Chad Saves the Planet (Probably?)

Her tears vanished, eyes blazing like Re-L Mayer's in Ergo Proxy. Smudged mascara shimmered under the bank's harsh lights, framing a face sharp with defiance. Her sapphire dress clung tight, curves swaying as she turned from victim to goddess in a heartbeat. "Chad!" she cried, silver lightning splitting the sky behind her. Snap! The zip tie shattered like cheap plastic, and she charged—heels hammering the marble, a sapphire blur screaming female energy.

What a proxy indeed.

Chad had first learnt about proxies by bypassing restrictions to watch anime banned in his region, censored for excessive nudity and sus content.

The woman—her stumpy hands that were previously bound behind her with a zip tie—suddenly sprang to her feet with an almost supernatural burst of energy, like Ryuko Matoi syncing with Senketsu mid-transformation… only without the dramatic clothes tearing… Sadly.

Chad frowned, wondering what was wrong with her. She was going to get herself killed.

The ragtag crew of robbers, clad in mismatched coats and weathered boots, snapped their rifles and pistols up, barrels glinting as they aimed at the defiant girl.

"Stop! We didn't give no permission for no moving!"

A lanky robber in a frayed ski mask paused, scratching his sweaty head through the wool. The tangled negatives—double, triple, maybe quadruple negatives—knotted in his brain. Did they say move or stay? He glanced at his grim-faced crew and assumed they didn't want her to move. He gripped his gun tighter and barked, "Stop now, or we'll shoot!"

The shotgun-toting robber chimed in, "And I'll blast!"

Another woman, the woman in red cried out, "It's Chad!" her voice brimming with joy, as bizarre lightning erupted behind her—crimson and violet streaks splintering the sky, as if she'd just awakened her Bankai, Soul Reaper-style. The ground quaked beneath their feet, a low, eerie hum rising from nowhere, as though reality itself recoiled at her words.

And then—hands ripped open the zip tie.

She charged toward the entrance—a blur of scarlet and glittering eyeshadow, her heels clicking like war drums against the marble floor. Her arms, now free, swung wildly behind her.

Shouts erupted from the robbers, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot. But by then, it was too late.

The other hostages—previously trembling, teary, and traumatised—suddenly lit up with unearned confidence, swept into action by the sheer magnetic force of Chad. Screaming his name.

Coats flapped, phones dropped, and someone lost a heel.

A granny with a walker shrieked, "Outta my way, Chad is mine!!"

And together they crashed into the robbers—guns clattered, ski masks twisted sideways, boots skidded backwards on slick tiles—as if an entire fleet of bullet trains had just slammed into a pack of confused deer.

The bank robbers lay scattered on the floor, knocked out cold.

Chad spotted the mob of women approaching and froze, unsure what to do.

Cops, armed with every weapon imaginable, stood nearby, and if he made a move, it would look suspicious. They might shoot at him... or shout at him... or even click dislike on his YouTube videos. It wasn't worth the risk.

The sergeant gripped his big... fucking gun, ready to shoot, when one of the cops shouted, "Don't shoot! The hostages are escaping—they're free! Somebody... saved them!"

The sergeant scratched his head, fiddling with his small fucking gun tucked inside his trousers, and grumbled, "What superhero? Can't be one of those new woke female heroines."

The other cop blinked, slightly confused, and replied, "Nooo, sir. I think... 'heroine' is a drug... like coffee."

The paparazzi swarm like frenzied hornets, their cameras flashing in a relentless storm, while the crowd surges around them, smartphones raised high. Everyone's snapping photos furiously—for all that clout of social media and those sexy likes.

"Chad! Chad! CHAD!" the hostages chant, their voices rising in a fervent crescendo as they rush toward him.

The sergeant squinted at Chad, trying to piece it all together—though he'd been too busy messing with his weapon to notice anything else. He caught sight of the robbers knocked out cold and the hostages cheering like mad... but he used strings instead of integers and somehow ended up with eleven. Totally misled, he muttered, "Looks like this Chad fella has just saved the day."

The first cop...

[Okay, I'll give him a name... He's Bobby.]

Bobby the cop said, "Thanks, Chad, for saving the day."

The second cop…

[Ummm… I shall name him Bob. He really isn't worth naming, though.]

Bob said, "I don't know what we'd do if we lost this day... I love Mondays so much."

The sergeant looked at Bob, groaning at the sheer absurdity of someone actually loving Mondays.

"I... I'm a hero?" Chad murmured; the words barely meant for anyone but himself, as chaos continued to swirl madly around him.

The paparazzi lost it.

"He's a hero! A real, actual hero!!" one of them cried, nearly dropping his camera as he zoomed in on Chad's baffled face.

Another was already on the phone with her editor. "Yes, yes, I know he's not famous—he is now! The headline writes itself: Local Chad Saves Planet"

First he'd saved the day—now they were saying he'd saved the planet.

Chad blinked. What's next? The universe? The galaxy?

He wasn't entirely sure which one was bigger... but saving both sounded pretty good. Reach for the stars, as they say. Just don't reach for the celebrity stars—they'll get you arrested for trying to grope them.

A third paparazzi sprinted in circles yelling, "HE'S A HERO, HE'S A HERO!!" As if the words alone might summon more likes on social media.

They assumed Chad's gender, but Chad didn't mind. I mean, I assumed the gender of my waifu—his waifu could've been a husbando for all he knew, with a big floppy dick.

Onlookers were no better. They stared at Chad like he'd descended from the heavens—sweaty, confused, and slightly winded, but divine nonetheless.

"That guy's a hero," a teen whispered, clutching his phone reverently. "Like, a full-on cape-wearing, Monday-saving hero."

"Someone give him a medal! Or a key to the city! Or a lifetime supply of pizza!" another shouted.

The crowd roared with cheers, clapping wildly as Chad waved them off with a lopsided grin, clearly unbothered by the spotlight.

"As long as there's no pineapple or pubes making a surprise cameo on that pizza, I'm down for free slices," Chad said.