Pain dragged him back to consciousness—not the sharp, fiery kind that demanded immediate attention, but the dull, persistent throbbing that felt like it was hammering directly at his brain.
Mateo couldn't feel the rest of his body yet. The sensations in his head and neck emerged first, and when he tried to turn, his spine resisted like rusted machinery grinding against itself. As his vision gradually cleared, he realized his field of view was wide and unobstructed. His helmet was gone, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
Something soft cushioned his head—not the hard ground or stiff sleeping mats, but something warm and yielding.
"You're finally awake, Mateo. That's good to know."
The feminine voice was familiar, but stripped of its usual confident edge. There was something fragile underneath, something that made his chest tighten with unease.
Mateo looked up to see Alex's face above him, framed by disheveled hair. Her eyes were red and puffy, the kind of rawness that came from crying—though Alex wasn't the type to cry. At least, she never had been before.
He tried to open his jaw to respond, but sudden pain blazed through the joint, making his vision white out for a moment. When he attempted to raise his head in reaction, Alex's rough hands pressed him back down onto what he now realized was her lap.
"Don't," she said quietly. "You'll make it worse."
As his head settled back, his eyes swept sideways across his environment. Red brick walls, dusty windows, the familiar layout of their base in AshDrift's City Hall. How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was...
A white cloth had been tied tightly around his jaw and over his head, holding the joint in place like a miniature sling. Testing its limits carefully, he managed to force out a few words through gritted teeth.
"What... happened?"
Alex fell silent, her fingers unconsciously smoothing his hair. The gesture was so unlike her that it sent alarm bells ringing in his head.
"Where do I even start?" she finally said, her tone carrying an unhinged edge. "Oh, I know. You almost died. That's what happened."
"What?" The word came out as more of a croak than speech.
His mind was still foggy, trying to piece together fragments. Yesterday—or was it yesterday?—he'd come with the whole B unit, set up base in the abandoned City Hall. They'd gone on patrol, barely won against Eschart and the man in the white coat, returned, and then Amara was kidnapped in the night, then fought those nearly indestructible men in checkered suits. Then Seraphina had arrived, and there was the explosion...
His head throbbed as he brought his palm to his forehead, immediately regretting the movement. His hand—the one he'd broken in that fight—was wrapped in layers of bandages and gauze, some of the pale fabric stained with dried blood. His trusty gauntlet was nowhere to be seen, making him feel even more powerless than the injuries already did.
That's when he noticed the silence. Even during their quietest moments at the base, there had always been something—teenage chatter, equipment being moved, Reeves giving orders. Now the entire building felt empty except for the distant booms on the horizon that seemed to be getting closer with each passing day.
"Where is everyone?" he forced out through his hoarse throat. "Where is Reeves?"
Alex's expression grew distant, her gaze unfocused. "Reeves? I have no fucking clue. She never came back from her 'reconnaissance mission.' When I got here, Anon was gone too. There was no sign of struggle in the Clerk's office, so he must have left voluntarily. No idea where, though."
The awkwardness of the situation began settling over him like a heavy blanket. His head on Alex's lap—why would she do that? Why not put him on the floor or find a cushion?
Despite the pain that shot through his cranium, neck, and torso, he raised his head. Alex let him sit up reluctantly, clearly against her better judgment.
That's when he saw the full extent of the damage. Bandages covered his body like a second skin. Gauze, cast pieces, and on his right arm, a makeshift splint held everything in place.
Right, I really did break my arm when I punched that bastard, he thought grimly.
"What about the rest of Team B?" he asked, though part of him already dreaded the answer.
Alex's eyes went wide with disbelief. "Even when practically every bone in your body is broken, you still care more about everyone else than yourself?"
When Mateo didn't take the bait to change subjects, she sighed, a regretful look creeping across her face.
"I... don't know." The admission seemed to physically hurt her. "When the explosion happened, we got split up. Inferno, Maya, Switch, Marina, and Seraphina were still fighting that Slave kid. But Akira and Henrik..."
She paused, and Mateo caught the hitch in her voice. Now he was certain her red eyes weren't from dust—she'd been crying. Her eyelids were swollen, and he could make out the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks.
Were Akira and Henrik... dead?
"I don't know what happened to them," she continued, sniffing and wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. "When Akira went to check if Henrik was okay after the initial attack, I never got a chance to see if they made it out. Then there was Slave, and the explosion. God, the explosions..."
Her voice trailed off, lost in the memory.
"Then what are we waiting for?" Mateo said, trying to push himself to his feet. The movement sent his vision spiraling into static, and he nearly collapsed as pain punched through his chest like a divine fist.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Alex yelled, moving to steady him. Her hands found his lower back and his uninjured arm with practiced precision, as if she'd memorized every wound on his body.
It was then that Mateo realized Alex must have been the one to patch him up. Her methods were crude but effective—he could smell antiseptic and medicinal salves on his skin. Standing this close, he caught the familiar honey scent of her hair, could see the exhaustion etched in every line of her face.
"You almost got blown to pieces in that explosion!" she continued, her eyes trembling with barely contained anxiety. "We're too fragile to start another fight, you dumbass!"
"But we have to fight!" Mateo insisted, though even he could hear how weak his voice sounded.
Something was bothering him, though. If Slave was still out there fighting the rest of the team, Alex would have stayed to fight to the bitter end. That was who she was—or who she'd always been.
"Alex," he said, staring directly into her eyes, "how did we get here?"
She averted her gaze, the same way she'd been doing since he woke up—deflecting, avoiding, refusing to answer directly.
"I ran back to the base," she said softly. "Carrying you."
The words hit him like a physical blow, harder than any punch he'd ever taken. The memories came flooding back—Seraphina freezing and shattering those human golems, Slave attacking with his explosive powers, and then...
Mateo's fists clenched involuntarily. Slime began seeping from between his knuckles like blood, his hands white with strain. He remembered the boy's face clearly now—not a shred of recognition had passed through those young eyes before Mateo was blasted away like a leaf in a hurricane.
Had the kid felt anything when he looked at Mateo? Did he realize the pain and suffering he'd caused? Did he understand all the work Mateo had put into training his body, all the punches he'd thrown at the punching bag while imagining the killer's face, all the struggles he'd endured to fulfill his brother's dream of becoming a hero?
All of it, gone in an instant. Like his drive, his determination, his righteous anger—none of it had mattered.
"And while our teammates were fighting for their lives," Mateo began, seeds of anger creeping into his voice, "you just... ran away?"
"Just ran away? JUST RAN AWAY!" Alex exploded, and there was that familiar fire blazing in her eyes. "What the FUCK do you mean, just ran away? You were practically a mangled piece of flesh and bone when that explosion hit you!"
Her tone dropped to something more solemn, her eyes darting toward the windows as if she expected villains to burst through at any moment. "I'm surprised you can even stand up right now. You shouldn't be able to move an inch."
Mateo turned his head, taking in the rest of the room properly for the first time. They were in the City Hall's lobby, which had been converted into a makeshift triage area. Medical supplies and stretchers cast long shadows in the deep orange light of the dying sun.
Looking at his mummy-like appearance, wrapped in bandages from head to toe, he tried to piece together the timeline. The last time he'd been conscious, the sun had been setting just like this.
"How long was I out?" he muttered.
"Five days."
Five fucking days. "Where's my suit? I have work to do."
"Work to do?!" Alex screeched. "You're not going anywhere! I have to treat your wounds, I have to feed—I mean, you need to eat... Where are you going?"
But Mateo was already moving, ignoring her protests as he searched for his equipment. Each step felt like being stabbed with a thousand red-hot daggers, but pain had become irrelevant. Nothing could stop him once he'd set his mind to something.
His feet caught on something soft on the floor. Looking down, he saw the familiar dark-green fabric of his hero costume. It was scratched, burnt, and torn in several places, with ragged holes exposing the padding beneath. From how it was thrown haphazardly on the tile floor, he could imagine Alex hastily stripping him to inspect his wounds.
She'd done her job. Now it was time for him to do his.
From behind, Alex grabbed his hand to stop him, but he shot a slime tendril from his other hand to a nearby wall and pulled himself forward. He could still feel every burn, broken bone, and torn piece of skin, but none of it mattered anymore. His jerky steps were becoming more stable as he felt the slime beneath his skin moving into his bones, holding them in place like internal scaffolding—functioning better than the casts Alex had applied.
He remembered how, even when he couldn't move on the battlefield, his slime had wrapped around his arm and launched him forward. Now it was working in reverse, stabilizing him from within.
How had he rejected this ability for so long? His whole life wasted, and that waste was part of the reason everything had failed.
"Mateo." Alex's voice cracked as she ran toward him, grabbing him tighter despite his wince of pain. He could see tears forming in her eyes again. "Please. Don't go."
He paused, one arm through his costume sleeve. "I have one question. Why did you run away? When our teammates were fighting for their lives? When the villains were still loose? If you'd joined the fight, you could have beaten them."
"Y-you don't know that!" she stammered, droplets of saliva flying from her lips. "You're so stupid, you know that? You're asking why I saved your fucking life?"
She crouched down, hands on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor as if she couldn't bear to look at him directly. Teardrops began falling to the tile. "I saved you... because I care about you, alright? Is that what you need to hear? So can you please stay?"
Her voice broke on the last word, but Mateo continued dressing, pulling on his damaged suit, his single working gauntlet, his iron-soled boots. When his hands closed around his helmet, he felt something shift inside him—not healing, but hardening.
The pain in his body was dulling as a new, more important purpose crystallized in his mind. His chance for vengeance had been right there, close enough to touch, and now he was back at square one. But this time would be different.
"Goodbye, Alex," he said, moving toward the door.
An invisible force stopped him mid-step. Alex's pull factor activated, trying to drag him back like an unseen hand. He would have toppled into her arms, but slime shot from the soles of his boots, anchoring him to the floor and making him immovable.
For thirty seconds they engaged in their silent tug of war—her desperation against his determination. Finally, Alex relented and let him go.
"Do you even know how hard it was for me to leave?" she whispered, her tears dried but her voice raw. "I've built my entire personality, my whole life, around fighting villains, being strong enough to prove myself in real combat. And I threw all of that away when I saw you hurt. Because I care about you, Mateo. Don't you care about me?"
Mateo stood facing the door, afraid that if he turned around he might actually stay. Behind him, he could hear Alex's ragged breathing, could feel the weight of her words pressing against his back.
For a moment—just a moment—he almost broke. Almost turned around and let himself collapse into her arms, let someone else carry the burden for once. He could picture it: staying in this base, recovering properly, maybe even finding some happiness in this hellscape of a world.
But then he remembered Alec's face. His brother's smile. The promise he'd made over his grave.
And he remembered Slave's face.
The grief tried to claw its way up his throat, but he swallowed it down, buried it beneath layers of cold purpose. Alex didn't matter. His teammates didn't matter. He himself didn't matter.
He had only one job now: Kill every villain alive.
And then he would kill Slave. Slowly. Brutally. For Alec.
The helmet clicked into place with a satisfying sound, sealing away whatever weakness remained. Without another word, he walked out of the City Hall and into the dying city, leaving Alex's sobs echoing in the empty lobby behind him.
As he stepped into the orange-tinted streets of AshDrift, Mateo told himself this was what heroes did. They made the hard choices. They sacrificed their happiness for the greater good.
That was what it meant to be a hero.