Hero of Nowhere

Inside the cluttered maze of Abe's Repairs, the overhead fan whined like it was ready to give out, the blades wobbling as they carved lazy circles through the warm, glue-smelling air. The walls were stacked with leaning towers of busted radios, cracked flat-screens, shattered VR visors, and yellowing instruction manuals in six languages. The place smelled like old circuit boards and burnt ramen. Fluorescent lights flickered above, casting everything in an uneven, sickly glow. And beneath all that noise—amid the hum of electricity and the hiss of half-dead machines—Rocket grumbled.

He was crouched beneath the counter, tools scattered around him like shrapnel from a tech warzone. Sweat matted the roots of his weird wooden-brown hair, and a half-unwrapped bandage peeked from the cuff of his sleeve. His hoodie—charcoal gray and stitched at the shoulders with crooked lines—was bunched around his elbows. He chewed at his thumb as he rewired the guts of an ancient game console with rounded plastic edges and a sticker of a long-dead mascot peeling off the side.

The soldering iron hissed. Sparks danced across his fingers like fireflies that had lost their minds. The kid watching him—a scrawny middle-schooler in a rain-patched uniform—took a complete step back when one spark arced across the gap and singed the counter.

Rocket didn't notice. Or maybe he did and didn't care. He was humming off-key—something poppy and weird, but his version was all flat notes and jagged rhythm. "Doo doo doo... don't blow up... come on, come on, you little ancient bastard..."

The controller he was fixing had a cord frayed to hell, and the A-button was stuck halfway down like it was mid-sneeze. Rocket twisted the wire, soldered it shut, blew on it, then held it up to the light.

"There," he muttered. "That's about 70% functional and 20% upgraded and 10% mystery. That's math."

The kid reached for it like it was sacred.

"Wait—nope—" Rocket yanked it back, narrowed his eyes, and licked his finger. "Gotta zap-test it." He tapped the exposed edge of the port with a string of static energy that flickered blue across his fingers like silk catching sunlight.

The controller buzzed once. Rocket grinned. "Now it's magic. You're welcome."

The kid blinked. "Is it supposed to... tingle like that?"

"No," Rocket said. "Unless it's working. Then yes. That'll be 200 yen."

"It was 180 last week."

"That one didn't vibrate on emotional instinct," Rocket said, tossing the controller into the kid's arms. "Out you go."

The bell over the door jingled as the kid left. Outside, the late afternoon sky was already collapsing into gray, the streets slick with oil-rain and puddles shaped like ghosts. Thunder grumbled above the rooftops.

Rocket flopped into the rolling stool behind the counter, letting out a long, sharp sigh through his nose. His fingers twitched. One of his strings flickered into visibility for half a second, coiling around the tip of the soldering iron before he yanked it back.

"Don't start," he whispered to himself. "It's just rain. Just rain. Just normal."

The rain got harder.

From the back room came a clatter—something falling off the shelf. It was probably older printers, or maybe Abe's cursed blender again. Rocket glanced toward the door. It was slightly ajar, the darkness behind it thick with dust and machine parts that hadn't moved in years.

He stood. His boots squeaked on the warped floor. As he reached for the doorknob—

He sneezed.

The spike of instinct hit before he could think. His entire body glitched: shoulder, ribs, hip—phased halfway through the wooden door like a bad video overlay. There was a weird sound, like a zipper ripped open in reverse. Then the screws in the frame popped loose, and the whole thing belched outward with a cloud of gray dust, loose nails, and ancient receipts.

Rocket staggered back, coughing. His strings flickered along his arms, jittering in response to the sudden panic.

"God—okay—note to self, allergies are a death sentence."

Behind him, the alley cats outside had started gathering. There were six of them now—no, eight. Rocket swore the orange one had followed him from the ramen shop three days ago. One of them, the scraggly black tom with half a left ear, was already pawing at the takeout box Rocket had tossed earlier, nudging it like it owed him rent.

Rocket leaned against the counter and sighed again, deeper this time. His hands were jittering, and he didn't want to admit it was from the stress. He rubbed his forehead.

Then he felt it.

That hum. Not the good kind, from working circuitry or a power core charging up. This was too smooth. Too polished. It didn't belong in Abe's Repairs. It belonged in a Board meeting or a televised gala or an execution.

Grille lights flared across the alley.

A black SUV nosed its way into the back lot, its engine too quiet, its wheels crushing a puddle slowly. Its headlights stuttered once—on-off-on—like they were blinking in code.

Rocket's gut twisted.

He didn't move. Just watched.

The driver's door opened. Then the passenger side. Then the back.

Three figures emerged. All tall. All business-casual nightmares. Each wore pastel suits in varying degrees of smug: one lemon yellow, one baby blue, and one mint green. They looked like cotton candy that learned how to file tax returns. Their shoes didn't even splash in the puddles. They just glided.

The one in blue held a clipboard—no, not a clipboard—a touchscreen pad. She tapped it twice and held it out.

"Rocket Fuel," she said, voice perfectly clipped. "Contract time."

Rocket blinked. "Huh?"

"Sign," the lemon one added. "Or Silversteel shuts this place down. You've been flagged for noncompliance with Integration Clause 8. Subsection J. You're already a registered anomaly. You know what that means."

Rocket's strings tensed under his skin. His fingers trembled—but not from fear, from irritation.

"Look," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I already did the orientation thing. I sat through the seminar. They gave me the lanyard and everything."

"You're not in uniform."

"I work here."

"Not anymore."

The mint one stepped forward, opened the door without asking, and swept his gaze around the shop like he was taking inventory for a fire sale. Rocket's eye twitched.

Behind them, thunder cracked. Lightning lit the sky purple.

The screen was shoved at his chest. A flashing red "SIGN" icon pulsed like a wound. "This makes it official," blue-suit said. "You're with Hero Board Region Ward 7. Active hero. Code name: Rocket Fuel. Tier 6 status pending."

Rocket stared at it. The signature bar was blinking.

He reached behind the counter.

Grabbed a still-hot soldering stick.

And scrawled a chaotic, slightly smoking signature across the screen in molten metal.

The screen sizzled. The blue-suit flinched. But the document auto-registered. Contract signed.

Rocket tossed the soldering iron behind him without looking.

"Done," he said. "Now get out of my shop before you melt my floor."

They didn't laugh. Didn't move.

Instead, the mint-suit gestured. Two more agents—ones he hadn't even seen get out of the car—moved forward. They each took one of Rocket's arms.

"I can walk," Rocket snapped.

The blue-suit nodded. "We'll be evaluating that shortly. For now... orders are orders."

Rain poured harder as they frog-marched him out of Abe's Repairs. The cats scattered. The puddles rippled. Somewhere down the block, a TV screen showed a hero highlight reel—Kaito's mid-flight fist glowing gold, posing like a poster boy.

Rocket's collar was already soaked. His strings flickered again—tight, restless, biting against his sleeves.

He didn't know where they were taking him.

But something in the sky didn't feel right.

Something bigger was coming.

And he had a bad feeling this was just the start.

Minutes later, Rocket's boots hit the marble like they didn't belong.

He didn't belong.

The Hero Board atrium was too clean. Too sharp. The kind of place where even the air felt sanitized. Ceiling high as a cathedral, skylight panels glowing faint blue from the city haze above. Polished stone floors reflected every overhead light, making it impossible not to see your distorted reflection wherever you stepped. His boots—scuffed, rain-wet, laces uneven—squeaked with every move. His hoodie left a faint, damp trail as he was nudged through the glass-paneled entryway.

Everything felt too slow. Too big. Too bright.

A fountain gurgled near the main desk, holographic koi fish swimming in loops above it, glitching every few seconds before snapping back into clean formation. Behind the fountain, a massive wall of curved screens displayed the current regional hero rankings—Ward 7's finest in all their over-filtered glory.

And Rocket's name was there, dead last.

Rank #143 — Rocket Fuel — Status: Pending Review.

No agency. No sponsors. No points.

He stared at it too long.

Ping.

Another name reshuffled. Kaito—still at the top. Big surprise.

Flashbulbs sparked across the atrium as the center display shifted into a live feed. A stage had been set up near the far end—curved marble steps leading up to a podium wrapped in a digital charity banner, rainbow-bright and flickering with scrolling messages: SAVE OUR STREETS. SUPPORT ORPHANED ANOMALIES. GIVE HOPE, GIVE HEROES.

Rocket's escorts stopped pushing him. One of them adjusted his earpiece and gestured lazily toward a side corridor, but Rocket barely heard him.

Because Kaito was already turning.

The Board's golden child stood dead center, surrounded by press, fans, and PR handlers in tight formation. His suit gleamed white and silver, and his hero seal pulsed on the left breast like a heartbeat. The moment he spotted Rocket—soaking wet, hunched, strings twitching like nerves under skin—Kaito's perfect smile froze mid-pose.

Light shimmered around him—that light-slash aura thing he always did when cameras were rolling. Smooth arcs of golden plasma haloed around his shoulders, giving him the glow of a messiah and the expression of a man who'd just tasted battery acid.

His smile twitched into something else.

He stepped off the platform, not fast, not slow, just deliberate. Each movement is a calculated slice of theater. Reporters turned like synchronized swimmers, shutters clicking in bursts.

Rocket just stood there, strings coiled tight inside his sleeves.

Kaito stopped three feet away. Not a hair out of place. Not a smudge on his uniform.

"You know what the problem is with you?" Kaito muttered, low enough that the mics wouldn't catch it, but loud enough that the room tension snapped.

Rocket blinked. "...There's only one?"

"Those feral optics of yours just cost me two sponsorships," Kaito hissed. His tone stayed calm, but his eyes? Sharp as a broken lens. "You think corporations want their golden beacon sharing the screen with a walking caution sign? Your strings were showing. You looked unstable."

Rocket tilted his head. "You done?"

"You humiliated me just by standing in frame."

A flick of the wrist—like swatting a fly—and Kaito turned, marching back to the ribbon-lined podium. The charity banner fluttered under the air conditioning, the colors glitching slightly. Reporters leaned forward, eager for the finale shot.

Kaito grabbed the ceremonial scissors with a white-gloved hand.

And sliced through the ribbon with a blinding arc of light.

Not clean. Not graceful. Furious.

The blade of light kept going, severing the entire stand and sending a digital support pillar sparking. The banner crumpled in a half-flickered heap, warping as its holoprojectors glitched.

Murmurs started in the press.

Rocket twitched.

The sound of that energy blade had hit something inside him, and his strings were crawling up his wrists like angry veins. His breath hitched, shallow. His hoodie collar twitched.

"Breathe," he muttered. "Don't do it. Don't—"

One thread slipped out.

It lashed sideways—reflexive, subconscious—striking the base of a marble column just off to the right of the fountain.

There was a sound. Sharp. Too sharp.

Crk.

A crystalline web of cracks spidered outward—slow, hypnotic, like ice forming. The pillar lit from inside with that eerie shimmer. Marble gets right before it fails.

Then the skylight above—high, huge, and untouched for years—followed suit.

A single spiderline fracture ran the length of the skylight's central pane.

Someone screamed.

The first chunk of glass dropped like a guillotine, slamming into the fountain with a deafening crash. Water sprayed. Holographic koi burst into pixel static.

The rest followed like rain.

Flashbulbs went off in a storm.

Security alarms triggered two seconds too late.

Reporters scrambled. Kaito shouted something about "containment breach" just before light flared around him again—shielding his face, his precious image.

Rocket stood perfectly still as a piece of glass the size of a car door shattered inches from his boot. His strings hissed like they were alive, curling around his ankles in tight spirals, fraying out midair.

Everything else? Chaos.

The screens above flickered again.

Rank #143 — Rocket Fuel — Status: Under Review.

The "Pending" icon turned red. A new tag popped up.

Incident Flag: Public Disturbance – Level 2.

Rocket stared at it.

Then he looked down at his soaked hoodie, at the glint of rainwater mixing with dust and marble shards.

He looked at Kaito, who aides already swarmed. Someone dabbed his sleeve clean like it mattered more than the crowd still shrieking near the exits.

And Rocket—cold, shaking, twitching—just muttered:

"...I was fixing a game console ten minutes ago."

The press started to recover. A dozen cameras pointed toward him now.

He didn't blink. He didn't flinch.

But inside, everything was screaming. Not fear. Not panic.

Just humiliation.

And under that?

Rage.

And under that?

A tiny, flickering thread of something worse.

The start of a rivalry.

One, they were gonna regret starting.