“You will be destroyed. You will face oblivion,” said the mechanical voice—flat, droning, almost bored—while I was being hammered six feet into the pavement by industrial-grade fists.

The impact cracked the concrete beneath me into a perfect Ivy-shaped crater. I could feel dust and pebbles in my mouth. Ugh. Gritty. Not sexy.

This was not how I planned to spend my afternoon.

Usually I stuck to punching mid-tier assholes in the villain league. Guys with ego issues and slightly illegal gadgets. Not… whatever this was. But I’d been wrapping up another fight—low-stakes, neat little back-alley brawl—when this metal bastard dropped in, all stompy feet and glowing red optics, and started throwing civilians like dodgeballs.

And there were no Superheroes around. No cameras. No news crews. Just me. Lucky, lucky me.

Mechlord. C-class supervillain, allegedly. Honestly, kind of a joke in the villain scene—tech nerd with a hard-on for Gundam aesthetics and a very obvious inferiority complex. Normally? Not a problem. But this suit? This suit was new. Big. Bristling with guns, plated in something that probably gave DARPA a wet dream. And very punchy.

I hate tech villains. Give me a guy with eye lasers or a speedster with a grudge any day. At least then I know what kind of pain I’m in for. But tech? Tech is unpredictable. Too many blinking parts and surprise tasers.

Eventually the pummeling stopped. Probably because the robot’s fists were overheating or because he thought I was paste. Either way, silence fell, broken only by the high-pitched whine of servos and the satisfying plorp of me dragging myself out of the ground like a sad Looney Tunes character.

“Target incapacitated,” the robot droned.

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the towering Mechlord unit, the sun behind it like some dramatic mecha anime shot. Great. At least I’d die with aesthetic lighting.

The giant machine straightened up—slow, deliberate, dramatic. The torso panels shifted. Out popped a screen.

His stupid, smug face filled the display.

"Let this be a warning to the so-called 'heroes' of the city," Mechlord announced, voice crackling through cheap speakers. “No one can stand against the future of mechanized justice!”

I groaned and spat out a chunk of concrete. “Buddy, if that’s justice, then I’m a fucking microwave.”

The robot looked down at me, head tilting with a series of mechanical clicks. Its eyes—well, optic sensors or whatever—narrowed with what I assumed was confusion. Or rage. Or maybe it was just trying to focus the death laser. Who could tell with robots?

“Impossible. How are you not dead?”

I stood up, wobbled once, brushed chunks of pavement out of my hair, and grinned. “Buddy, if you want to bring this fight to a climax, you're gonna have to do me harder than that.”

The robot paused. I swear, if it had a face, it would’ve blushed or at least blinked. But instead it just made a faint processing beep—like it had to load a whole new subroutine to figure out if that was an innuendo.

“You are vulgar. There is no place for someone like you in the new world.”

“Oh no,” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest like a dainty Victorian maiden. “Whatever will I do without your approval, Mechlord? Truly, I am undone.”

I think my eyes might’ve rolled out of my skull. Wait—nope, they’re still there. Damn shame.

He raised an arm, gears hissing, a cannon unfolding from the wrist with a little flourish. Ooh, fancy. Probably about to blast me into next week. But I was still buying time. Waiting. Praying some asshole in a cape would finally show up and do their actual job.

Or at least give me a breather.

“Prepare to be—”

That’s when I heard it. A sound like thunder wrapped in smugness.

Apex.

Of course.

“Fear not, citizens! I will put an end to this villainy!”

Apex’s voice rang out like it was echoing from a marble statue—booming, noble, and completely full of himself. He soared down through the sky, radiant in his gleaming gold and silver armor, cape fluttering just so, because of course it was.

And the crowd? Oh, they cheered. Like he was some kind of divine savior and not the guy who routinely lets people like Mechlord paste C-rank heroes into the sidewalk before making his big entrance.

I groaned and hauled myself to my feet, bits of concrete falling off me like confetti at a sad party. I gestured vaguely at the cheering idiots lining the sidewalk. “Seriously, danger? Destruction? Rampaging murderbot? Why don’t people ever leave? Do y’all want to be vaporized for TikTok content?”

Mechlord turned toward Apex, his giant metal fists clenched. His voice warbled through a dozen layers of autotuned rage. “No! Apex! You weren’t meant to be here!”

Oh? Are we doing clichés today?

I raised an eyebrow, barely managing to stifle the laugh threatening to claw out of my throat. “Oh no,” I muttered under my breath, hand over my heart in mock horror. “The hero has arrived too early, and now the villain’s diabolical plan is in shambles. Gasp! Who could have foreseen this twist?!”

Mechlord, bless his dumb little drone-piloted soul, was clearly spiraling. “You’ll ruin everything! You always interfere!”

Apex, of course, didn’t even acknowledge me. He struck a heroic pose midair, probably checking the wind direction for maximum cape billow. “Your reign of terror ends now, Mechlord!”

God. Someone please, please punch him in the ego.

“No evil escapes my gaze, villain! Surrender now and I may spare you the pain of defeat!”

Apex’s voice boomed like he was doing a live reading of Justice Theater, projecting for the cheap seats in the back. I think I physically cringed.

Oh, fuck this.

I—gracefully, thank you very much—staggered toward the smoking crater that used to be my personal space, bones aching and brain rattling from the Mechlord Special I’d just endured. Nobody paid attention. Not Apex in his radiant, self-satisfied glow. Not Mechlord in his oversized war toy of a suit. Just lil’ ol’ me.

I walked right up to the giant robot, still entirely invisible to the narrative apparently, and gave its armored leg a friendly little tap with my foot.

Mechlord was still monologuing, naturally.

“No, Apex, this is fine! Your doom comes today! My antimatter casting array will be too much for even the likes of you!”

Right. Okay. So I’m just background noise now.

“Nothing you can do will get in the way of the indomitable might of Jus—”

I kicked. I kicked hard. With all the restrained fury of someone who had just been used as a human jackhammer.

There was a crack like a thunderclap. The leg tore clean off—ripped away like a soda can in a blender. The kinetic shockwave flattened half the robot’s torso, sent nearby civilians sprawling, shattered a healthy chunk of surrounding windows, and I think one car alarm started crying in the distance like even it couldn’t believe this shit.

The four-meter-tall Mechlord didn’t just fall—he yeeted. Skidded down the asphalt like a human-shaped curling stone, arms flailing, sparks and smoke trailing behind him in a lovely little arc of robotic failure.

Apex turned, finally noticing me. I gave him a tight, pained smile and a double thumbs-up. “Don’t worry, champ. I softened him up for you.”

His jaw tightened. The jawline, of course, was immaculate. Because of course it was.

Apex turned to face me fully now, his cape fluttering behind him like he’d choreographed the wind itself. He blinked at the wreckage, then at me, his perfect golden eyebrows twitching in confusion.

“…You.” His tone was flat, cautious. Like I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat and the rabbit had a gun.

“Me,” I replied brightly, even as my ribs complained about still existing. “Don’t worry. I left you something to do. Maybe pick up his other leg? Or give a speech? You’re good at those.”

He stalked forward a few steps, still holding his heroic posture like someone glued together from old propaganda posters. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “This is a classified emergency event. Unauthorized vigilante engagement violates—”

“Oh no, not unauthorized vigilante engagement.” I clutched my chest like a scandalized Victorian widow. “Quick, better call HR. Or maybe just thank the person who kept your pretty little chin from getting laser-blasted off by a tantrum in a tin can.”

Apex’s eyes narrowed. “You interfered with a League-sanctioned response. I know all superheroes active. You are not in the Superhero league. Civilians could have been harmed.”

“Buddy,” I pointed behind me to the crater I’d personally made, “I was harmed. Deeply. Artistically, even. But please, go ahead, make this about your PR package.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but Mechlord chose that moment to groan audibly from half a block away. Apex’s posture straightened with practiced elegance. His gaze flicked toward the downed villain, then back to me.

“I will ensure the rest of this threat is neutralized.” He turned, voice rising again for the audience. “Citizens, remain calm! Justice prevails today!”

Oh, great. The show’s back on.

I watched him take off into the air, golden boots glowing as he soared toward Mechlord like he was in a damn commercial. And the worst part? People actually clapped.

Seriously. I got turned into pavement paste fifteen minutes ago and now Apex was going to sweep in, punch a broken robot, and ride the news cycle like a hero.

I rubbed my temples. “God, I hate that man.”

Whatever. I didn’t care about getting credit, honestly. I wasn’t doing this for headlines or retweets or whatever smug little digital pats-on-the-back Apex got off to. So long as Mechlord was done for, then that’s all I cared about. Not even kidding.

Getting into this line of work just to chase clout? That was stupid. Stupid and dangerous. You’re playing around with lives—real people, real pain—and for what? A few thousand likes? A video going viral? Cool, hope the algorithm notices you while someone bleeds out in the rubble. That kind of thinking pissed me off more than anything Mechlord had said today.

...Which almost made Apex worse, didn’t it? I mean, he didn’t say it out loud, but everything about him just screamed that he loved the spotlight more than the saving. Every perfect line delivery. Every heroic pose. The fact he showed up just in time to look good but not get his hands dirty. It was all a performance.

I wasn’t going to say that to his face, though. Dude could probably punt me into low Earth orbit and still make it look photogenic.

I exhaled slowly, stretching my neck until it popped, then ducked into a narrow alley I’d scoped out earlier. No cameras, no drones, no gawkers. Good enough.

With a quick check to make sure I was alone, found my hidden back pack with my civvie outfit. I took off my half mask and chucked it in the back and slipped my baggy clothes over my body suit. Suddenly I was just Ivy again. Tired, sore, and about a day overdue on a shower.

I pulled my hood up and started heading home, slipping into the crowd like I hadn’t just gone twelve rounds with a robot and nearly gotten overshadowed by Mister Golden God Complex.

No big deal.

I was used to disappearing when the job was done.