Marvel:SuperHero

Sitting in the grungy diner, I mulled over my newfound powers. As if being a teenage version of Superman wasn't enough, I also had to deal with the fact that I was still developing and not on his level yet. Maybe it was because of my younger body, or maybe I just needed more practice. Either way, I knew I couldn't stay in this dusty old diner forever.

Gingerly standing up from the booth, I paid for my meal using some cash I swiped from the local thugs who were eyeing me earlier. Ah, the perks of being a superhero. With a sarcastic "gig" under my breath, I swaggered out of the diner, determined to find a place to live and continue my new career as a vigilante.

But first, I needed to make a stop in New York City to fulfill my plan of beating up mobsters and taking their money. It was like robbing Peter to pay Paul, except in this case I was robbing criminals to fund my own crime-fighting endeavors. The irony was not lost on me as I boarded the next bus heading towards the Big Apple, ready to cause chaos and hopefully make a difference in the world...or at least have some fun trying.

The bus rumbled along the highway, its worn-out engine humming like a lullaby for the weary travelers, but my mind was buzzing. This whole "vigilante" thing was still new territory for me. I had all these powers, sure, but I wasn't exactly sure how to use them without blowing my cover—or, you know, blowing something up.

The mobster plan, though? That seemed solid.

I had a few ideas about what kind of superhero I wanted to be—one that used their strength to fight for justice, right? But here I was, stealing from criminals to fund my mission. Call it an investment strategy. They'd probably never see it coming.

The guy next to me was snoring, a half-empty coffee cup in his hand, and I couldn't help but wonder what the people on this bus would think if they knew the truth. If they knew the guy sitting here was Superboy, an all-powerful alien with enough strength to level a city, and I was casually riding public transportation like it was just another Tuesday. A quick glance at my reflection in the window reminded me that, despite my heroic potential, I looked like some kid who just stepped out of a high school locker room.

I leaned back, stretching my legs, trying to ignore the temptation to jump out of the bus and fly straight to New York. But it would attract way too much attention. Besides, the bus ride gave me time to think about the whole "selfish hero" thing. Could I still be the hero I wanted to be, even if my motivations were a bit off?

I kept seeing that plane—that plane—crashing toward the stadium, and the people cheering for me after I saved them.

They thought I was some kind of superhero, and for the first time, I let myself believe it too. But then the doubts crept in. What if I wasn't really doing it for them? What if, deep down, I was just trying to feel better about myself?

The whole situation felt like walking on a tightrope between selfishness and heroism. But I wasn't sure if there was a clear line. Maybe, just maybe, I could use this selfishness to fuel something good. The world wasn't going to save itself.

As the bus pulled into the city, I could feel the excitement building up in my chest. I had a few stops to make, some research to do, and, most importantly, I needed to find a way to get my hands on some mobster cash without drawing too much attention. New York was crawling with criminals—mobsters, gangs, corrupt businessmen—plenty of bad guys to go around.

I hopped off the bus and surveyed the city skyline in the distance. The concrete jungle sprawled out before me.

There was a rush of energy in the air. In a way, New York felt like home. Maybe it was because of the chaos, the constant movement. Or maybe because it was just big enough for a guy like me to make a difference without anyone noticing… at least for now.

A quick glance at the news on my phone(thugs phone) confirmed the obvious: "Mysterious Hero Stuns City, Saves Plane from Disaster." The headline was the same everywhere, plastered across every news outlet like they were trying to outdo each other on who could make me sound the most god-like. The image they used? A blurry shot of me holding the nose of the plane like I was some kind of godly figure. It made me chuckle a little.

I had to admit, it felt good being the center of attention for once.

I probably looked like a teenager who forgot to finish his homework.

I wasn't in New York just for the headlines, though. Time to put this whole "Superboy" thing into action.

It didn't take long for me to find a shady alley where I could scope out some of the lower-tier mobsters. They didn't know me yet, but they would. They had to.

One group in particular caught my eye: a pair of thugs chatting by a storefront, laughing about some deal they just made. They didn't notice me. They were too busy being smug in their criminal glory.

but i did hear something there was a deal happening today and from the looks of it they were the hired muscle.

I took a breath, adjusting my stance. This was it. Time to show them how Superboy handled business.

decieding to follow them later the day when night fell i obviously found them at the docks.

classic

I could practically feel the cold breeze swirling around me as I took a slow step forward, my boots clicking against the pavement.

The docks were eerily quiet as I crouched behind some shipping containers, watching the mobsters unload their illicit cargo. The salty sea air mixed with the acrid smell of diesel fuel, creating a pungent atmosphere that seemed fitting for criminal activity.

I counted at least a dozen men, all armed and looking tough in their dark suits and sunglasses. Classic mobster attire, really. They were efficient, moving boxes from a small boat to waiting trucks with practiced ease. Whatever was in those crates, it had to be valuable.

My heart raced with anticipation. This was it - my first real test as Superboy. No falling planes or immediate danger, just good old-fashioned crime fighting. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for action.

"Alright, Superboy," I muttered under my breath. "Time to make an entrance."

The moment I burst through the concrete wall, the whole scene froze. The sound of my feet shattering the solid structure echoed through the night air, and the massive chunks of debris rained down, dust swirling around me like a mini storm. It was the kind of entrance that would've made any action movie proud.

"OHHHH YEAHHHH!" I shouted, channeling my inner Kool-Aid Man with every ounce of enthusiasm I had. The mobsters looked at me with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and—honestly—just plain terror.

It felt awesome.

The thugs at the docks scrambled, some reaching for their guns, others stepping back as if they thought I might somehow come through the wall again just to teach them more lessons about not running illegal operations. The moonlight reflected off their shiny, dark suits, but none of them had the composure to even look cool anymore. They were paralyzed with fear—perfect.

I surveyed the scene. There were the typical goons, some big guys with muscles bulging through their jackets, but there was also a man in a fedora near the center. He looked like he might be the boss—or at least the guy in charge of directing all the muscle around. I locked eyes with him. He didn't look as scared as the others, but there was a certain calculating look in his eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" one of the thugs asked, his voice shaking, though he was doing his best to act tough.

I threw a quick glance at the crates, wondering what they were unloading. Could've been drugs. Could've been weapons. Whatever it was, I didn't really care. It wasn't my job to figure out what they were selling—it was my job to stop them from selling it in the first place.

"Me?" I smirked, hands on my hips. "I'm your worst nightmare, pal. And I'm hungry."

They didn't get it at first. Honestly, I didn't blame them. Most people didn't expect a teenage superhero to show up like a one-man wrecking crew with a weird mix of cockiness and barely contained chaos. It probably threw off their whole 'business' vibe.

I squared my shoulders and took a few steps forward, the sound of my boots loud on the cold concrete. As I did, I caught a glimpse of the guy in the fedora again. He was still standing there, calm as can be, like he wasn't fazed by a literal superhero bursting through a wall. That was interesting.

Before any of the goons could do anything stupid—like actually try to shoot me—I was already moving. One thug reached for his gun, and I was on him in an instant. I didn't even break a sweat. I grabbed his arm and yanked the weapon from his hand, bending it like it was made out of wet spaghetti. The thug yelped, trying to pull away, but he was no match for my strength.

"Whoops. Did I break your toy?" I said with a grin, tossing the twisted metal aside and sending him flying into one of the crates with a single push.

The other thugs were scrambling now, but they didn't know what to do. Some of them reached for their guns, others looked like they were about to flee, and a few were too shocked to even move.

The guy in the fedora finally spoke up, his voice smooth, but there was a hint of annoyance creeping in. "Alright, kid. You got our attention. But you're in way over your head. You don't know who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," I replied, cracking my knuckles. "But just to be sure, let me guess—you're the guy running this little operation?"

He didn't answer, but his stare told me all I needed to know. The guy wasn't scared. He had a quiet confidence about him, like he'd been through worse than a kid crashing through his operation. And honestly? That intrigued me.

"Hey," I said, motioning toward the guys still standing, "you're gonna have to do better than that if you want to stop me."

Before he could respond, I turned and zoomed toward another thug who was trying to sneak up on me. I tackled him, sending him crashing through a stack of crates, the sound of splintering wood filling the air. It felt so damn good to be in control.

But the guy in the fedora wasn't backing down. He motioned for his men to stop shooting—likely realizing that shooting at me was a terrible idea. Then he did something I wasn't expecting. He stepped forward, hands raised in mock surrender.

"Alright, kid. Enough with the theatrics. You're clearly strong. I'll give you that. But you have no idea what you're getting into."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's that supposed to mean?"

His lips curled into a smirk. "It means you're dealing with people who don't go down so easily. You might've gotten lucky with a bunch of muscleheads, but when the real players show up, you'll regret messing with us."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be impressed or just more confused. He was either trying to intimidate me or play some kind of game, but I was done with games.

"I don't care who you are," I said, my voice dropping into a low growl. "I'm here to stop you, and I don't need any more reasons than that."

He chuckled, a sound that didn't quite match the situation. "You think you can just beat up a few of my guys and call it a win? You think you can stop me?"

I walked toward him slowly, the air buzzing with tension. The guy was cool, too cool for comfort, but that only made me more determined to take him down.

"I don't think I can stop you," I said, stopping just a few feet away from him. "I know I can."

Before he could respond, I was already moving. One quick lunge and I had him by the collar, lifting him off the ground with ease. His eyes widened, but I wasn't about to let him talk his way out of this.

"Listen up," I growled, my voice sending shivers down his spine. "Tonight is the end of your operation. You can either give in and make it easy on yourself, or you can choose to make me very, very angry."

The gears turned in his head, but I didn't give him a chance to speak. I wasn't interested in his bargaining or deals. He had crossed the line and now he would pay.

But then, a distant sound caught my attention. A low, ominous whirring that made my stomach drop. A helicopter.

I quickly turned, squinting as a bright spotlight flooded the docks. And there it was - a sleek, black chopper hovering above us with a figure hanging from a rope ladder.

The smirk on the guy's face confirmed my worst fears. It was Bullseye - the deadliest marksman alive.

His costume was like a second skin, designed for both agility and stealth. The large white bullseye on his chest and forehead served as a warning to anyone who dared to cross him. His intense gaze locked onto mine through narrow eye slits in his mask.

Dressed in all black with leather gloves and boots, he looked like a vicious predator ready to strike. And with his utility belt stocked with deadly weapons, he was more than just a man - he was a weapon himself.

But I refused to back down. Clenching my fists, I braced myself for a fight. This night just got a whole lot more complicated, but I was ready to take down this dangerous foe and end this operation once and for all.

Bullseye touched down, the helicopter's rotor blades still spinning above as he landed with the precision of a predator. The blinding spotlight overhead cast harsh shadows across the docks, illuminating his every move. His mask hid nothing but malice; those eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto me like a hunter zeroing in on its prey.

He didn't waste time with threats. His hands were already moving, pulling throwing knives from his belt and flicking them with deadly accuracy. Each one whistled through the air toward me, aiming for my chest, my throat, my face.

I didn't move.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The blades struck me-each one harmlessly bouncing off my skin with no more effect than a pebble skipping across a pond. Bullseye's smirk faltered, confusion flashing across his face. He was quick, methodical, his focus never breaking, but the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know: he was realizing that his usual tactics weren't going to work here.

His gaze flicked to the gun at his side. "Fine. Let's try something else," he muttered under his breath

With a fluid motion, he whipped the pistol from its holster, aiming directly for my forehead. A flash of cold steel and the sharp sound of a bullet cracking the air.

Bang!

The bullet hit me, and the sound of it bouncing off my body was like the thud of a rubber ball slapping a concrete floor. Bullseye didn't hesitate-he fired again, his hands fast and furious, unloading a rapid barrage of shots. The sound was deafening, the air crackling with each pull of the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each bullet hit me, but I stood there, unflinching, like a statue carved from steel. Not a single bullet pierced my skin. They dropped to the ground around me, useless.

Bullseye's breath hitched. The frustration was palpable now. He clicked the gun dry, throwing it aside with a snarl. He didn't wait. His hands were already pulling more knives from his belt, even more precise this time.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

More knives bounced off my skin, each one another failure. His hands began to shake, his confidence eroding in real time. The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating. His eyes narrowed, calculating, weighing his options as if trying to figure out how to break me. But he knew, deep down, that there was no breaking me. Not tonight.

His movements slowed, and for a moment, I almost saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Bullseye was a man who prided himself on his ability to hit anything, to take down anyone. But he wasn't in control now. And he knew it.

Without another word, he turned on his heel, his arrogance evaporating into something much darker-fear. He sprinted back to the helicopter, eyes scanning the area as if expecting me to follow. But I didn't move.

I didn't even acknowledge him.

The helicopter lifted off into the night sky, leaving Bullseye behind in his failure.

as he retreated bullseye looked back only to see me staring straight at him.

fear. he felt true fear as he saw my feet lift off the ground i could see it in his eyes.

he realized even in the air he was not safe from me.

i had found my prey.

As Bullseye retreated to the helicopter, I felt a surge of power coursing through me. My feet slowly lifted off the ground, defying gravity with effortless grace. I locked eyes with the assassin, and in that moment, I saw true fear flash across his face.

The realization hit him like a physical blow - even in the air, he wasn't safe from me.

He realized, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he was utterly outmatched. Even the sky, his escape route, offered no sanctuary from my reach. The helicopter's blades whirred frantically, but the sound seemed muffled and distant compared to the pounding of Bullseye's heart, which I could hear with my enhanced senses.

I had found my real prey - the deadliest marksman alive.

 As the helicopter's rotor blades chopped through the night air, Bullseye's heart raced. But no matter how high he tried to fly, no matter how far he thought he could escape, the fear that began to coil in his gut was undeniable.

I was still here.

And now, I was above him.

With a slow, deliberate motion I soared upward, effortlessly cutting through the air with the ease of a predator chasing its prey. I saw the realization flood Bullseye's eyes. It wasn't just fear—it was raw, primal terror. I could see the sweat on his brow, feel the anxiety radiating from him as the ground grew distant and his hopes of fleeing vanished.

The lights from the helicopter's spotlight washed over me as I closed the distance between us, the wind ripping through my hair, but I felt no rush. No urgency. Bullseye had tried to make his mark on me, but he'd only learned the hard way that his aim was irrelevant.

I was no longer just the kid who could take a punch. I was the thing that hunted them. The thing they feared.

The mobsters had scattered when Bullseye touched down. They had seen the odds and, just like rats fleeing a sinking ship, had abandoned their leader without hesitation. But that didn't matter. I wasn't here for them.

I wasn't here for anyone else.

I had found my target.

I could see the fear in his expression, the raw, primal terror of a man who knew he was outmatched, outclassed. There was nowhere to run. No place he could hide. I was above him, closing in with relentless speed.

The wind whipped past me as I surged through the air, faster than he could react, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. He had never faced anything like this—something stronger, faster, and unyielding.

The helicopter's blades beat frantically above, but they were a distant, irrelevant sound. Bullseye's fear-filled heart was the only thing I could hear now, pounding louder with every inch I closed between us.

I was closing in on him.

And then, as I hovered above him, I did something he hadn't expected. Something he wouldn't have dreamed possible.

My eyes flickered, glowing red, and a surge of heat built up within me. The air around us began to warp with the intensity of my charge.

Bullseye froze, and I could see it—the moment he realized his mistake. His eyes shifted between me and the helicopter, his mind racing for options that didn't exist. Too late.

The next instant, I unleashed my heat vision. The blast exploded from my eyes like a blinding laser, cutting through the night with unrelenting precision. The beam lanced forward, slicing through the helicopter's hull with ease, ripping through the metal like paper. Sparks flew as the chopper split in two, crashing into the water below.

Bullseye's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with terror as he looked up in disbelief. His escape route? Gone.

I dove down toward him, my flight effortless and fluid, my focus unshakable. He didn't even have time to raise his hands in defense before I reached him. With a single motion, I grabbed him by the collar and ripped him away from the wreckage of the helicopter, pulling him into the air.

The world seemed to blur as I descended, his body dangling limply in my grasp. I could feel the pulse of fear radiating from him, stronger than any weapon he had ever used. His confidence had crumbled. His pride was shattered.

I slammed down onto the docks with the force of a freight train, the impact sending a shockwave through the area. Bullseye's body crashed onto the concrete beside me, his limbs crumpling beneath him as I set him down like a ragdoll.

He wheezed, struggling to regain his breath as he slowly looked up at me. The bravado was gone. The cocky smirk he always wore had been replaced by wide, fearful eyes. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in frantic gasps.

And then, as his body slumped, unable to defend himself, I spoke again.

"You're out of your league."

The docks were silent, the night air still, except for the low hum of the retreating helicopter blades. All I could hear now was the soft drip of water from the nearby piers and the distant sounds of a city that had no idea what had just transpired.

I glanced down at the assassin, a small, mocking smile tugging at my lips. He might have been dangerous. He might have been lethal. But tonight, it was clear: I was the apex predator. And he was just another hunted animal.

He wasn't getting away.