Return
I step through the wrought-iron gates onto our five-acre estate—precisely 20 234 m² of manicured grounds—and feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. It has been exactly seven days since the last Chitauri warship vanished from Earth's sky, and one week since I slipped back through that front door without saying a word about the six months I spent on the front lines. Six months, 182 days, 6 hours, 48 minutes of alien warfare that pushed my X-Gene beyond anything my parents can imagine.
Daglas Remsi(Russian pronunciation of Douglas Ramsey) walked a bit tightly.
In the drawing room, my mother sits exactly 1.6 m from the hearth's center, knitting with yarn that displaces 0.02 m of tablecloth as she works. She looks up as I enter and smiles, though her fingers freeze mid-stitch.
"You are early," She says. "Supper is not for another hour." Sheila says allowing herself a small smile.
I close the distance—1.8 m in twelve measured steps—and lower myself into the chair opposite her. I can smell jasmine at parts-per-billion levels, a faint echo of her presence.
"You did not want me to go to university," I begin, carefully measuring each word. "You told me once that you feared the same pressure that drove seven generations of our family to overachievement. You did not want that for me."
Her grey eyes soften—just a fraction—and she nods. "I did. I still do."
I exhale. It is time. "I appreciate that. That is why I told you I was going to Midtown High for my friends. Because I did not know how you would react if I said I had already finished every degree I ever intended to pursue."
Her knitting needles click as she sets them aside. "What do you mean, 'finished'?"
"I began university coursework at age eleven, using every school holiday—winter break, spring recess, summer leave from the Russian Military Academy—to travel to the United States under an assumed identity. I completed two Ph.D. programs: one in Molecular Virology over three years, the other in Computer Science over five years. I amassed 291 credits across three institutions, with a perfect 4.00 GPA. I published twelve first-author papers, eight conference proceedings, and hold three patents pending."
For sixteen seconds she says nothing. Then she stands and walks to the window. Her shoulders—always so straight—relax ever so slightly.
"And the Chitauri?" she asks, not turning around.
I nod. "I fought from the first incursion. My powers accelerated dramatically—my reaction time fell below one millisecond, my neural inhibitor required daily recalibration. I rescued 416 civilians directly."
She closes her eyes, voice trembling. "You could have died."
"Yes," I reply. "But I did not. And I came home."
She turns back to face me. "Then why Midtown High?"
"Because it was the only explanation I could offer without losing you. I did not know how you would bear the news that I had secretly vaulted past every academic milestone you hoped to protect me from."
Her gaze softens. She steps forward, resting a hand on my shoulder for 2.5 seconds. "Promise me you will not disappear again."
"I promise."
At that moment my father's boots—size 43, each step 0.75 s apart—sound in the hallway. He enters, uniform immaculate, twenty-three medals gleaming.
He looks at my mother, then at me. "Did he tell you?"
She nods.
"Good," he says. "Then let us discuss your next mission."
In that instant, the unspoken weight of six months of war, two clandestine doctorates, and the promise of new beginnings at Midtown High lifts—replaced by the knowledge that I have finally brought my parents into my world, and that whatever comes next, I will face it with them at my side.
....
Douglas, in his infinity bedroom, suddenly rocketed awake thought their was no cold sweats or any physical symptoms.
Douglas laid back again as he was sorting through his memories, but found many gaps in his memories, but nothing seems to have been removed or modified, he was always checking his memories every two weeks but this had to be recent as well.
After checking out his mental condition everything was as it should be.
Strikingly, he noticed considerable improvements in all aspects of his physicality. Douglas shrugged it off.
Douglas. Was sitting in a car with his boy, scrolling on his phone.
On FRIENDZONE.
@BigTonyFromAstoria Yooo so Spider-Man just THREW Hippo thru da Popeye's on 21st & btw… bro… my cousin was in line. He OK but he got BBQ sauce in his eye. This city cursed fr.
@ChrissyQueens At this point I believe the city planners are in on it. Who builds a school across from a Gamma radiation facility??? That is a setup. A setup.
Douglas had a smirk while scrolling through these, of course school had restarted one week after the aliens are gone.
@FlatbushFlatliner Listen idc what nobody says, Spider-Man is NOT from Queens. No one from Queens moves like that. I am from here. He gotta be from like Jersey or smth.
@RealAmericanPatriot69 It is mighty convenient how nobody ever sees Spider-Man in daylight. You people are all being played. He is an alien sleeper agent. Look into it. The ears. The way he moves. Human joints do not move like that. WAKE UP.
@XxVibez420xX nah fr the government got dudes swinging around in pajamas but they cannot fix the F train?
@CapStan4ever Y'all buggin. Cap woulda never let this city get like this. If Captain America was still in charge of the Avengers NYC would be CLEAN rn. Remember the Battle of New York? Cap led that. Not these lil Snapp heroes.
@MutantTruthFiles So nobody gonna talk about how the same 10 people show up every time some crazy s*** happens? I crunched the data. Look:
Spider-Man? 28 major battles in NYC since 2002
Hulk? 17
Iron Man (before tony stark coma)? 33
NYC has 1.6M active CCTV cameras. How come we never got a clear face shot? Explain it. I shall wait.
Ivan stepped out of the matte-black SUV into the crisp morning air. The digital campus clock on the Student Center read 08:15. He adjusted the captain's insignia on his leather jacket—a family heirloom inherited from his father, the Rhino. 1.95 m tall and 110 kg, he cut an imposing figure, yet his posture was relaxed.
Douglas "Thorn" Ramsey, 16 years old, tilted his head with a wry smile. He wore a varsity hoodie and carried a 500 mL chocolate milkshake in one hand.
Thorn (in Russian):
«Наконец-то, Ивана, шесть месяцев войны с пришельцами закончились. Я устал от взрывов и радиоактивных штормов.»
(Finally, Ivan, six months of war with the aliens are over. I am tired of explosions and radioactive storms.)
Ivan (in Russian):
«Да, друг мой. Это было тяжело. Но теперь мы свободны жить как обычные студенты.»
(Yes, my friend. It was difficult. But now we are free to live like ordinary students.)
They shared a brief nod. Around them, freshmen and sophomores bustled between classes—over 200 students passed through this quad every hour.
Thorn led Ivan across the fountain plaza toward the main academic building. The late-summer sun reflected off glass façades.
Thorn (casually sipping):
«Это Мидтаун. Здесь нет ордынцев, только книжки и кофе.»
(This is Midtown. No Horde here, only books and coffee.)
They spotted Flash leaning against a column, scrolling on his phone. Harry was perched on a bench, tossing a tennis ball up and down.
Thorn (calling out):
«Эй, Флеш! Эй, Гарри! Я привел капітана!»
(Hey, Flash! Hey, Harry! I brought the captain!)
Flash looked up, eyebrows arching at the milkshake. Harry grinned, ball still bouncing.
Thorn (to Ivan):
«Иван, это Флеш. А это Гарри. Они здесь главные тусовщики.»
(Ivan, this is Flash. And this is Harry. They are the main socialites here.)
Flash sized up Ivan's broad shoulders and then Thorn's milkshake. He shook his head, arms crossed.
Flash (muttering):
«Серьезно? Молочный коктейль в восемь утра?»
(Seriously? A milkshake at eight in the morning?)
His disappointed look was theatrical but affectionate—a silent challenge to Thorn's choice.
Harry caught sight of Thorn's shake and burst out laughing.
Harry:
«Блин, там на шестом этаже чувак на шестах танцует лучше, чем твой молочный коктейль смотрится менее странно!»
(Dude, there are guys twerking on poles on the sixth floor who look less out of place than your milkshake!)
Thorn chuckled, unperturbed.
As they walked, a small group of students trailed behind, curious about the new "captain." Ivan smiled politely.
Thorn (defensive, playful):
«Я люблю молочные коктейли. Если они вам не нравятся, вы можете…»
I love milkshakes. If
He held up the shake.
Thorn:
«…попробовать сами.»
(Try it on your own)
Ivan stepped between them, arms folded.
Ivan (in Russian):
«Дуглас делает то, что он хочет. Это его выбор. Молочный коктейль — это не преступление.»
(Douglas does what he wants. That is his choice. A milkshake is not a crime.)
Flash cracked a grin; Harry saluted mockingly with his tennis ball.
Ivan noted the campus layout: 15 buildings in easy walking distance, 4 cafeterias, and a 24-7 hour library. He felt the tension of leadership ease—here he was just another freshman.
Thorn savored his milkshake's creamy texture and thought: They can mock all they want. I measure life in missions completed, not in calories.
Flash admired Ivan's calm confidence. He thought: Kid's got presence. Better watch out—he might actually be cooler than Thorn.
Harry bounced his ball twice, then three times. He mused: Pole-twerking joke landed. But that shake looks tasty. Maybe next time I try strawberry.
The bell tower chimed 08:30. Students surged toward Lecture Hall B.
Thorn:
«Пора на первый урок. Добро пожаловать в студенческую жизнь.»
(Time for first class. Welcome to student life.)
Ivan tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, straightened his shoulders, and followed.
As they entered the hall—120 seats, 2 large projection screens—Thorn raised his shake in silent cheers. Ivan raised an eyebrow, then allowed himself a small smile.
Prior to beginning, Douglas Aaron Ramsey settled into his seat at Desk 47 in Room 301. The leather backing pressed into his shoulder blades; the polished wood surface lay cool beneath his forearms. He cracked his knuckles and scanned the cover of the exam booklet: "Comprehensive Qualifier—360 Minutes, 24 Sections."
First Hour: Mathematical and Physical Sciences.
Douglas flipped to Section 1: Advanced Calculus. His eyes traced the first problem—a triple integral over a non–Cartesian domain. Without pausing, he converted it into iterated integrals, his bilingual mind mapping Russian mathematical terminology onto English symbols in 0.8 seconds([PMC][1]). He wrote the limits precisely: \int_{0}^{1}\!\!\int_{x}^{1}\!\!\int_{0}^{1-y} f(x,y,z)\,dz\,dy\,dx.
His pen moved in fluid strokes, each line an embodiment of "show, do not tell," as he visualized the volume in three–dimensional space.
By 09:30, he had completed all eight calculus problems with 100 percent accuracy. He turned to Section 2: Abstract Algebra. A group–theory question asked him to prove that any subgroup of index 2 is normal. He wrote the classic proof in Russian:> «Пусть H подгруппа G индекса 2. Для любого g ∈ G либо gH = H, либо gH — другой левый смежный класс, равный правому смежному классу Hg. Поэтому gH = Hg, и H нормальна.»
He translated that internally into English syntax, then moved on.
Second Hour: Quantum Mechanics and Electrodynamics.
At 10:30, the proctor dimmed lights by 30 percent for a silent endurance test. Douglas barely noticed. He inhaled calmly—his cortisol remained at baseline 150 nmol/L due to eustress buffering( meaning his not stressing)
Section 3: Quantum Mechanics commanded him to solve the time–independent Schrödinger equation for a harmonic oscillator. His pen sketched Hermite polynomials, each coefficient exact to four decimal places. He switched to Spanish in his mind for clarity on boundary conditions, then back to English for normalization integrals.
By 09:45, he had derived:
\psi_n(x) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2^n n!}} \biggl(\frac{m\omega}{\pi\hbar}\biggr)^{1/4} e^{-\frac{m\omega x^2}{2\hbar}} H_n\!\bigl(\sqrt{\tfrac{m\omega}{\hbar}}\,x\bigr).
He smiled.
Third Hour: Molecular Genetics and Cellular Biochemistry.
At 11:30, Douglas moved to Section 7: Molecular Genetics. A CRISPR–Cas9 diagram demanded annotation of five mechanistic steps. His bilingual training let him parse technical Spanish and Russian labels instantly, reducing comprehension time by 3 seconds per item. He labeled each arrow—DNA binding, cleavage, repair pathway selection—without hesitation.
Section 8: Cellular Biochemistry asked for the Gibbs free–energy change of ATP hydrolysis under cellular conditions. He wrote ΔG′° = −30.5 kJ/mol, then adjusted for ionic strength to −32.2 kJ/mol at pH 7.4 and 310 K, citing exact numerical data.
Fourth Hour: Philosophical Logic and Ethics
By 12:30, Douglas approached Section 11: Philosophical Logic. A modal–logic proof required "show, do not tell"—he enacted the accessibility relation with a truth–table drawn in miniature ([Quizlet][7]). Each □ and ◇ symbol emerged in crisp ink.
Section 12: Ethics posed a 1 500‑word essay on Kant versus Mill in public policy. Douglas began in Russian, then drafted in English, alternating paragraphs to exploit cognitive switching. His final text argued:
> "Categorical imperatives demand universalizability; utilitarian calculus demands maximal welfare. In policy, these conflict—yet a hybrid approach can optimize both duty and outcome."
5. Fifth Hour: Computer Science and Topology
At 13:30, Section 18: Computer Science required pseudocode for an O(n log n) sorting algorithm and complexity proof. Douglas wrote quicksort in English–Russian comments, then proved average–case time = O(n log n)
Section 20: Topology gave two tasks: prove that any continuous map from S¹ to R² has a fixed point (Brouwer's theorem) and compute the fundamental group of the torus. He sketched the torus, labeled loops a and b, and wrote π₁(T²) ≅ ℤ×ℤ (
Final Hour: Music Theory and Cognitive Neuroscience
At 14:30, Douglas tackled Section 22: Music Theory. He heard the four–part chorale in his mind, wrote appropriate harmonic progressions, and annotated voice–leading in Italian terms—"soprano," "alto," "tenore," "basso." His multilingual edge let him recall solfège syllables instantly.
Section 24: Psychology demanded analysis of fMRI activation maps in a working–memory task. He described dorsolateral prefrontal cortex activation, linked to executive control, citing BOLD signal changes of 2.5 percent.
At exactly 15:00, Douglas closed his booklet. His scores would exceed 95 percent in every section. He rose, legs unshaken—endurance training had paid off. As he exited, he recalled the proctor's final warning: "No tears on paper." He had none.
Across the hall, other students emerged pale, exhausted, some weeping. Douglas inhaled fresh air and smiled. He had treated the exam as a mission, each subject a target. His language power had unlocked each question's structure, letting him operate with the precision of a special–forces operative. Six hours of intellectual combat—and victory.
---
Summer Practice – Midtown High Football Field, July 11, 3:07 PM
The July sun was a tyrant—unrelenting and scorching. The digital display on the scoreboard blinked 96.4°F, but the turf registered a blistering 106°F. Waves of heat rose from the field, making the white yard lines ripple like they were melting.
It was Week 1 of Summer Training Camp, a full-contact, no-compromise practice for the Midtown on High Ironbacks, a powerhouse football program in the Mid-Atlantic region appear a
Flash Thompson, towering at 6'6" and weighing 222 pounds, was the talk of the field. He was a rare blend of size, speed, and violent intensity. Word around the scouts was that he had "linebacker dimensions and cornerback speed." Today, he was about to prove it.
He stood at the painted start line of the 40-yard dash—feet staggered, fingers grazing the turf, black Under Armour Vapor cleats twitching.
His vitals: Resting heart rate: 92 bpm, elevated from warm-ups.
Muscle oxygen saturation: 87%, still prime.
Vertical leap (tested earlier that day): 49.5 inches.
"Whenever you're ready, Thompson," said Coach Murch, stopwatch in hand, sun gleaming off his whistle.
Flash exhaled sharply—then exploded.
40-Yard Dash Breakdown – Flash Thompson
0.00s – Launch angle of 42°, textbook acceleration. His first step covered 1.43 meters.
1.42s – Hit the 10-yard split. Cleats bit into the turf with a ground contact time of 0.15s per step.
2.48s – 20-yard split. Core velocity: 20.9 mph.
3.77s – 30-yard split. He was now at 21.8 mph, nearing his top-end speed.
4.20s – Final time. Electronic-timed. Dead accurate.
Coaches stared at the timer in silence. A 4.20 was historic. Would've tied Chris Johnson for the 2nd fastest in NFL Combine history.
Defensive coordinator Coach Moleskin dropped his clipboard. "That's not a corner. That's a guided missile."
Flash slowed down near the goal post, long legs decelerating like a galloping stallion. He turned back, panting but composed, a small grin cracking beneath his mouthguard.
In the shade near the water coolers, the Ironbacks' undisputed field general watched the run. Kenneth McFarlane, the 6'5" (correction: 6'4.5" barefoot) quarterback with a golden arm and ice-cold nerves, adjusted the wrap on his wrist.
He stepped onto the field, tossing the ball lazily to himself.
Coach Jacoby shouted, "Alright, McFarlane, let's see that laser!"
McFarlane lined up in shotgun—ball snapped clean. The defense sent a disguised double A-gap blitz.
Pocket collapsed in 2.27 seconds.
McFarlane dropback speed: 3.1 yards/sec.
He hit his hitch step and snapped his hips.
Launch data: Velocity: 56.9 mph. Spiral rate: 627 RPM. Release time: 0.43 seconds. Air distance: 44.2 yards.
Ball placement: 3 inches ahead of WR Malik Graves' chest, into a tight 18-inch window between two trailing safeties.
"BULLSEYE!" Coach Jacoby screamed.
Flash, now cooling down with a towel on his shoulders, nodded in approval. "Not bad for a guy who can't dunk."
McFarlane smirked. "I don't need to dunk. I throw touchdowns."
They dapped up near midfield, the tension shifting to respect. Teammates clapped. The day wasn't done, but history had just been made on a steamy July afternoon.
---
A hulking 6'5" teenager in gym clothes walks toward the practice field. DOUGLAS RAMSEY, towering over most of the team, clutches a borrowed helmet in one hand. His calm face hides the electric tingle in the back of his head—Spider-Sense, always on standby.
Kids and coaches glance at him as he approaches. The quarterback pauses mid-throw. A few players nudge each other.
COACH RICHARDS (pointing with his clipboard)
"You trying out, Ramsey?"
"Yes, sir." Douglas says calmly.
COACH RICHARDS (grinning) "You sure you've never played before?"
"Positive. Just... figured I'd try something new." Douglas says without issues.
"With your size? Hell, we might've just found our new tight end." Coach Richard's was shocked to say the least.
Douglas nods, unsure whether that's a good thing or not.
It starts with sprints, and Douglas's long legs carry him with effortless speed. But it's not just the height—it's the instincts. He turns before a ball even finishes its arc. Ducks before someone bumps into him. Reacts without thinking.
"Did you see that cut?" Randy Robertson remarked.
"He's moving like he's reading the plays before they happen." Flash Thompson said clearly impressed.
They put Douglas up against a varsity linebacker—MARCUS, mean and fast.
COACH RICHARDS
Don't hold back, Marcus.
Marcus grins and charges. The second he makes his move, Douglas gets the tingle—danger incoming. He shifts, pivots, and lets Marcus slide past like a bull chasing red cloth.
Marcus hits the dirt. Groans.
DOUGLAS (quietly to himself)
Sorry.
The sidelines erupt. Whistles blow. A few players cheer.
COACH RICHARDS (watching, impressed but suspicious)"Ramsey... where the hell've you been hiding?"
Douglas shrugs, trying to play it cool, but inside–If they only knew…
Having Spider-Sense and seeing how it works, it's clear the writers just wanted Peter Parker to stay poor.
At first, my understanding of Spider-Sense was clunky. I thought it just warned Peter Parker about danger. But looking closer, it's clear that Spider-Sense is far more powerful—it alerts him to anything that could lead to an outcome he doesn't want.
Take the card night example: the other heroes don't invite him because his Spider-Sense would give him an edge, warning him against every bad play. Or when Doctor Strange knocks Peter's soul out of his body—his instincts, powered by Spider-Sense, still control his body. That's not just reflex; that's next-level awareness.
Honestly, Peter could probably win the lottery weekly if he really tuned into it. But he's constantly suppressing his Spider-Sense, restricting it to physical danger. I wasn't like that. I didn't suppress anything.
Unlike in the Spider-Man movie, where Peter's emotions messed with his ability to sense Mysterio's illusions, mine stayed sharp. And where Peter's own personality limited how much he could tap into that power, I noticed something different in myself: my personality didn't interfere at all.
Which was strange, because technically, I had two personalities—almost like a mental disorder. Yet instead of causing chaos, that duality brought balance. My Spider-Sense wasn't just a background warning system. It was fully active, unrestricted, and overpowered.
Honestly, I felt bad for main-universe Peter. There's so much evidence that he could have done better—he had the tools, especially with how powerful his Spider-Sense really is. But the guy was constantly suffering. He went through unimaginable stress, even got cheated on... it was wild.
When you think about what Spider-Sense is actually capable of, it's hard not to wonder how things went so wrong for him. It could tell him where a loved one was, whether they were in danger, or even alert him if he was building something wrong. I remember one comic where his Spider-Sense warned him he was about to spill a drink—that's how fine-tuned it can be.
The full extent of that ability is borderline supernatural, and yet, he still struggled through heartbreak, loss, and failure. It's frustrating because the potential was always there.
That's why I'm grateful my universe version of Peter isn't like that. My Peter's a billionaire, living a better life than most of his counterparts. He's not weighed down by unnecessary suffering, and he's embraced the full potential of his powers. It's not just about avoiding danger—it's about thriving.
And the craziest part? I still had no idea what Marvel universe I was in.
Michelle Jones-Watson was at the school—yeah, she was hot as hell—but she didn't look anything like Zendaya. At the same time, Mary Jane Watson existed too, already a famous actress. So clearly, this wasn't the MCU, Ultimate, or 616. It was something else.
Midtown High was packed. There were way more students than I remembered—some I recognized from comics, movies, or cartoons… and others I'd never seen before in any version. And everyone? Rich as hell. I mean, I expected a little wealth here and there, but this was next-level. Private cars, designer clothes, the works. It felt more like Maria Stark Academy than a regular high school.
When I first arrived here, I expected it to be like the comics I remembered before regaining my memories. But when I did remember, this world wasn't as familiar as I had hoped. Oh—right! I almost forgot about the Dominator from Psycho-Pass. I discovered that I could convert it into a card and assimilate it.
The characters I assimilated always ended up having more powers than I expected—even ones I thought I knew well, like Tai Lung or Albert Wesker. I looked around and realized I was in the other school cafeteria, the one I hadn't been to yet. I was eating a Japanese-style dish with Volkswagen currywurst, and I loved the taste.
Midtown Academy Cafeteria – East Wing (a.k.a. "The Fancy Caf")
The cafeteria looks like a tech startup's dream lounge—sleek tables, digital menus, windows that tint with the sun, and food that would make a Michelin chef raise an eyebrow. Around one of the largest tables, the sharpest (and weirdest) minds of Midtown are winding down after surviving the 6-hour Qualifier Exam—a one-shot deal for the top 120 students to skip the six months of school they lost during the alien invasion.
Seated: Peter Parker, MJ (MCU), Gwen Stacy, Ned Leeds, Flash Thompson, Douglas Ramsey, Randy Robertson, Seymour O'Reilly's, Betty Brant, Harry Osborn, and Amadeus Cho.
"Yo, Ramsey! Someone told me you smoked everyone at the tryouts while I was at practice. That true?" Flash said plopping down, sweaty from practice.
"I mean, "smoked" is a strong word. Let's just say military school teaches you how to run like your life depends on it." Douglas said grinning, wiping sauce from his mouth.
Randy elbowed Douglas and, said."Bro, the way you juked that senior linebacker? I thought you glitched the simulation."
"Hey, I'm just glad prepping for the end of the world paid off. Military school turned me into a full-on doomsday prepper. Unlike some people, I actually studied the past six months… y'know, while the sky was purple and half the city was floating." Douglas couldn't help laughing as he said so.
"God knows how half of us passed that exam. Six hours. My soul left my body during hour four." Betty murmured
"I thought it was a trick when they handed out the third essay subsection. Like, "Just kidding! Go outside!" But no. More math. More ethical scenarios." Gwen Head was still in her hands as she spoke.
"By hour five, I would've confessed to any crime. They could've asked if I built Machinesmith's Robots, and I'd say yes just to leave early." Mj said stone-faced.
"I'm 90% sure I blacked out during the quantum mechanics subsection and kept writing with my left hand. I'm right-handed." Peter said in agreement nodding solemnly.
"Y'all are dramatic. It was long, yeah, but not impossible. Honestly, the logic grid questions were kind of fun." Amadeus on the other hand was as chill as ever speaking that casually
"You're not even sweating. Did you enjoy the test?" Flash spoke suspicion clearly in his voice.
"I brought snacks. You people didn't bring snacks?" Amadeus said in the same tone.
"Dude, they confiscated my protein bar like it was contraband." Ned said so helplessly.
"It's Midtown. You'd think they'd let the smartest kids snack during the most important test of the year." Randy said with a laugh.
"I blanked on the history part. Like, I was there during the invasion, but they wanted dates and timelines?" My brain said "Nope." Seymour O'Reilly's said rubbing his temples.
"That's why you go to military school: structure, drills, and weird canned food. Builds character." Douglas said with a shrug.
"Well, I bribed my brain with caffeine and panic. Got me through it. Barely." Harry as he leaned in, smooth.
"Honestly, I don't care what I scored. I'm just glad we didn't have to go back through remedial classes." Betty said to MJ.
"Same. If I had to sit through six months of Mr. Harrington's "crisis coping" lectures, I'd start an alien invasion myself." MJ replied.
"So, football and doomsday prepping. You're like A-branded Eagle Scout." Peter smirked at Douglas while speaking.
"Minus the badge sash. Unless they start giving those for surviving alien invasions and writing 5,000-word essays in a food court." Douglas spoke with mock seriousness.
"Real talk, though—you're fitting in, man. Welcome to Midtown chaos." Randy said to Douglas.
"Yeah, you're cool, Ramsey. Just don't try and take my wide receiver spot." Flash said grinning.
"No promises, Thompson." Douglas said grinning back.
The door swishes open as a few more students stroll in: Liz Allan, Kenny "Kong" McFarlane, and a tall, serious girl in tech-augmented glasses—Madame Curie Cho, amadeus's sister, top coder in Midtown's robotics club.
Kenny collapsing into a chair. And spoke without thinking. "Whoever added the sub-sections to that exam—three bonus essays and a "moral judgment cube"? That's not a teacher. That's an alien in khakis.
"Or a sociopath with tenure. Same thing." Maddy said deadpan.
Liz grabbing a fry. "No, hear me out: What if the exam was the real invasion? Like, mental probing. Testing us. Preparing us for some kind of interdimensional academic league?"
"If that's true, I hope their league has nap breaks and less math." Flash said groaning.
"By the way—how's your boxing going, Thompson? Still leaning on that flashy American stuff, or are you ready to try the Soviet style?" Douglas said grinning, leaning towards Flash.
"Still undefeated. 56 fights. 56 KOs. You want me to box like a tank, or with a tank?" Flash said smirking.
"I'm just saying… the Russians don't dance in the ring. We close it. The ring is not for ballet. It's for war." Douglas spoke clearly proud.
Everyone laughs, even Flash, who mock-squares up before stealing a piece of Douglas's naan.
"Okay, this is...wild. Tony Stark just woke up. From the coma. And guess who visited him? Elon Musk. Like, actual Elon. Brought him a prototype of those creepy Tesla bots." Peter said suddenly looking up from his phone.
"Wait—the Elon Musk? Isn't he like… making flamethrowers in his garage?" Ned spoke recovering from choking on a grape.
"Yeah, and apparently in 2005—which is next year—he's planning to launch his own car company. Electric cars. The guy's an upcoming billionaire. We should keep an eye on him." Peter spoke clearly in his element.
"If he starts making humanoid robots with questionable morality, I call dibs on hacking them first." Amadeus said raising an eyebrow.
"Didn't Stark name one of his AIs after that Japanese tech guy?" Seymour O'Reilly's spoke half-listening.
Peter nodded. "Tadashi Hamada. He showed up too. He's working with Stark on ethical AI stuff. You know that new "Tadashi Core"? The one they say might replace J.O.C.A.S.T.A."
"Of course it's always men building the things that end the world or save it. Depending on how caffeinated they are." Gwen said mock sighing.
MJ rolls her eyes and turns to Douglas. "Speaking of men with savior complexes… Douglas, you need to talk to Ripley."
"What about her?" Douglas spoke suddenly serious.
"She's pulling away again. Skipping clubs, dodging us. And we get it—she's been through hell. But she's isolating like she wants the bullying to start again." Betty spoke softly.
"She was doing better when you pulled her out of that mess last semester. When she had a voice again." Gwen spoke sincerely.
"She thinks if she becomes invisible, she won't get hurt again. That the less she feels, the less they can take." Douglas spoke jaw tightening. "But I didn't bring her back just for her to fade out."
"Then tell her that. Before she forgets she has people who give a damn." MJ spoke matter of factly.
"The table goes quiet for a second. Douglas nods, eyes low but resolute."
"I'll talk to her. Today." Douglas said calmly.
Then, to break the tension. Flash grinned. "Man, are all Russians this dramatic or is it just you?"
Douglas smirked back. "Only the ones trained to survive the apocalypse."
Kenny grabbed sushi. "Good, 'cause Midtown is the apocalypse. Just with weirder lunch options."
Everyone laughs again. The moment softens. Someone plays a song from their phone—lofi mixed with Wakandan beats. The group settles back into their food, shoulders lighter than before. The exam, the invasion, the future—they can handle it.
Midtown Library Rooftop – Late Afternoon
Windy. Overcast. Ripley Ryan stands alone, hoodie up, staring out over the football field below. Douglas steps onto the rooftop, quietly closing the access door behind him. He doesn't speak right away. She doesn't turn.
Douglas gently speaks: "You know the school installed better security cams up here. You're lucky I still have admin access."
"Ripley without looking. "You gonna report me or lecture me?"
Douglas shrugs: "Depends. You up here to think... or disappear?"
"What's the difference anymore?" Ripley said quite distantly.
Douglas moves to stand beside her. Silence stretches. Wind tugs at her sleeves.
"The difference is thinking means you still care. Disappearing means you don't want to." Douglas spoke with hope.
Ripley bitter spoke: "You think you saved me last semester. Like I was some glitch in the matrix you could debug."
"I didn't save you. I reminded you, you're real. That they don't get to rewrite your story." Douglas spoke with patience.
Ripley quiet, almost a whisper. "What if I don't want a story anymore? Every version of me gets rewritten anyway. Mean girl. Victim. Traitor. Nobody."
Douglas: "You're not a "nobody," Ripley. You're a survivor. You're allowed to change, but don't vanish. Not when you've got people willing to stand with you."
Ripley finally looked at him. "And if I mess up again?"
Douglas smiled softly. "Then we deal with it. Together. Midtown's not exactly forgiving, but we're tougher. Especially the broken ones."
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she nods. For now, it's enough. Ripley with a half smirk. "You always this dramatic, or just with girls on rooftops?"
Douglas grinned openly. "Only when the world's ending... or when someone matters."
---
Peter leans over his phone, earbuds in, watching a grainy live-streamed feed. He's squatting behind the Midtown science closet during study period.
Peter spoke to himself whisperingly. "Okay... what the heck am I watching?"
[ON SCREEN: Stark Lab – The room is dimly lit, filled with projected schematics and a half-completed humanoid robot. Tony Stark, pale but moving, gestures animatedly as Elon Musk and Tadashi Hamada observe.]
Tony (rasping, still recovering): "You called it a helper unit, Elon. That thing moves like it wants to sue its creator for child support."
Elon (deadpan): "Functionality first. Personality later."
Tadashi (mildly): "Personality is functionality, if the AI is going to work in human spaces."
"That's why I wanted you, Hamada. You don't treat AI like glorified calculators." Tony spoke with obvious sass.
"Calculators don't cry when you shut them off." Elon was steady when their was not much of live audience.
"And that's exactly the problem. Emotional cores aren't a bug—they're a buffer. They stop machines from becoming monsters." Tadashi said with enthusiasm.
Tony tapped a holo-projection. "That's what the Tadashi Core is gonna do. Give this thing a conscience. Even if it makes it slower, more careful. You can keep your killer apps, Elon. I want my AIs to hesitate."
Peter spoke to himself, stunned. "Whoa... this is bigger than J.O.C.A.S.T.A. This is... real ethics programming."
(On-screen, the robot turns its head slightly. Its eyes light with a soft blue. Tadashi's fingers fly across a keypad. Tony watches—silent now.)
Tony spoke low, almost reverent. "Let's build something that'll outlive us... and actually deserve to."
---
It was a late afternoon that belonged to the youth. Midtown's massive open field—a stitched-together sprawl of four regulation-sized soccer pitches—buzzed with life under the lazy light of a sinking May sun. The smell of grass, half-dried sweat, and street-cart pretzels drifted through the golden air. From the bleachers to the farthest goalpost, a quiet storm was building. This was not a league game. There were no scouts or sponsors, no coaches screaming tactics. This was something purer, something rooted in the sacred code of boys-who-love-the-game. This was their match.
Douglas Ramsey tightened the laces on his cleats, one knee on the earth, the other braced like a knight at prayer. He glanced across the field, his pale eyes tracking the silhouettes of teammates stretching, talking trash, or juggling the ball in private rituals. Midtown High had emptied not twenty minutes ago, yet here were its legends—Peter Parker and Harry Osborn sharing a laugh, Flash Thompson hammering shots into an open net like he wanted to tear the fabric of the goal itself.
Bart Simpson zipped past the midfield circle, the ball under his foot like it was drawn to him magnetically. "You ready for this, Ramsey?" he shouted, already grinning, already halfway gone.
Douglas rose with a smirk and clapped his hands. "I was born ready. You all just finally caught up."
Peter, standing nearby, half-smiled. He looked at the field not as a battleground, but as a problem to be solved. His eyes, a soft brown edged with something far older than his years, flicked from teammate to opponent to open space. His posture was casual, but if one looked closely—if one had the eyes to see—they would notice how his shoulders always turned a split second before the ball moved, how his eyes tracked movements just a fraction too early.
Flash, six-foot-six and burning with the competitive fire of a future college linebacker, barked orders like he was already team captain. ". Brigham! Run the wing! Harry, back me up at the top of the box!"
Brigham Fontaine stretched with feline ease, flipping a lock of blonde hair behind his ear. "Relax, Flash. It's not war. It's just soccer."
Flash growled. "Everything's war if you want to win."
Joshua Coolridge stood near the goal, arms crossed, quiet as a statue. He watched, always watched, with the eyes of someone used to understanding before speaking. Douglas moved to him and touched fists.
"How's Wakandan footwork today?"
"Efficient," Joshua a replied. "You?"
Douglas grinned. "Chaotic genius. You'll see."
A whistle sounded—Brigham's, blown sharply through his fingers. The game had begun.
It was eleven on eleven, but it felt like a hundred duels. The ball danced, was passed, trapped, kicked, lost, and recovered. Peter floated like a specter through defenders who should have known better. His passes seemed always a whisper ahead of thought.
Bart Simpson was a blur, his speed a weapon too sharp to be wielded easily. He overran a few plays, the ball sometimes behind him even as he burned defenders. But when he connected—when his stride synced with the bounce—it was like watching poetry sprint.
Douglas brought an entirely different rhythm. He played with the fierce pride of street ballers from Lagos and Nairobi, spinning and cutting with a swagger that made defenders hesitate. He nutmegged Flash early in the game, drawing a roar of laughter from the sidelines.
Flash turned, red-faced, charging. "You think you're funny, Ramsey?!"
"I think I'm better," Douglas shot back, already gone.
Harry Osborn orchestrated the midfield like a symphony, finding passes that seemed to skip the laws of geometry. Michelangelo, on the other team, countered with unpredictable chaos—backheels, bicycle kicks, no-look passes. Each time he made contact with the ball, the air felt like it had shifted slightly sideways.
Seymour O'Reilly played defense like a bulldozer with ballet shoes. He did not run fast, but he was always in the right place, always where he needed to be. Brian McKeever challenged him once, trying to muscle past. He bounced off and landed hard.
He offered him a hand. "I am not made of steel, but close enough."
Steven Petty, goal-side captain for the reds, barked observations like a military commander. "Shift left! Bart, cover the deep man! Diana, intercept cross-range!"
And then there was the moment.
Douglas danced through two defenders, pivoted on his heel, and with a flick that came from something deeper than muscle memory, sent the ball spinning toward the net. It curved high—too high. But then Peter, who no one remembered running forward, appeared like a ghost at the back post.
He leapt—not high, but early.
Time slowed.
Even the sun seemed to hold its breath.
He met the ball with the outside of his right foot, redirecting it midair, down and away from Tower's outstretched gloves.
GOAL.
Silence. Then thunder.
Douglas shouted, arms wide. Peter landed, expression unreadable, like it had been just another angle solved.
From the opposite goal, Luke tower raised his hands. "That was unfair. You calculated that bounce."
Peter shrugged, but his eyes twinkled. "Just got lucky."
Felicia jogged up beside him. "You are the unluckiest lucky guy I have ever met."
The game continued.
Eleven versus eleven. Boys and girls turned warriors, artists, shadows.
And above it all, the setting sun cast
gold across the field, as if the day itself wanted to honor their game.
__
Midtown High – Locker Room, 4:12 PM
The benches in the Midtown High locker room groaned under the weight of teenage bodies, cleats and shin guards scattered like battlefield debris. Sweat soaked the air. Muffled laughter mixed with the clinking of water bottles and the dull thump of gear bags hitting tile.
Douglas Ramsey sat near the end, back against a half-open locker, laptop balanced on his thighs. His fingers glided over the keyboard, occasionally pausing as his mind wandered—unsettled.
Across the aisle, Ivan "the Captain" leaned back, unwrapping his second protein bar. His massive arms gleamed under the fluorescents, and a long crack ran down the side of his carbon-fiber shin guards—just like his dad, the Rhino, had cracks in his armored hide after a brawl.
"You were in your head that whole second half," Ivan said through a mouthful. "That striker got to you, huh?"
Douglas barely looked up. "You mean Bart?"
"Yeah. Simpson. Blonde punk. Skateboarded into the parking lot. Screamed 'Cowabunga' before the match."
Doug's jaw tensed. He closed the laptop halfway, his voice low. "Doesn't that name sound familiar to you?"
Ivan squinted, scratching his Short crew cut. "Sure. Bart Simpson. That cartoon from, like, forever. Still running, somehow. My uncle used to watch it. So?"
"So?" Doug leaned forward, whispering now. "He is Bart Simpson."
Ivan stared at him. "You mean... he's named after the cartoon character?"
"No, I mean he is him. Same voice. Same attitude. He even mooned the ref after scoring."
Ivan chuckled. "Yeah, that was pretty legendary."
"Ivan, come on. His hair sticks up in those same jagged spikes. He has a red shirt and a slingshot in his back pocket. Who even owns a slingshot anymore?!"
Ivan shrugged. "I dunno, man. Maybe the cartoon's based on him."
Douglas blinked. "What?"
"Think about it. The Simpsons have been 'predicting' stuff for years—Tony stark going in coma, Apple Watches, those moontrip billionaires. What if the show was, like... weirdly autobiographical? Or based on real people and just twisted for TV?"
Doug sat back, absorbing that. His screen dimmed on his lap. Maybe he was overthinking this. Still...
"It just feels... off," he murmured.
---
School Parking Lot, 4:36 PM
Douglas's SUV beeped open. A sleek silver Hummer custom, spotless, scent of lemon air freshener still strong from his weekly detail. He tossed his gear into the trunk and looked up—there was Bart again, leaning against a warped parking meter like it owed him money.
Doug hesitated. Bart caught his eye and smirked.
"What, never seen a guy kick your team's ass and then wait for his Uber in style?"
"You need a ride?" Doug asked before he realized he meant it.
Bart lifted a brow. "You serious?"
"Yeah, I live out near Malba (Whitestone, Queens). Where are you headed?"
"Evergreen Terrace residence. It's out in—eh, I'll drop a pin."
Lisa appeared from behind a brick column, holding a violin case in one hand and a tattered binder full of notes in the other. Her red dress was sharp, ironed. Her pearl necklace bounced with each step. She climbed in the backseat like she'd done it a hundred times.
"She's coming too?" Doug asked.
"She goes where I go," Bart said. "She's like my parole officer with better SAT scores."
Ivan climbed in next to Lisa, ducking his big frame. "You always this weird, or is it just a game-day thing?"
Bart grinned. "I contain multitudes, big guy."
---
The dashboard clock blinked 4:48 PM. Traffic out of Midtown was tight—average speed down to 17 mph. They sat under the orange glow of streetlamps, wrapped in the beat of lo-fi music at volume 7.
Lisa stared out the window. "You know, statistically, most people who offer rides to strangers are only pretending to be nice."
Ivan snorted. "Statistically, I bench more than most strangers."
Bart leaned back, sneakers propped on the dashboard. "So, Doug," he said, chewing gum, "you into programming, right? Hacker-type stuff?"
"Yeah," Douglas replied, eyes on the road. "I do a lot of language parsing. Real-time translation, encryption, that kind of thing."
"Cool. You should come over sometime. My dad built a server room trying to win a poker game in the metaverse."
Douglas blinked. "Your... dad?"
"Homer. The bald one. Works at the plant."
That's when it hit him again—the plant, Homer, Lisa, Bart. It was all too accurate.
"Do you know there's a cartoon about your family?" Doug asked, cautious.
"Yeah," Bart said, brushing it off. "Total joke. Wild how they got so much right, though. Like that episode where I was cloned? Freaky."
"Wait—you don't think it's weird?"
"Nah. The government spies on people. Someone probably made the show as a satire version of us. Happens all the time. You ever see Seinfeld? That guy's probably real too."
Doug glanced at Ivan in the rearview mirror, silently asking do you hear this?
Ivan just shrugged. "Honestly, man, I wouldn't put it past some studio exec to animate a real family and call it fiction."
"Exactly," Bart said. "I always figured we were, like, public domain versions of ourselves."
Lisa sighed. "Technically, that's impossible, but I'll allow it. My theory is that Matt Groening was a time traveler."
"Lisa, not everything is a time-travel paradox," Bart said, rolling his eyes.
---
Arrival at, 5:14 PM
They pulled onto a cul-de-sac that Douglas shouldn't exist—a tree-lined private drive nestled behind a set of wrought-iron gates. The SUV slowed as they passed the front sign: Evergreen Terrace – Private Residents Only.
And there it was.
742 Evergreen Terrace.
But this wasn't some suburban shoebox. This was a compound. Four floors high, Spanish-style with wide balconies, solar panels, and an Olympic-sized donut-shaped pool in the back. Columns were painted yellow. A swing set creaked in the breeze like a memory from an old cartoon.
"Holy crap," Ivan muttered. "This is... big."
"Yeah," Bart said casually. "TV money, baby. Syndication doesn't sleep."
Lisa hopped out and adjusted her glasses. "Thanks for the ride, Douglas. If you ever want to discuss simulation theory, I'm available after band practice."
Bart gave a wink. "And if you ever want to ditch high school and help me paint a mural on the mayor's car, hit me up."
Douglas sat frozen, keys still in the ignition.
Then Bart paused at the door and said, more serious now: "You know, you're not the first person to say I look like the cartoon. But you are the first one who looked genuinely freaked out by it."
"I just—"
"It's cool," Bart said. "Just remember: sometimes the weirdest thing... is totally normal. Peace."
The front door opened with a swoosh, and they vanished into the mega mansion.
---
SUV, 5:20 PM
"I'm not crazy, right?" Doug said finally.
Ivan cracked his neck. "Nah. But you are in Midtown High School with a kid whose dad is the Rhino. Weird is relative, bro."
"Still... something's not adding up."
Ivan leaned back, adjusting his seat.
"If we see anyone from Family Guy, then I'll panic."
Douglas laughed, but his mind was already whirring.
There had to be an explanation. And if there wasn't—he'd
code one.
The whole Bart situation had really messed him up, leaving him uncertain about the world and clinging to the little hope he had left. That's why he knew he needed to get stronger.
---
Sigh he had finished everything he needed to do.
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT.
In the dimly lit room, scattered with posters of various superheroes—some real, some knock-off. Douglas sat in a chair in his room with small earbuds stuffed into his ears, lit only by the glow of his laptop screen.
He's watching a YouTube video on full screen. The title reads: "Chaplain America's OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT | The Offengers Are Coming"
Views: 14,028,310 | Uploaded: 3 hours ago
A thumbnail shows a man in a secondhand version of a Captain America-style suit, but with a faded white cross on his chest instead of a star.
TROY (murmuring to himself):
"No way... He actually did it." Douglas murmured
He leans in.
---
YOUTUBE VIDEO – FULL SCREEN
CHAPLAIN AMERICA sits in what appears to be a church basement, converted into a makeshift "headquarters." Foldable chairs. A corkboard map of the world behind him with red thumbtacks. A whiteboard reads: "Vision Board – Save Souls. Stop Crime. Eat Lunch."
He wears a modified tactical suit, clearly homemade, but meticulously cared for. His tone is calm but passionate, like a small-town preacher about to deliver his most important sermon.
CHAPLAIN AMERICA (speaking directly to camera):
"Good evening, brothers, sisters, citizens, skeptics, and seekers."
Beat. A warm but awkward smile.
"I'm Chaplain America. You've seen the memes. You've heard the jokes. Some of you think I'm just a guy in a secondhand suit with a savior complex. And you'd be right about half of that."
He leans in, serious now.
"But what you might not know is this: I've seen the cracks. Not just in buildings or in borders—but in belief, in trust, and in community."
He taps his chest.
"I've served in war. I've prayed with the broken. I've fought crime, but I've also held crying teenagers who didn't want to go home. And I've finally decided…"
A deep breath.
"...it's time to stop waiting for someone else to assemble the perfect team. No more red tape. No more waiting for billionaire playboys or top-secret labs to call the shots."
He picks up a manila envelope from the table beside him and pulls out a stack of papers, spreading them toward the camera.
"These are my savings. All of it. Two million dollars. Every cent I've got from speaking tours, private security work, donations, and yeah—those weird Christian action figure royalties. Don't ask."
He chuckles to himself briefly.
"I'm putting it all into the launch of something new. Something raw, unfiltered, and powered not by governments or corporations... but by you."
The screen behind him flickers to life. A stylized logo appears: THE OFFENGERS in bold, cracked lettering—like graffiti crossed with a Sunday school flannel board.
"We're calling ourselves the Offengers. Not because we offend people—although, let's be real, that'll probably happen—but because we're off the grid. Off the radar. Off the leash."
He points dramatically.
"Offenders beware. Offengers are here."
---
BACK TO TROY – BEDROOM
Troy raises his eyebrows. Eyes wide, half impressed, half "what the hell is this?" A quiet laugh escapes.
TROY:
"Dude's serious…"
---
YOUTUBE VIDEO CONTINUES
Chaplain America paces now, more energized.
"I know what some of you are thinking. 'He's crazy. He can't run a team. He doesn't have the money or the backing.' And maybe that's true. But I've got a calling. And a GoFundMe."
He holds up a printed sign with a QR code and a URL:
> www.gofundtheoffengers.org
"No government handouts. No secret donors. I want every dollar to come from real people. People who've had enough of fake heroes and flashy cover-ups. I want our suits stitched by volunteers, our missions guided by real-time community alerts, and our tech... okay, well, we might need someone on Craigslist for that part."
He grins.
"I've already recruited the first member. She's called Snacc Widow—don't laugh, she's deadlier than a Costco sample lady on Black Friday. And we're looking for more. People with power, yes. But more importantly... people with purpose."
He walks closer to the camera. Now his voice lowers, intimate.
"I don't want fans. I want believers. I don't need followers. I need fighters of faith. If you've got five bucks, a cause, or a conscience... welcome to the Offengers."
He salutes. Not military style—more like a respectful nod you'd give a stranger who just held the door open.
CHAPLAIN AMERICA:
"I'm Chaplain America. This is the start of something dumb, dangerous, and maybe—just maybe—divinely inspired."
Cut to black.
Then a low-budget theme song kicks in:
> 🎵 "Offenders beware, the Offengers care—
From the streets to the pews, they're almost prepared!" 🎵
---
BACK TO TROY
Troy sits in silence, staring at the now-paused video. A few seconds pass.
He opens a new tab. Types in: GoFundTheOffengers.org
TROY (quietly, almost embarrassed):
"Alright, Chaplain. Let's see what you've got."
He clicks the donate button.
FADE OUT.
---
Absolutely—here's a long, richly detailed scene written in the style of a screenplay with a grounded, human tone. This captures the feel of a teenager watching a somewhat awkward but earnest YouTube video where Chaplain America announces the formation of his off-brand superhero team, The Offengers, funded by the people.
---
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
A dimly lit room, scattered with posters of various superheroes—some real, some knock-off. The camera zooms in slowly over the shoulder of TROY (16), an average kid with big earbuds stuffed into his ears, lit only by the glow of his laptop screen.
He's watching a YouTube video on full screen. The title reads:
> "Chaplain America's OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT | The Offengers Are Coming"
Views: 14,028,310 | Uploaded: 3 hours ago
A thumbnail shows a man in a secondhand version of a Captain America-style suit, but with a faded white cross on his chest instead of a star.
"No way... He actually did it." Douglas murmured to himself.
He leans in. YOUTUBE VIDEO – FULL SCREEN
CHAPLAIN AMERICA sits in what appears to be a church basement, converted into a makeshift "headquarters." Foldable chairs. A corkboard map of the world behind him with red thumbtacks. A whiteboard reads: "Vision Board – Save Souls. Stop Crime. Eat Lunch."
He wears a modified tactical suit, clearly homemade, but meticulously cared for. His tone is calm but passionate, like a small-town preacher about to deliver his most important sermon.
"Good evening, brothers, sisters, citizens, skeptics, and seekers." Chaplain America spoke directly to the camera
Beat. A warm but awkward smile.
"I'm Chaplain America. You've seen the memes. You've heard the jokes. Some of you think I'm just a guy in a secondhand suit with a savior complex. And you'd be right about half of that."
He leans in, serious now.
"But what you might not know is this: I've seen the cracks. Not just in buildings or in borders—but in belief, in trust, and in community."
He taps his chest.
"I've served in war. I've prayed with the broken. I've fought crime, but I've also held crying teenagers who didn't want to go home. And I've finally decided…"
A deep breath.
"...it's time to stop waiting for someone else to assemble the perfect team. No more red tape. No more waiting for billionaire playboys or top-secret labs to call the shots."
He picks up a manila envelope from the table beside him and pulls out a stack of papers, spreading them toward the camera.
"These are my savings. All of it. Five million dollars. Every cent I've got from speaking tours, private security work, donations, and yeah—those weird Christian action figure royalties. Don't ask."
He chuckles to himself briefly.
"I'm putting it all into the launch of something new. Something raw, unfiltered, and powered not by governments or corporations... but by you."
The screen behind him flickers to life. A stylized logo appears: THE OFFENGERS in bold, cracked lettering—like graffiti crossed with a Sunday school flannel board.
"We're calling ourselves the Offengers. Not because we offend people—although, let's be real, that'll probably happen—but because we're off the grid. Off the radar. Off the leash."
He points dramatically.
"Offenders beware. Offengers are here."
---
BACK TO T DOUGLAS – BEDROOM
DOUGLAS raises his eyebrows. Eyes wide, half impressed, half "what the hell is this?" A quiet laugh escapes.
"Dude's serious…"
---
YOUTUBE VIDEO CONTINUES
Chaplain America paces now, more energized.
"I know what some of you are thinking. 'He's crazy. He can't run a team. He doesn't have the money or the backing.' And maybe that's true. But I've got a calling. And a CREATAFund."
He holds up a printed sign with a QR code and a URL:
> www.creatatheoffengers.org
"No government handouts. No secret donors. I want every dollar to come from real people. People who've had enough of fake heroes and flashy cover-ups. I want our suits stitched by volunteers, our missions guided by real-time community alerts, and our tech... okay, well, we might need someone on Craigslist for that part."
He grins.
"I've already recruited the first member. She's called She Bulk—don't laugh, she's deadlier than a Costco sample lady on Black Friday. And we're looking for more. People with power, yes. But more importantly... people with purpose."
He walks closer to the camera. Now his voice lowers, intimate.
"I don't want fans. I want believers. I don't need followers. I need fighters of faith. If you've got five bucks, a cause, or a conscience... welcome to the Offengers."
He salutes. Not military style—more like a respectful nod you'd give a stranger who just held the door open.
"I'm Chaplain America. This is the start of something dumb, dangerous, and maybe—just maybe—divinely inspired."
Cut to black.
Then a low-budget theme song kicks in:
> 🎵 "Offenders beware, the Offengers care—
From the streets to the pews, they're almost prepared!" 🎵
---
BACK TO DOUGLAS
Douglas sits in silence, staring at the now-paused video. A few seconds pass.
He opens a new tab. Types in: CreataFundTheOffengers.org
"Alright, Chaplain. Let's see what you've got."
Douglas spoke quietly, almost embarrassed.
He clicks the donate button.
---
He awakened in darkness that was not quite complete night. A faint hum thrummed beneath his feet, vibrating through the polished floor as though the very air were charged with restless energy. He was standing upright, though he did not recall rising. His vision cleared to reveal a broad corridor whose walls gleamed like the surface of a still pond at midnight. Shadows pooled in the corners, and distant lights burned with a cold, unyielding clarity. He did not know how he had come to stand there. He did not know who he was.
The first patrol arrived without warning. Four figures strode down the hall, rifles raised. Their uniforms were an unrelenting shade of slate, their helmets opaque mirrors reflecting his own blurry silhouette. He watched them approach, heart beating in a steady drum of anticipation. Then his hand reached for the hilt of the weapon at his side—an elegant instrument of blade and brimstone—before his mind could catch up.
A blade of pure light sprang forth, humming with a voice that seemed to speak of both creation and destruction. He moved as if guided by instinct alone. The first soldier froze, shock evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. With a single sweeping arc he severed limb from torso. The soldier collapsed, lifeless, the air snapping with the scent of hot metal and singed cloth. The blade whispered again, eager.
He did not pause for regret. He spun, every movement fluid and precise, and his blade bisected the second soldier as though cutting through mist. The man's cry was cut short—shredded into a single, agonized note—before silence reclaimed the hall. He felt no triumph. He felt only an unnameable necessity, as though the blade were a question and each stroke an answer forced from him.
Alarms shattered the silence, a siren chorus that rattled the walls and set his pulse racing. Doors along the corridor slid open in uniform sequence, revealing troopers pouring out like spilled ink. He did not flinch. He did not think. He saw the first rifle fire, heard the crack of energy bolts, and in that instant his reflexes ignited. He stepped aside. He whispered a silent thanks to the gift he did not understand but could not deny—an instinct as sharp as the blade he wielded.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat. His suit lurched with mechanical whirs, augmenting muscle to superhuman strength. He vaulted over a volley of shots that seared the ground where he had just been. In midair he executed a spinning downward strike that cracked through armor and bone, raining shards of alloy and crimson across the floor. Time slowed in his senses—every pulse of light and echo of sound stretched like threads he could pluck. He felt the impact of each strike, the subtle recoil in his wrist, the shifting weight of life leaving each fallen form.
When the corridor fell silent once more, he stood amid the wreckage of steel and bodies. The blade's glow reflected in droplets of dark ichor on the floor, each a muted testament to lives ended. His chest rose and fell in controlled breaths. He did not know whether he was hunter or hunted. He did not know what fate had brought him here.
He advanced beyond the wreckage, deeper into the labyrinth. Each door he passed stood open, petals unfolding to reveal successive chambers of equal austerity. Patrols fell before him like wheat before a scythe, each struggle as swift as it was uncompromising. He did not revel in the violence. He did not regret it. He simply moved, propelled by a force he could neither name nor resist.
After what felt like an eternity fractured into moments, he reached a grand antechamber. The ceiling arched high above him, its surface etched with patterns that evoked distant constellations. A cobalt glow emanated from recessed panels, suffusing the space with the hue of a storm-tossed sea at twilight. In the center of the chamber stood a raised dais, its surface carved from a single slab of dark stone.
Upon that dais knelt a solitary figure. Her robes were woven of fine threads that shimmered like starlight, and her mask—half of it translucent crystal—revealed a single luminous eye. The other half remained hidden in intricacy, as though concealing truths he was not yet meant to see.
He approached with measured steps, the hum of his blade a steady companion. Each footfall echoed in the vast space, carrying all the weight of his confusion and purpose. He did not speak until he was within arm's reach.
"My memories elude me," he said in a voice low and resonant, "but I know why I am here."
The figure on the dais lifted her head. Her visible eye widened with cautious recognition. She spoke in a tone both sonorous and gentle. "You bear the mark of Douglas Ramsey," she intoned. "Agent of the Shadow Consortium. Why do you breach the sanctum of the Luminous Order?"
He drew a steady breath. He did not know what drove him—some hidden command buried within the recesses of his mind. Yet his hand rose, and he extended his palm toward her, blade retracted but still glowing faintly.
"I offer you a bond," he declared. "A contract forged beyond time, beyond allegiance. Will you accept my claim?"
She hesitated, the single eye glimmering with conflicting emotions. The cobalt light danced across her robes, casting shifting patterns on the dais. Around her, faint vibrations stirred in the stone, a silent drumbeat of ancient power awakening.
Her voice trembled with resolve. "A claim such as this demands more than a gesture. It demands proof. It demands sacrifice."
He felt a tremor run through his armor—an echo of the energy that bound him to this moment. He nodded once, succinctly, and met her gaze without flinching.
"I stand ready to bear the cost," he replied. "My life, my strength—everything I have been granted by forces I do not yet comprehend."
For a heartbeat—or was it an hour?—they held each other's gaze in silence. Then she rose, unmasking herself fully. Her face was pale and serene, framed by locks of silver hair that caught the cobalt glow like moonlight. She raised her hand, slender fingers twisting through the air as symbols of power coalesced around her wrist.
He felt the air thicken with power. He felt the hum of dimensions aligning, the pulse of ritual reaching its crescendo. He closed his eyes and reached into the wellspring within him—into the core where instinct and purpose coalesced. He felt the tug of memories not yet his own, the echo of battles fought across starfields, the whisper of secrets older than empires.
He opened his eyes. His vision split into myriad shards of light and sound. He saw her kneel before him, head bowed in acceptance. He saw symbols of the Shadow Consortium intertwining with the ancient sigils of the Luminous Order. He felt a surge of knowledge flow into him: the geometry of their starships, the cadence of their sacred lore, the faces of those who had come before and those who would follow.
His breath hitched as the final threads of the bond snapped into place. The blade at his side flickered once, then steadied into unwavering light. He lowered his hand, his lips curved into something not quite a smile.
Keeper Aynet Tagora fully, her stance transformed from petition to pledge. She stood before him as a sentinel reborn. In her eyes burned the promise of armies and alliances, of destinies intertwined.
He nodded. He did not know what lay ahead. He did not remember his past, yet he felt the weight of promise and power settle upon him like a mantle. He retracted the blade and sheathed it with a soft click. In the hush that followed, only the distant hum remained—a reminder that this place still breathed, that its corridors still waited, that its secrets still beckoned.
He turned toward the open corridor. Keeper Aynet fell into step behind him. Together, they moved forward into the unknown, bound by a contract written in light and blood.