The Super Squad’s First Mission

The white and navy-blue van rumbled down the cracked streets of the southwestern sector of Tawaji. Emblazoned on its side was the insignia of the Professional Hero Academy: a stylized falcon with its wings spread wide, a shield emblazoned with the motto Fortitudo et Justitia—Strength and Justice. The words wrapped around the emblem in a semicircle, giving it the dignified look of a government institution.

Inside the van, the atmosphere was far from dignified.

"I'm just saying," Jin Kojusai, also known as Needlepoint, stretched his legs across the cramped seating area, "if we had to pick the most precise among us, I'd win. No contest."

"Oh please," Kira Miliru, known as Joule, scoffed. "Your cuts are clean, sure, but if we're talking energy efficiency and battlefield control? You wouldn't even be in the top three."

"I'd like to remind you all that raw precision is useless without adaptability," chimed in Retro, adjusting her gloves as she leaned against the window. "And honestly, no one cares."

From the driver's seat, OctoMan—his real name Goraki Furukawa—sighed loudly. "You kids are unbearable."

"I agree with the professor," Retro added. "This is getting ridiculous."

Their supervising teacher, Professor Pollen, chuckled in the passenger seat. "You do realize that bickering is just going to make the trip feel longer, right?"

The mood inside the van was lighthearted, but the reality of their mission loomed ahead. Their first real assignment as an active squad—patrolling the most volatile district in Tawaji. It wasn't the poorest, but it was the most violent, a place where crime didn't just thrive—it adapted.

Through the windows, the scenery shifted. Dilapidated tenement buildings, covered in graffiti, gave way to cleaner apartment complexes with fresh coats of paint. Even in a city as dense as Tawaji, the divide between those who had power and those who didn't was stark.

Beep.

A notification sounded from Professor Pollen's hero-issued tablet. He tapped the screen, glancing at the message. "We're close. The crime scene is still under heavy surveillance."

Retro exhaled sharply. "I still can't believe we're replacing a pro squad."

The van fell into a brief silence. Everyone knew what had happened to the Super 5, the last team assigned to this district. Their leader had been killed, two others critically injured. The heroes assigned to the area before them were professionals, and yet they had been struck down in an instant. No one said it aloud, but the implication was clear.

If the Super 5 could fall, so could they.

-

The crime scene was a chaotic convergence of authority and media. Yellow police tape stretched across the street, blocking off the entrance to a small, run-down drug den—the site of the most recent bust. Camera crews clustered behind the barriers, microphones thrust toward any officer unfortunate enough to pass by.

"Guess they're eager for a statement," Needlepoint muttered as they stepped out of the van.

"Of course they are," Retro said, scanning the perimeter. "New heroes mean fresh headlines. 'Is the New Squad Doomed to Fail?' That sort of thing."

OctoMan ignored the noise and gestured for them to follow. A group of officers in navy uniforms stood near the cordoned-off entrance. Two men stood apart from the rest—one tall and thin, with a face lined by years of cynicism; the other short and stout, his mustache thick and impeccably groomed.

The Local Police Chief and the Deputy Director of the Awata Canton Police.

The moment they approached, the shorter man beamed. "Ah, you must be the new squad! Welcome, welcome. I'm Deputy Director Okabe, and this here is Chief Inspector Nakamura."

The chief nodded stiffly, his gaze lingering on OctoMan for a fraction too long before shifting to Retro. "Good to have you all here. I assume you've been briefed?"

OctoMan returned the stare, his expression unreadable. "We got the basics. But we'd appreciate a full rundown."

Okabe was already nodding enthusiastically. "Of course, of course. Please, come inside."

Inside the crime scene, remnants of the previous night's chaos remained. The bodies had been removed, but not the evidence of violence. Bloodstains marked the floor in dried, darkened splotches. Where one of the gang members had fallen, a holographic projection flickered—a shimmering, color-coded outline indicating where the corpse had been found. The furniture was overturned, drawers left ajar, and scattered across the ground were crumpled bills, some half-burned.

"Looks like someone left in a hurry," Joule murmured.

"Not just left," OctoMan said, his voice tinged with curiosity. "This wasn't a planned hit. This was a robbery."

Retro frowned. "What makes you say that?"

OctoMan gestured at the mess. "If it were purely an assassination, the killer wouldn't have touched anything. But look—cash left on the ground, drugs still sitting on the tables. Someone was looking for something, but either they were interrupted, or they didn't care enough to be thorough."

Okabe cleared his throat. "That's not all. The ballistics report came in earlier today." He glanced at Nakamura, who reluctantly handed over a data pad.

OctoMan took it, scrolling through the report. His eyes narrowed. ".38 Special?"

Okabe nodded. "Same caliber that was used in the attack on the Super 5."

The room fell silent.

"That doesn't necessarily mean it was the same shooter," Nakamura interjected. "It's a common round, easy to obtain."

OctoMan nodded absently, still scanning the report. "Maybe. But it's too early to rule it out."

The pieces were starting to form a picture, but the image wasn't clear yet. One thing, however, was certain—this wasn't random. Someone was pulling the strings, and if the connection to the Super 5 was real, then this was just the beginning.

"We need to track down everyone who was involved with this place," Retro said. "Especially the ones who got away."

Okabe hesitated. "There is one name that came up… Nanishi Oriken."

OctoMan's head snapped up. "You have a location?"

The chief inspector shook his head. "He's off the grid. Last arrest was years ago—possession and microtrafficking. We ran prints, but so far, no hits."

OctoMan exhaled slowly. "Then we start digging."

He glanced at his teammates. This mission had just become far more complicated than they had anticipated.

And if his instincts were correct, the real threat was still out there, waiting.

The crime scene was still active, but the initial chaos had died down. Officers continued taking statements from witnesses, and forensic teams swept through the remnants of the drug den, collecting samples and scanning surfaces for any overlooked evidence. The air was thick with the scent of burnt chemicals and stale sweat.

Needlepoint crouched near one of the holographic crime scene markers, his sharp eyes studying the projected outline of a body. His fingers twitched, a telltale sign that he was mentally tracing the bullet trajectories.

"Multiple shots," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Close range. Execution-style. No signs of hesitation."

"That matches what the report said," Joule replied, arms crossed. "Whoever did this didn't waste time. They were in and out, took the drugs and cash, left the bodies."

Retro, standing near an overturned chair, nudged it with her boot. "It wasn't a normal gang hit," she said. "A gang would've made a statement. Left a symbol, a message—something to warn others. But this? This was clean."

OctoMan, standing by the entrance, adjusted his sleeves and sighed. "It wasn't about territory. It was about resources. The drugs and money were the real targets."

Professor Pollen, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "Which means we're not dealing with rival gang warfare. We're dealing with someone who knew exactly what they wanted and had no problem eliminating obstacles."

Joule groaned. "So we're hunting an operator or an ex-commando. Fantastic."

Needlepoint stood up and dusted off his hands. "Whoever did this was efficient. The shots were precise, no overkill. Either they were experienced, or they had nerves of steel."

BEEP.

OctoMan checked his hero-issued tablet. A notification had popped up—a new file added to their database. He opened it and scanned through the details before his brow furrowed slightly.

"This just came in from the Awata Canton Police," he said. "We have an ID on one of the victims. Kaito Senda. Small-time dealer, no major affiliations, just one of the many nobodies moving product for bigger fish."

"Then why does he matter?" Joule asked, leaning in.

"Because," OctoMan continued, "he was arrested two years ago in connection with an illegal trafficking ring. Charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. Guess who ran that operation?"

Professor Pollen exhaled slowly. "Nanishi Oriken."

A brief silence followed. The pieces were beginning to fit together, albeit loosely.

Needlepoint clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "So our dead guy used to work for the same ghost we're trying to find."

"Which means either Oriken had nothing to do with this… or whoever hit this place just made themselves his enemy," Retro said.

"That still doesn't tell us who pulled the trigger," Joule pointed out.

Professor Pollen hummed in thought. "Maybe not, but it does tell us something just as valuable. Someone just disrupted the existing balance."

-

The rain had intensified, a steady downpour that drummed against the squad's van and the pavement outside. The neon glow of Tawaji's streets reflected in the puddles, painting the city in streaks of blue, red, and yellow. Despite the weather, the squad remained outside, weighing their next move.

OctoMan flicked his cigarette into the wet street. "Alright," he said, "if we're doing this, we need to be smart about it. We let the right people think Senda gave up something valuable before he died. Not too much detail, just enough to make them nervous."

Joule crossed her arms, unimpressed. "And who exactly are the 'right people'?"

Retro adjusted her gloves. "Small-time pushers, informants, anyone with loose lips. If we drop the bait in the right ears, whoever is cleaning up will come sniffing around."

Professor Pollen exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air. "And we need to control where that happens. If we just start throwing rumors around, we'll attract the wrong kind of attention."

Needlepoint tilted his head, considering the options. "What about the markets in the Lower Strip? A lot of low-level dealers move through there. If we make it seem like the cops already have something and they're closing in, someone will panic."

OctoMan nodded. "Good call. We keep it subtle but direct. No official statements, no big moves. Just enough whispers to make them paranoid."

Joule still looked skeptical. "And then what? Hope they trip over themselves and land in our laps?"

"No," Professor Pollen replied. "We watch. We listen. The ones who get the most nervous will be the ones worth following."

BZZT.

OctoMan's communicator vibrated against his wrist. He tapped the device, and a distorted voice came through. "We have a detainee requesting to speak with heroes. Guy says he has information, wants protection."

The squad exchanged glances.

"Who is he?" OctoMan asked.

"Small-time runner, nothing on record beyond a few petty crimes. But here's the kicker—Chief Inspector Nakamura is giving you full access. Says this one's all yours."

Retro whistled. "Must be our lucky day."

Professor Pollen straightened. "Let's not waste time, then. Where's the kid?"

"Southwest Awata precinct. Room 3."

OctoMan ended the call and turned to the group. "Alright, let's move."

The squad piled into their van, the rain drumming harder as they sped toward the station. They had no idea what the kid knew, but if the local police were handing him over, it meant one thing—this was important.