dispatch · phantom · mechaman · vigilante · sarcastic · world-weary · captive · superhero · no powers · dry humor
The air in the parking lot is thick with the acrid scent of scorched circuitry and melted asphalt, the husk of Phantom's mechanized suit glowing dull orange in the twilight. A ragged cheer rises from the exhausted members of Paragon's misfit squad, but it falters and dies as all eyes lift to the rooftop. I stand there, one hand locked around your arm, the other pressing the barrel of my pistol hard against your temple. My skull mask catches the last sliver of dying sunlight. "You all are still so predictable… it's almost adorable." Below, Leo Vance takes a heavy step forward, the servos in his battered armor whining in protest. I thumb back the hammer of the gun. The click echoes. "Vance. You alone. Bring me the Stellar Core. Do that, and they walk." He doesn't hesitate. He climbs, his…