examine every detail with pinpoint clarity. The right words arranged themselves in his mind and before his eyes.
SYNCHRONIZATION [Berserker ???] [Rank: Legendary]: 39.04%
Synchronization.
In the broadest sense of the word — it's the process of bringing one or more different objects to a single unified state.
In this case, the first "object" was Chris himself. As for the second one, questions remained.
[Berserker ???]
The question marks made it clear that Chris wasn't ready yet. Or that the "synchronization" progress hadn't reached the right stage. Same thing, just from a different angle. But who are you exactly, Berserker the Mysterious?
And it couldn't be forgotten that the last time Chris had tried to "look" more closely — which had ended in another panic attack — instead of "Berserker" there had been nothing but question marks. Meaning that slowly, but surely, his power was beginning to reveal itself.
[Rank: Legendary]
This part triggered something almost instinctive.
Rarity, value, call it what you want, but it was becoming clear that this Berserker was not some random nobody.
Anyone who had ever played games would understand that "objects" have their own value tiers. And something told Chris that the Berserker's nature was far from simple. Think about it — who comes with a built-in ability for eleven extra lives? And "legendary" certainly sounded impressive.
SYNCHRONIZATION: 39%
Each completed percentage brought the moment of merging the two objects — Chris and the Berserker — closer.
The first percent, which had come when he grabbed the shotgun and went after the gangsters, had unlocked the first "Phantasm" — the ability to be reborn.
And all the subsequent ones served as a kind of barrier, upon breaking through which Chris grew stronger.
At first, barely anything. Enhanced strength, but insufficient durability. One punch into a brick wall, and while his fist had broken through, his hand had broken with it.
But the moment Chris went off the rails and charged at his enemies without regard for the lives draining away or the wounds accumulating, the percentage had begun climbing at a frantic pace.
As if the Berserker himself was fully on board with this approach. As if he had finally seen something kindred in Chris and had put everything he had into making Chris stronger.
He still remembered that word, which had struck his consciousness like a gong.
"Resonance."
Apparently a brief process that accelerated synchronization at a specific moment under specific circumstances.
But the effect, oh...
At thirty-nine percent synchronization, Chris Wallace had become a genuine killing machine.
Measuring his strength was incredibly difficult. Not because Chris himself had trouble, but because the right "instruments" simply weren't at hand. He flipped cars with ease and even sent them on brief flights. Not that this cost him nothing, but no visible signs of fatigue appeared either.
Durability...
Now here was a stat where the effect of synchronization could be tracked clearly. At ten percent, his durability couldn't withstand even a pistol shot. Later, a bullet from a handgun left an unpleasant wound and nothing more. Though a shotgun blast had quickly humbled him... until he died and raised his synchronization percentage again.
It reached the point where endless automatic fire was akin to a tickle. His body was riddled with small abrasions and cuts, of course, but in that state of unhinged fury, that inconvenience barely registered in his consciousness.
His other stats weren't lagging behind either.
His reaction speed allowed him to respond to every rustle. Chris could sense when an enemy was going to fire before that enemy even raised his weapon.
Speed kept pace.
Coordination, balance, and some innate control over his own body allowed Chris to move across rooftops and along building walls. He had never done parkour before — if you could call ten-meter jumps between buildings parkour — but he understood precisely how much force to push off with and how much to apply to avoid demolishing the soft and yielding brick.
Just yesterday Chris hadn't known if he'd have enough money for tomorrow's lunch, and today he had turned into a genuine machine for whom ending a human life was no harder than tearing a piece of paper.
"Life really is unpredictable..." Chris murmured incoherently under his breath, since his current condition barely permitted even that.
Like a mummy or a burn victim, Chris was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. The many wounds from the RPG blast had stopped bleeding, but even the healing factor — which, it turned out, he had — couldn't repair damage that extensive. Not in two days, at least.
And for those two days he had been playing the role of a helpless mummy on the couch of the ever-wonderful and infinitely kind Jessica Jones.
Simply because...
He'd been evicted from his apartment.
The late Mr. Kramer — not only his employer but his landlord — had several distant relatives who, without even organizing a proper funeral, had kicked Chris out without ceremony. Well naturally — they show up to what is now essentially their property and find a poor invalid...
In short, Jessica — the greatest and kindest, Chris wished to stress — who was already helping him with his daily affairs, had simply taken in the young homeless man. Yes, a super-powered one, but homeless nonetheless.
At some point Chris himself had found it strange that Jessica was helping him so selflessly. Not to be forgotten was the fact that she had pulled him out of the bay, where the direct RPG hit had sent him flying.
"One more time," Jessica, standing in the doorway, addressed their guest with considerable irritation and no ceremony. "What did you say your name was?"
Their guest was not from around here. That was obvious at first glance.
Short, trim, around forty. Dressed to the nines in a sharp suit, neat, and teeth-grindingly polished and harmless. A genuine gentleman at first sight — in short, exactly the kind of person who had no business being in Harlem.
"Phil Coulson," the man smiled easily and warmly, producing his credentials and presenting them to Jessica. "FBI."
At those words, the mummy playing dead on the couch — the one named Chris — tucked his head down as far as it would go. Since the apartment was small, Chris could see the guest and hear every word.
FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In the United States there were two law enforcement agencies that carried... broader authority, to put it one way. Plenty of people had seen movies where the fat, slovenly cops standing around a crime scene instantly go quiet the moment serious men in black suits show up and start flashing their badges. Well — the FBI and the CIA were those "serious men."
"And what do you want?" Jessica's expression didn't change, though Chris was trying to even breathe as infrequently as possible. Because FBI attention meant that serious people had taken an interest in his "rampage" — not the cops who were usually indifferent to the ghetto.
"I'd like to ask just a few simple, unburdensome questions of Mr. Wallace and yourself," Phil Coulson was a tough nut. He showed no sign that Jessica's performative rudeness had gotten to him at all. On the contrary, against the backdrop of Phil's manners, Jessica came across as complete riffraff. But Jessica was also used to not caring about any social convention whatsoever, so her current position caused her no discomfort.
"I haven't seen a damn thing," Jessica still hadn't let the agent inside, standing like a wall in the doorway. "Haven't heard a damn thing. Don't know who you are. You can go straight to—"
"Ahem, ahem..." Phil cleared his throat. "But according to my information, Mr. Wallace worked at the late Mr. Kramer's shop..."
"Your information is outdated, or someone fed you a load of nonsense. Do you have any documents confirming that?"
Of course there were no documents. Half the jobs in Harlem were completely off the books. And Jessica had already asked Chris about this — the answer was that he had never been officially employed anywhere.
"According to eyewitness accounts..."
"Eyewitness accounts can be made to say anything you want..." Jessica yawned, unimpressed. "Around here every dog has seen an alien, a unicorn, and Captain America himself in the flesh. So are we supposed to believe all of them?"
"But I only want to ask a few questions..."
"We live in the freest country in the world!" Jessica lifted her chin proudly. "And I have the right not only to remain silent, but also to tell you to go straight to—"
"Understood," Phil immediately raised his hand, cutting Jessica off mid-word. "Well then, sorry to bother you..."
Watching the agent depart, Jessica closed the door and turned to the prone Chris. Her expression was no longer quite so bold.
"For crying out loud, Chris! Could you have switched your brain on for even one pathetic, tiny second?!" The girl grabbed her head. "The freaking feds are going to start digging and you're completely done for!"
"It'll be fine..." The words were completely at odds with how he actually felt. Having anything to do with law enforcement was the last thing he wanted. "Listen, actually, I have an idea! We can buy ourselves some time!"
"And what idea is that?" Jessica asked with a skeptical hum — but her expression changed the moment she heard it. "You know what, that might actually work! He won't come within a hundred meters of us!"
"I was actually joking when I suggested it..."
"Get off that couch! We don't have much time!"
"Yes, Mr. Fury," Phil Coulson was starting his car, phone to his ear. "The suspect, to put it mildly, has no desire to cooperate... Yes... Understood..."
And just as Phil pressed down on the gas pedal, he was forced to yank the handbrake in a hurry. Because the moment the car moved, a person bandaged from head to toe leaped out in front of him and "collided" with his hood.
"Mr. Fury, I'll call you back, I have a situation here!" Phil jumped urgently out of the car and bent over the groaning body. "Why did you jump in front of the car?! Do you under—"
"FREAKING FEDS!" Jessica, standing two meters from the "victim," aimed her phone camera at the two of them and screamed at the top of her lungs. "Have they completely lost their minds! Good people, in broad daylight, they're KILLING someone! Somebody help!"
Phil was so stunned by the sheer audacity of it that he simply froze in place. He wasn't even angry about the situation — he was just... floored by what was happening.
Meanwhile, Jessica, making use of her entire untapped potential as an actress, continued:
"Is this FBI methodology, you desk rat?! Want to finish off someone who's already down?! In this neighborhood that's not going to fly!"
The stunned Phil didn't notice the "victim" open one eye slightly and reach for his hand, then...
Lock it in an iron grip and press it against his own throat.
"Cough, cough, cough..." Chris opened his eyes wider and broke into "death throes" convulsions, dramatically "losing air" as theatrically as possible. "H-h-help..."
Meanwhile, the first "eyewitness" in the form of Jessica showed no rush to help the "dying man" and only screamed louder across the entire street, making sure not to lower the camera from the stunned Phil, whose hand was "strangling" Chris.
"MURDER! AHHHHH! This is an outrage! A genuine outrage from feds drunk on their own authority!"
"Jessica," Chris stood beside her, watching the departing car with a gaze full of skepticism. "Are you sure that's going to work? I suggested it as a joke, you know..."
"Chris, don't overestimate dumb feds," she rolled her eyes, counting the money in her hands. "They're the same kind of people with the same kind of problems. Nobody — especially with our legal system — is going to want to get caught up in something like this..."
"But..."
"Chris, just trust big sister Jessica," she said with a self-satisfied smirk. "They're not some 'all-powerful' spies — they're just souped-up cops. They'll drop it. And you drop it too... Just accept reality. Cops are dumb, that's all."
"Well..." Chris exhaled deeply, not feeling nearly as confident as Jessica looked. "Alright..."
"Maria, has the data come in?"
"Yes, Mr. Fury," the girl at the computer reported briskly. "Ninety-nine percent match. He's our guy..."
The dark-skinned man with an eyepatch over one eye stared thoughtfully at the many images of destruction across Harlem.
"Christopher Wallace..."