MY HERO ACADEMIA

The setting sun cast its orange light over the town of San Ysidro, California. Its glow blessed the entire border town with another happy day's conclusion. But when the shroud of darkness fell, the moonlight's shine could barely illuminate the shadows. And the darkness, more often than not, is the perfect refuge for all manner of evil that rises after the sun's fall, especially in a train yard less than a mile north of the Mexican border.

A black Lamborghini Huracan STO glided along the SDIV access to a toll booth. A security guard at the booth hailed him. The Lamborghini's front windows rolled down and revealed a late twenty to early thirty-something man with bleached blonde hair, wearing a black suit and matching tie lounging in the driver's seat. "Hola, Jimmy. Had a Buena day?" The man's voice oozed of arrogant and sleazy.

"Fairly senior Destello." The guard's mood was the complete opposite of the sharply-dressed man's upbeat demeanor."

"By the by, I heard soccer season at San Ysidro High got canceled this year. What went wrong?"

"The guard's brow furrowed in disgust. "Most of the team "mysteriously" went missing last week. Authorities could only conclude it was-kidnapping." He emphasized the last word with a snarl.

"Very sad, Jimmy. At least one of them has a clear shot at the playoffs." Cortez produced a photo. It depicted a girl in her early to mid-teens posing with a soccer slung under her left arm, a "two-fingers up" sign for victory, and a perky smile to match her black twin-tail hairstyle. The sight of it made the guard recoil in horror and disgust as Cortez caressed the photo with his thumb, particularly over the breast area.

"I imagine so many parents are envious of the father who still has a daughter with a clear shot at the state championship. After all, I hear she's got a real mean kick." He purred lewdly.

Carlos clenched his jaw and contorted his forehead with restrained rage at Cortez's lewd threat.

"Just remember this altruistic philanthropist who sponsored San Ysidro's middle school soccer team offers full condolences to the parents of the missing children." Cortez handed a wad of cash to Jim. "I know sweet little do well next year with a fresh and new team."

Jim Carlos could only squeeze the dollars in fury as the car rolled away, knowing the horrors that awaited his daughter if he failed to keep his mouth shut about what he knew. No one knew Reese Destello like he did: influential car salesman, playboy, and son of San Diego's mayor Fernando Destello. But by night, Destello was the boss of the now super-powered MS-13 gang chapter in San Diego, and those conspicuous armed guards patrolling the trainyard were MS-13 gang thugs disguised as hard-hat workers. Whatever illegal goods they guarded, it was hardly a guess considering his daughter: Palmira Carlos's missing soccer teammates. His internal anguish was interrupted when he glimpsed a shadow gliding through the air right over his post.

Sparks buzzed like an angry hornet as three young girls aged between mid to late teens screamed as they recoiled from the menacing cattle prod. "Vamos putas," snapped a hard-hatted thug, holding contempt for the girl's fear and humane rights as tightly as his grip on the cattle prod. "I said vamos putas. You're putting me behind schedule." He waved the sparkling rod like a snapping rottweiler dangerously close to the girl's tear-dripping faces, demanding their compliance which they gave as they reluctantly filed into a boxcar, joining a dozen more frightened huddling girls.

Two men in construction attire slid the door shut, silencing the poor girl's voices.

"Lock those cars tight." a burly hardhat ordered. "The streets are a dangerous place at night, especially for spoiled American ninos." He couldn't be more mockingly hypocritical. Needless to say, much worse was planned for the poor girls they kidnapped.

Light glazed the boxcars, and they turned to face Destello's shiny sports car, which swerved into a clear area and parked itself where the left door clicked open.

"Hola Roca Dura, What have our amigos got today." Cortez got out of the car, flashing a revoltingly charming smile. If not for the present company's shortage of moral fiber, he'd have a foot-long knuckle sandwich down his throat.

"Hola Senor Cortez," said Roca Dura, you're just in time for the final departure preparations." said the suited man. Roca Dura was the personal bodyguard of Cortez and a veteran of a few Central American conflicts before becoming a mercenary villain. His name, when translated from Spanish to English, was the perfect clue to his quirk.

"You should have seen me and the boys in action in La Jolla." A man in a disco suit moonwalked into sight with his afro flapping like branches on a cedar. His name was Capa De Espejo: the funky vanishing villain as twisted as his love for disco. "I covered a whole auditorium of kids during open house while the boys sleep gassed the air conditioner. By the time those parents and teachers woke up-heh, heh, bet you saw the news reports." Capa's grin betrayed his depravity. For him, kidnapping children from their beloved parents was no more guilt-tripping than a harmless prank.

Capa was a natural-born kidnapper. He was responsible for many abductions along the California/Mexican border thanks to a reflective camouflage quirk that made objects and people "disappear." His abduction habits began when he was fifteen when he stole a baby from a wealthy family with whom his contractor parents got acquainted. He fondly remembered sending a ransom note to the parents, whom said parents paid. Worst part: he never planned to give the baby back. His kidnapping would've been a complete success had the local pro-hero Tornado Rider crashed his plan and rescued said baby. With his vanishing quirk, he barely escaped Tornado Rider's wrath with his Afro intact.

A cartel thug in an aluminum foil suit with plug ports on the back walked up to Capa. "That's nothing compared to that beer bash I threw for those Catholic School cheerleaders." His voice was thick and altered. "I "drunked" the whole punch, and those pom pom chicas were dancing the beached whale." His name was Destleria, whose quirk caused him to leak alcohol at will. He specialized at spiking drinks and the occasional arson. He was a troublemaker from day one, setting fire to anything he could with his quirk, much to the dismay of his overbearing parents, who tried to make him behave with disastrous consequences once the local villains caught on to his notoriety.

"Si. You and your pals got a pretty big haul. I can tell by all the noise." Destello adjusted his collar without losing his grin. "Amazing how those capers were a cakewalk to pull off. So ironic about having heroes these days, with them around folks think they need no locks on their doors." Said Destleria.

"Indeed Senior Destello." Said Roca Dura, "The clients in Mexico will love the wide selection. And the special quirk users we got in the front boxcars will also expand our business overseas thanks to our client in Japan."

"And what my client wants, he gets." Destello noticed a tall figure stepped out of the shadows revealing a serious-looking man in an open dark blue rubber trench coat with a shirt underneath bearing a lightning symbol. He appeared to be of African-American descent sporting a wicked goatee and cornrow hairstyle.

"Oh, you. Mr. Boltz, how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to keep my client's customer satisfaction guaranteed. And FYI, the name's Voltz as in voltage, no "B" unless that's the only grade you got in English class. In fact, I'm not sure if it's the Tequila or if you're usually this wack at getting the hired help's names right, but with that level of memory, you ain't getting too far in this game. "

"No need to get all Grammar Nazi, your Japanese boss can sip his sake, we got the cars stuffed and all the "special deliveries" trussed up and tranquilized in the front cars. No way they're missing their destination."

"I hope so, Destello, but a little word of advice, this train carries around a quarter of neighborhood's kiddies slowing it down, and this business ain't guaranteed no clearance sales. And the thing you should know about the land of the rising sun, trains run on time, and the suits there hate it to miss so much as a second." Said Voltz.

"Relax, I got over two dozen clients who'll pay a mountain of cash for the cargo bound for the border. By the time the train comes back, it'll be empty as a beer barrel from a frat party. Speaking of empty, you might as well stock up on the Gatorade. You wouldn't want your electrolytes to short out your quirk next time a hero shows up. And don't worry, drinks on me." Destello ripped out several one-hundred-dollar bills and accidentally a photo.

Voltz noticed the photo as he took his pay. "Who's zat, your next hot date?" When Voltz got a clear look at the picture, his face warped in disgust. "Wait, isn't that the toll guy's kid, the soccer player?"

"Temporarily. Soon she's playing a much different ball game, my game.

Voltz balled his fists and frowned in barely concealed disgust. "You realize you're knocking out your leverage." Voltz's rasp betrayed his disgust, and it wasn't just the fact that the girl was a bargaining chip against the toll booth guard.

"Not for long, I already got toll booth Jimmy's replacement due by the end of the week. Besides, it'd save him a lot of attention. The local soccer moms would be pretty suspicious as to why Toll Booth Jimmy still has his little girl on him."

"You ain't psychologically equipped to get it do you?"

"Can you speak proper English? You're way too cryptic."

"Exactly. In proper English, I'm giving friendly advice. In this business, money, connections, blackmail, or being the friggin fresh prince of San Diego can only get you so far. You can be shocked what a man can do when he's got nothing to lose. And when you are, even my voltage can't top that."

"Sure whatevs Sparks. Remember, your concern is guarding your Japanese boss's batch, and I look out for my own."

"Sure whatevs," Voltz turned away and whispered, "Tail Pipe." Voltz started to the town. "Shortsighted and lecherous, just like a true low-functioning sociopath or narcissist. Power playing and business is the same to him. He can't even get the hired help's names right. That rich punk shoulda stuck with selling hot rods instead of juvenile meat on the side. With almost a quarter of Otay Mesa's kid population gone and eyes scanning everywhere, his business is sure to deep-six. And his tastes are underage. If my boss weren't doing business with him, I'd zap his nuts on the spot. I'm gonna need a whole gallon of Gatorade to wash this down." Voltz disdainfully turned away and walked toward the nearby town.

"Alright, chop-chop," shouted Destello. "Let's get this fresh meat to the clients before it spoils; the clients can't wait another second." Cortez turned to a nearby man in a hardhat. "Pedro put the choo choo into high gear."

"Te coji (Gotcha) Boss." The henchman responded and dashed towards the train engine. Once the train started, its precious cargo was doomed to a living hell at the service of their depraved masters and the more powerful villain bosses.

"Alright, hombres, let's close up shop and guzzle down Destleria's homemade tequilas."

The traffickers broke out into a whooping, ready to celebrate another night of their depraved occupation.

"Aaaaaaaah." A scream tore through the air, and something flopped on the asphalt.

"Eh? What the hell was that? Somehow I know that's not one of our "cargo." Said Capa.

Roca Dura flicked on a flashlight and pointed in the scream's direction. He waved it high and low until he found a body bleeding on the pavement. Every nearby thug walked to the body, dread proliferating the air as they edged closer. Their thumps on the concrete turned into splashes.

"What the hell?"

"It's Pedro, the driver." Said Destleria.

"Is he dead?" Asked Capa De Espejo.

Roca leaned down and checked for a pulse, then raised his head and spoke grimly. "Si."

"What, you mean he's under, all six feet?" Capa asked.

Roca gazed back grimly. "Si."

Capa facepalmed, "Awww, man."

Destello merely frowned, unfazed by the train driver's death. "Looks like we got a weasel on the prowl. Lock and load boys and slip on those thermal night vision goggles I ordered last month. This weasel raided the wrong chicken coop."

"And he picked now of all nights to soil my five hundred dollar platform shoes." Complained Capa examining the fresh blood drops on his toes as he cocked a pair of Jericho pistols.

The beats of guns cocking filled the air as Cortez's goons armed themselves, such as nine-millimeter handguns, Uzi submachine guns, and AK series assault rifles, all of them suppressed with muzzles on the barrel. The guards also opened a crate, and each slipped on a pair of tactical night vision goggles and booted them up.

"Kill the lights while I spread my vanishing dust." Yelled Capa. Capa broke into a funky dance routine, flicked his arms spread eagle, and sparkly dust dispersed around the area. The glowing dust attached to all the gathered thugs, and they faded out of sight, but not out of mind. The lamps shut off and blanketed the area in darkness. Capa grinned. "Heh, with our new thermal goggles, we can see each other, but he can't see us. You betters cap his scraggly little tush soon, my quirk lasts only fifteen minutes. You read my groove boys?"

"Si," answered the thugs.

"Destleria, get your flame thrower," Destello ordered.

"Te coji." Destleria started for the warehouse.

Inside the warehouse, before Destleria slipped his night-vision goggles, he tore open a locker. Inside was a flamethrower with a beer keg in place of a gas tank. Destleria unscrewed a valve and connected several hoses into the sockets in his suit before he slung the straps onto his shoulders. He sighed in massage bliss as he felt the pumps suck his alcoholic sweat into the keg. Then he pulled one trigger on the gas valve, and a small blaze flickered from the gas tube. He pointed it at a furnace, and an arc of blazing liquid splashed into the nearby furnace, setting it ablaze. "That's right, baby, it's barbecue time."

Batman Beyond - Batman First Fight-

watch?v=MOmmgGbae1M&list=PL0bbUqXsNHE3xlUY2FwbHWlnBm8PRSBnk&index=5

Back out in the trainyard, the traffickers combed the area. Four thugs scanned a row of boxcars and tank cars.

"Hey, you hear that?" Asked one of the hard-hatted goons.

"What?"

"That sound, coming from there." Coming from the left was a rhapsody of gasping, wheezing, choking, and several metallic raps against the metal crates and ran in its direction. They edged a corner of shipping containers just when the noise faded. One of them noticed a shadow crouched in a corner.

"Por ahi." He whispered. They all crept towards the area with their guns pointed. They turned the corner.

"Mierda."

"How the hell?"

Four of their own lay limp as logs.

The second worker flashed his light over the prone form of one of their own "Are they-?" He asked nervously.

A yard worker gently set down his AK model rifle and examined the prone body. "It's Manuel. I don't see any blood or bruises, but he's not breathing."

"Prago here too. Not so much as a gasp."

"What do ya mean, mano?"

"It's like they was strangled."

"Uh, heroes don't kill the villains, do they?" Asked the first thug.

"Yeah, were worth more alive, you know, like the code of the old bounty hunters?" A second nervous thug giggled.

"More like the comics, code mano." Replied the first thug.

"Of course they don't; that'd tarnish their PR, deduct their paychecks." Said the third.

A wisp of air swept the area. "Hey, what's that-?" Before they could ponder, a stronger gust of wind blasted their faces, and their screams ripped through the air.

Another nearby patrol heard the ruckus.

"Yo, yo, what is with this screaming? It's annoyingly wack music for my ears. At least it ain't coming from the brats in the boxes." Capa, who couldn't help it, danced the moonwalk despite the serious situation.

"Capa, this no nightclub. That sounded like some of the boys are in trouble," Added a train yard thug.

"Yea," cut in another. "For all, we know we could be dealing with some big shot Pro-Hero, like Tornado Rider?"

"No way, the nearest available pro-hero is either deep-sixed or in the ER room, and Tornado Rider is following a false lead our boss planted on the streets." An incredulous Capa kept dancing a routine that involved pointing his fingers in the air.

Drip, something wet landed on the third thug's hard hat.

"Hey is it raining?" said Capa's third thug. Immediately after, a staccato of drips and drops followed and increased in tempo to a full cascade.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me, ain't no rain forecasted this week, and this ain't my idea of wet fun," complained Capa.

The second thug wiped his hat and sniffed it. "Hey, this rain smells more like gasoline."

"I don't care what it is; it's staining my suit. And it cost over two grand." Said Capa.

Then suddenly, the lights blinked on. "Hey, who turned the lights back on?" Asked the first thug.

"Now I see my suit is really soiled. Bleegh, look at all the black spots," screamed Capa.

"Wait, this stuff, it's crude oil. But where did it-? The first thug twitched left and noticed a nearby tanker car with its top hatch open. "There, it came from there!"

"Whoah whoah," Capa finally snapped to his senses. "If this crude oil mucking up my suit is from one of them tank cars and the lights are on, that means-?"

"You're a real moron," a ghostly whisper threaded through Capa's ears. "Your disco dust doesn't make you invisible, just semi-transparent."

Capa froze "Mierda, he sees us."

A metal thumping on a boxcar aroused their senses, and the panicking second thug fired his AK-47 assault rifle in its direction.

"Cool it, mano," said the third thug. "He's messing with us, and you are wasting lead, focus."

Noise after noise Capa's goons waved their guns everywhere, trying to track the source.

They heard a raspy grunt and a hollow metal thud behind them, and they instinctively turned to see the third guy behind them clutching his girth. Sticky red liquid dropped from a fresh wound before he collapsed where his AK rifle lay. Capa and the two yard workers gasped and recoiled in shock. Then their eyes widened further when they saw a hooded figure standing behind their fallen comrade pointing its right-hand index finger at them.

"Bang." Said the figure.

Both the second thug and his gun dropped to the floor, soaking in a fresh red puddle.

"AAAAAAH." Capa screamed in an embarrassingly girlish voice and dashed as fast as his platform shoes could balance without breaking his ankles.

The first thug from Capa's group growled. "You son of a-. Muerte (die)! The first thug fired his Uzi submachine at the figure, but it leaped into the shadows. The thug pursued passing between two train boxcars. His eyes twitched left and right as he nervously swung his gun at every corner. He noticed movement and fired, hitting only the broadside of a boxcar and then a tanker car which, thankfully, followed real physics and didn't penetrate the metal hull, less blow up. He panted with frustration.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Behind you."

"Aaaah!" The thug turned around and faced the last thing he ever saw. His lifeless body flopped to the floor, and the hands of his killer pried his night-vision goggles from his head.

Meanwhile, Capa was scampering with his coattails between his legs. "Maltida, mierda, this is a helluva bad day. Oof!" Capa De Espejo recovered and saw who he collided with. "Oh, Destleria, my hombre, I'm so glad to see you." He embraced Destleria, crying anime waterfall tears.

Destleria 's feelings weren't mutual. "Cry on someone else's shoulder, disco nerd."

Several guards behind Destleria were puzzled to see their resident top kidnapper/always fair weather disco fan hysterically freaking out on multiple sour notes.

Destleria, on the other hand, was more concerned about the crude oil sliming all over his fireproof suit, "Urrgh, disgusting. You took a grease shower or something?"

"Si, courtesy of that hero, except he ain't no a hero, he's a crazy vigilante, and he's taking no prisoners." Capa bawled so many gallons of tears he could almost wash them both clean of their oil stains.

"For reals?" One of Destleria's thugs asked.

All the confirmation they needed was a rhapsody of terrified screams and muzzled gunfire that ricocheted off every train car and shipping container all over the yard. The cacophony resembled a woodpecker jamboree. As if for further confirmation, a body of a train yard guard landed near their place with a sickening wet crunch.

"I told ya, he's crazy. We gotta get back to the boss, mano. You know strength in numbers." whimpered Capa de Espejo. Another body landed twelve feet away.

"He's not supposed to see us. Capa, you got us covered with your vanishing dust, right?" Asked a thug.

"Yeah, but he dripped me and my boys with crude oil from the tank cars, and he's probably swiped goggles off their bodies. Even if I wash off or spread my funky dust, it don't mean squat no more, " bawled Capa.

"You mean he can s-see us?" Asked a thug.

They heard the gasping of a wounded guard as he stumbled into view from behind a cargo container, reaching toward them for salvation before he coughed a blood-soaked breath and sank to the floor and his hard hat clattered next to him as if mocking his death.

"Hmmph, it doesn't matter if he wants us dead or alive; our trespasser is due for a barbecue." Said the filtered voice of Destleria, who raised his homemade flamethrower for emphasis.

Then in his thermal goggle's vision, he noticed a signature on top of a forklift. He fired his flamethrower. The blazing liquid parted five feet away from its target as if by an invisible snowplow. Illuminated in the flame's light was the hooded figure of a teenage boy clad in a green hood jacket, blue shorts, and a pair of black sketcher brand shoes. He held his hands outstretched as if forming an invisible barrier with brown hair flapping before he scurried to the left.

"I got him." A train yard thug sprouted grasshopper legs from his hips, and he sprang up to the vigilante's position with a shotgun raised. "Gotcha you-urrk." An invisible force punched him in the gut, and he slammed on the concrete unconscious.

"Where'd he go?" Asked Capa.

"What's all that racket?" shouted an annoyed Reese Destello. "You're hunting discreetly for an intruder, and you're too loud. And why are some of you boys lying down on the job?

"Boss, we're glad to see you," panted Capa. "The guy who capped the train driver, he's psycho, and he's picking us off like the freaking predator."

Destello still wasn't concerned with the danger. "Didn't I make it clear I take no job complaints here. I've got fifty-billion dollars running on this shipment, and you're putting me behind schedule because of one measly wanna-be hero."

"I'm no hero," A ghostly voice bellowed through the air."

"Eh, who the hell said that?" Said Destello.

"Heroes arrest men, I put down animals," growled the windy voice of the vigilante.

"I-its him, the crazy vigilante. He's gotta have a mental power quirk and can slice you, dice you and talk to you from a mile away like David Cronenberg." Capa nervously nibbled his nails.

A loud squelch jerked their attention to the corpse of one of the guards staring back at them through lifeless eyes. And his face frozen in an à ghastly rictus grimace of terror and agony.

"He's right, boss. We're not dealing with no hero. We're up against a nasty vigilante, yapped a thug. "Whatever his quirk is, it's dropping us like flies."

Destello didn't have the common sense to buy it. "What are you scared of, one vigilante? How different is this from all those other local heroes Roca Dura and Boltz put out of commission? I pay you to roast any hero or do-gooder screwing with my business. What happened, you're balls drop off? Come on, how about someone show some employee of the month spirit?"

"Boss is right." Said Destleria. "Hero, vigilante, they all end up the same-barbecued fajita! Besides," Fwoosh, he spewed a blaze from his flamethrower. "I love the scent of barbecued hero."

"See, boys, Destleria's got real team spirit there." Said Destello.

But all the other thugs locked eyes at each other in disagreement; Destleria wasn't spirited, he was crazy."

"So whoever busts a cap up our meddling vigilante's will get double the raise." The remaining thugs looked at each other, contemplating their boss's offer.

"Look senior, up there," pointed Roca.

Through their goggles, they saw the vigilante's figure running across the warehouse.

"Well, smoke him, you slack-jawed morons." Shouted Destello.

The thugs opened fire on the vigilante. "This for my suit mother #$%&÷!" Screamed Capa, who loosed a barrage of bullets from his twin Glocks at the vigilante. Roca Dura joined the staccato with his customized Desert Eagle. Roca took his shot, and the vigilante tripped and rolled before jumping into the air and landed behind a boxcar.

"I got him, he's crippled." Said Roca.

"Let's close in for the kill," snickered Destleria.

"And he's paying for my dry-cleaning too." Capa cocked two fresh clips excitedly.

The latter two top henchmen and the lesser thugs hopped over a coupling between two boxcars. There they found the vigilante on the other side, gasping and clutching a bleeding left calve.

The henchmen snickered with satisfaction

"Welcome to the barbecue muchacho." Destleria fired his flamethrower.

The vigilante quickly waved both his arms outward, and as if ripping off Star Wars: The Force Unleashed, an explosive bubble of air blew the burning arc of alcohol back. Destleria guarded his face with one hand as the stray flames splashed on the other thugs.

"Aaaah!"

"Hot, hot, hot!"

They ran like chickens to the warehouse.

Capa de Espejo, wasn't much luckier. "Aaargh, fuego, my suits on fuego, help. Aaargh!" He raced like a giraffe on only two legs towards the warehouse as well for the shower stalls while Destleria watched with contemptuous amusement.

"Stop drop and roll pendejos (morons)."

He turned his attention back to the wounded vigilante

Destleria fired his flamethrower again, but only a tiny fireball squirted out. Destleria registered a dripping sound and looked behind himself. The tube connected to his beer keg was severed. He gazed back at the young vigilante, wide-eyed behind his visor, whom the hooded boy grinned back while pointing an open palm at him like a cannon. FWABOOM! Destleria blew backward and planted face-first against a tank car and slid onto the ground unconscious. His beer keg rolled free of its sockets.

The vigilante panted, satisfied at the sight, but his relief didn't last.

"Oomph." An arm made of stone struck him in the sternum, and he flew back. He righted himself in mid-air and barely landed gracefully, grinding his shoes on the pavement. He coughed blood from his mouth and looked up to see Roca encased in full rocky armor like his namesake.

"I've wasted over a dozen heroes in my career. Only five of them were lucky to make it to ER." he lunged at the wounded vigilante, whom the latter barely rolled out of the way, leaving the broadside of a boxcar cratered from Roca's shoulder rush. "Suffice to say, none of them were as big a pain in the ass for my employers as you nino."

The still wounded and short-breathed vigilante threw air blades at Roca but only scratched sparks on his rocky exterior. "But all pains in the ass wind up-." With deceptive speed, he grabbed the vigilante by the scruff of his hooded sweatshirt and Roca lifted him horizontally overhead with one knee raised. "Broken."

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM BLAM. Bullets impacted Roca's head, and he dropped the boy while a shadow retreated into the shadows.

The vigilante landed in a puddle of alcohol and instantly got an idea. With a deep breath, he gathered the entire alcoholic water in a bubble and splashed it on Roca. "Hasta la fuego, baby." One blade of air, one spark, and the alcohol caught fire.

BWOOSH. "Waaaargh!" Roca was surprised but instantly recovered. "Heh, you think me a marshmallow nino?"

The vigilante merely grinned, and with a huff and puff of air, a blazing human-sized tornado engulfed Roca, who gasped, wheezed, and choked from his meager air supply. Roca charged the vigilante in desperation but blinded by the flames, he slammed chest first right into the tail end of an uncoupled boxcar. Roca gently shoved himself off the boxcar and brushed his rocky fingers over his stone-encased chest, then he heard rocks pile onto the ground, and he felt a salty abrasive sensation on bare skin-his armor on his chest was broken!

Before he could react, the vigilante's foot rammed his exposed abdomen with sledgehammer-like force. He could only attempt a feeble denial before he collapsed onto the gravel pile that once shielded his chest.

Unbeknownst to others present, Voltz hovered above on an electronically levitated disc, watching the whole thing through his own set tactical goggles. "Hmm, now this makes my day and ruins Exhaust Pipe's, oh wait, wasn't it Inferno Tube, heh don't matter. I told him he passed too much gas to miss a dog's nose and some vigilante punk picked up the scent. Whatever his quirk is, it involves wind, and he's pretty good with it, even plays ninja. Whatever note it ends on, Destello's delivery ain't making it to their pervy clients. Good riddance and a big weight off my tenuous conscience. The good ones, on the other hand . . . there's a bigger purpose waiting for them when they meet my client in Japan." His monologing concluded, Voltz zoomed down to the main train engine, ready for departure.

A five-minute silence settled on the train yard.

"Roca, Destleria, Capa? You done with pest control yet? Oh." Destello, at long last, began to feel worried. Before him lay a sight he never dreamed of-the crumpled forms of Destleria and Roca Dura. Roca Dura was among the most brutal, most resourceful enforcers a villain could hire, even a hero-killer in his own right with twenty-four hero kills under his belt. And here he lay, like an actual rock pile.

"So Destello, any more mooks for me to weed whack." The vigilante's voice cut through the silence.

"Whoah, whoah, time out. I'm not sure what your beef is here, but I believe this all a big misunderstanding, Mr. Vigilante." Destello rubbed a loose lock of his blonde hair back into pace, breathed in, and regained his composure.

"There's nothing misunderstood here."

"Look, how about we pretend this never happened, and I offer a big cut of my employees salary, the ones that don't have a pulse left."

"I do the cutting Destello like your hapless goons."

"C'mon, can't you accept a generous offer when it's from a humanitarian like moi?"

"Humanitarian? That's a comedic contradiction. I know what your shipping on the side among cars, Destello. It's something way more precious than cars, and it's not garden-variety contraband, nor is the value monetary, but deeply sentimental. I hear it on the air current."

"Hey, hey, I don't sell any antiques or heirlooms. I sell things that are legit "for sale."

"What the parents of Otay Mesa have lost recently, they didn't put a price tag on it. Nor would they ever put it up for sale to save their own lives. Their lives aren't as precious as what or who your selling south of the border."

"Now, now, heh, heh, you're not taking this kinda personal, ain't ya."

"With the locals, your business is nothing but personal."

"Yeah, right, personal." Destello 's nervous grin twisted into a smug one as his eyes pivoted all the way left, sensing something behind him. "As in up close-"

Destello spun a full one-eighty facing the startled vigilante right behind him. The vigilante's eyes flipped wide open as he witnessed Destello's arm transform into what resembled a large metal barrel, "-and personal." Out of the barrel came an orange flash, and a loud boom shocked the train yard. The captives inside the boxcars screamed as they felt said vibrations inside the walls.

Back outside, Destello grinned smugly at the smoke. "Was that too hot for ya, Mr. Vigilante?"

When the smoke cleared, Destello's grin turned to a disappointed frown-there was a blackened crater ring but no vigilante.

In the moon's glow, Destello saw the vigilante's shadowy airborne silhouette. He aimed and shot a fireball at him, missing him by a meter as the latter dropped behind a boxcar. Destello calmly walked through the boxcar line, scanning for the vigilante.

"Suprised at my quirk Mister Vigilante, I sell hot rods, so it's fitting that I have a hot quirk to match the temperature." hollered Destello as he arrogantly strolled through the train yard. "Feeling the heat windy Thought, I was some spoiled playboy you could pick on, huh? "I'll hand it to you, mister "vigilante," you've dicked me off plenty tonight and caused the biggest turnover in my career, but I'm still a generous host. So I'll let you in on a little something. When my old man was a poor recreation director for San Diego's spoiled, arrogant, pampered upper crust, I made a name for myself on the streets. They called me "Inferno Tube." He glimpsed the vigilante in a corner by a boxcar and fired another firey gas ball scorching only the car's front instead. "My quirk needs no description. I was jumped into the San Diego chapter of MS-13 when I scored a hit on the resident Crips bigshot and helped waste his entire gang. Then I busted a gasket on my lazy boss and united MS-13 under my shining smile and bulldozed the competition and I over San Diego." Destello peeked under a car for the vigilante to no avail. "I made enough grand to fund my old man's political career and later break into the auto industry. I ended up working for Tesla Inc. and used my business pedigree from my gang days to claw to the top. I impressed my old geezer of a boss so well he died happy on a gasoline huffing trip just when he turned seventy-three."

As Destello ranted on and on, the hooded vigilante stayed hidden on top of the warehouse, nursing his bullet grazed leg and a few first-degree burns. He gritted his teeth, frustrated as he internally monologued, Bastard, he baited me like a fish. He gambled I would try a backstab on him in my condition and won.

That human trafficking bastard was a truly savvy businessman in and out of the board room, capitalizing on his momentary arrogance by pretending to be a wuss with a weak quirk. The vigilante in his weakened state tried to backstab him from a closer range where his quirk was more effective, only to get a sucker punch himself once he got in range. What was worse was he may have very well figured out his quirk's weakness: any injury or disruption of his concentration or steady breath rhythm weakened the output of his air quirk. He had narrowly dodged Destello's fireballs, but a few inches from the burning gas gave him several first-degree burns on his right arm and shoulders, not to mention the bullet graze wound on his left leg from the rocky enforcer Roca Dura. Gotta nurse these wounds. That bastard's bad tailpipe gas isn't just a recipe for a lousy barbecue; it can even blow through my air quirk with that hot CO2 gas. It could've been worse if it lodged into his leg, but he barely sealed the wound and cooled the burns using his air quirk with high-pressure oxygen therapy. Then the vigilante heard the thump of Destello's Beckett Simonon brand shoes.

"And that's my success story, what you think? Sorry can't hear you. Why not be a polite guy and say what you think, up close and personal?" Destello spotted the vigilante on top of a boxcar and fired a blast from his pipe arm. Again he missed. "C'mon, vigilante boy, My last date took less than five minutes to cook. If you just hold still-urrgh!" Destello wiped his right cheek to feel the blood from a fresh cut on his cheek. His smug demeanor fractured to a full-blown frown. "Uurrgh, so you wanna play it that way." He turned to a nearby boxcar and rapped his left pipe arm against it. He smiled with satisfaction hearing the startled screams inside. "You may do the cutting vigilante boy, but I do the cooking. He pointed his exhaust pipe arm at and spewed a stream of flaming gas.

The kidnapped occupants inside screamed as the air became hot and thick. Their airways began to burn and choke. "You hear that vigilante, that's the sound of pigs being stunned on a factory farm, in the quickest, most cost-effective way."

The vigilante gasped through his teeth. No, he's cooking their lungs with carbon dioxide, like they're factory farm animals in a gas chamber. Mental images and squeals of pigs mixed with the girl's screams as they streamed through his head. As if he wasn't sick enough! Dammit, If I try a move, my graze wound could reopen, and he'd have me down.

Destello snickered as though he made a sick joke, feeling nothing for the poor youngsters he was gassing. "Come out to play, little hero. You like to save people, don't you? You need to impress sponsors, for your pro-hero license-oops, I forgot your no hero." Destello cranked up the heat. Screams turned to coughs and chokes from inside the boxcar.

The vigilante trembled and panted enraged, No, I can't let him do that. I gotta kick his ass where he can't see. But his exhaust pipe arm-too hot even when dodging it. I can't hit him hard enough at this range. I'll have to use it-my air pressure shield. It should protect me from the worst of it -enough to get in a good striking range where my quirk is up to snuff.

"C'mon on out Mr. Vigilante." Taunted Destello. "I'm throwing a nice pork roast."

Then a metallic grinding-the train was moving. "Oh, somebody 's got right down to bus-hey wait?" The train pulled only five cars-the ones that carried the more powerful quirk users.

"Hurrgh, what part of coupling do they not understand?" Destello ripped out his cell and screamed into the train's hotline. "Hey, a heads up to the pendejo driving the express, you're a dozen-plus cars short. You're missing the full batch!"

"Sorry amigo, " a rough voice responded from the train's hotline. "Last I recall, my job involved delivering fresh soldiers to Japan, not pimp some juvenile meat to perverts south of the border."

"Voltz? Voltz, what's your deal? You can't ditch most of the order. Your boss and I got a contract."

"Too late to pronounce my name right, "Grease." Your business is already tanking. Your clients will be disappointed, but my boss, who lives where the sun shines brightest, gets his order. And like I said, Japan loves its trains on time."

Reese Destello squeezed his phone. "Voltz you-huh?" A breeze stroked his back, and he instinctively pivoted a one-eighty and fired his exhaust pipe-blasting a startled wind vigilante off course.

"Whoah, oof." The wind quirk vigilante rolled into a heap on the floor, groggy and clinging to consciousness.

Destello strode up to the wounded teen. A sick satisfaction blazed in his depraved being as he saw the fear in the young vigilante's eyes. "I like shooting skeet. Not to mention you're breeze gives you away. Destello's eyelids and lips peeled back to their muscle's limit resembling a horrifying manic rictus grin. The boy himself was paralyzed, seeing Destello's mask of sanity peeled off. Destello's big delivery was ruined and his deal with the cartels was a complete bust, and nothing destroyed a businessman's mind like a no deal. "Ahahahahaha, can't take two heats, vigilante boy? That's a damn shame," Destello aimed the downed vigilante. "Cause I'm just warming up. In the end, the unsung hero game is too hot for you, and you lose. Hahahahahahahaha."

"DESTELLO! CATCH THIS!" Destello paused mid-laugh and turned just in time to glimpse Jim Carlos-and Destleria's beer keg flying right at him.

"Waaagh," on reflex Destello shot a fireball. The fireball connected with the keg. The hot gas boiled the alcohol inside to an insane temperature, and KABOOM!

The teenage vigilante shielded his eyes and his body with pressurized air. When the smoke cleared, it revealed a sight reminiscent of a slapstick cartoon. The once smug Destello was plastered against the nearby warehouse wall with his face blackened like overcooked meat. The elbows, knees, sleeves, even the entire chest section of his suit was burnt to tatters. He then took a step forward and shuffled toward the still downed vigilante. The vigilante crawled backward, empathizing with horror movie victims seeing the furious grimace on Destello's face, who raised his barrel at him again. "Uuuuh. Oooh," "Oooh. Oof." Reese Destello swooned as if controlled by a drunken puppeteer and flopped face-first on the ground.

"Phew," the vigilante sighed and panted more air.

Jim Carlos rushed up to the boy and dropped a first-aid kit. "Patch yourself up, chico."

The vigilante nodded in gratitude. Jim Carlos immediately ran to the heated box car and opened it. Youths aged early to late teens swarmed out gasping for fresh, untainted air. "Breathe deep ninos, it's freedom. Your safe." Said Jim Carlos.

A blonde teenage girl hugged Jim Carlos. "Oh, thank god, thank god, officer."

Jim Carlos hugged her back, "Call the police," he handed the girl a cell. "Use my phone while I free the others." He passed Reese Destello's limp form and frowned with contempt, then noticed the picture of his daughter sticking out of his pocket and ripped it out. "She's not yours," he growled. Then he turned to where the vigilante lay-he was gone!

Batman Beyond - S01E02 - Rebirth Part 2, Track 2 - Mr. Fixx Fight (Episode Extract)-

watch?v=o61qK6memtc&list=PL0bbUqXsNHE3xlUY2FwbHWlnBm8PRSBnk&index=6

Boosted by his wind quirk, the wind vigilante raced along the rails catching up to the train. He landed on top of the boxcars and bee-lined for the main engine. There he faced a door, no problem. Using a ball of pressurized air, he blew out the lock and slipped inside. When he reached the engine cab, he lunged for the front chair. He kicked it, spinning it to face him with his fist ready, but no one occupied it. The vigilante gazed left and right. Where was the driver?

He heard a metallic thump behind him and turned. "Boo." The vigilante glimpsed a spark-coated fist and got slammed into the wall. He gasped deep and recovered just in time to dodge a lightning bolt shot from Voltz's hand. Voltz followed up with several electrified jabs and and a kick from a solid rubber boot to his chest.

Rolling back onto his feet, the young vigilante retaliated, throwing an air blade.

"Nnngh," the most he accomplished was a clean gash through Voltz's jacket over his chest with a shallow skin cut. "Dulled your claws at the yard, boy?" Voltz fired another arc.

The vigilante rolled and lunged in a 3D zig-zag pattern until he was in Voltz's face. He spun like a rotor kicking multiple times at Voltz. Voltz managed to grab his wounded leg, making him grunt in agony. With a torturous heave, the vigilante vertically spin-kicked at his head, to which Voltz blocked the other leg. But the vigilante blasted him in the face with it. Voltz reeled back, releasing the vigilante, but not before landing an electrified hook to the chest.

The hood-clad boy flopped on the floor behind the train's control panel. As he caught his breath, he saw Voltz bump his fists with intense voltage and edged toward him like the angel of death. One more hit, and his life would short out. Fatigued from both his injuries and Voltz's shocks, the vigilante huffed and puffed, forming a tornado-like exoskeleton that raised and manipulated his body like a marionette.

Voltz punched a right hook, but the vigilante caught his crackling fist by the wrist, then the other.

The two super-powered foes struggled against each other. Voltz physically outmuscled the vigilante, making the latter sink to the floor, but the young vigilante's windy actuators evened the odds.

Voltz smiled, impressed at his courage. "Heh, you got real sick flow for some punk who thinks he's a Pro-Hero."

"I'm no hero. I'm an apex predator," The wind vigilante planted his right foot to Voltz's chest.

Before Voltz could figure out, the latter gave out his footing. With a simultaneous gasp exploded a pressurized air grenade from his shoe. Voltz flung overhead and landed hands first into the control panel. Sparks danced through the entire engine's circuitry, and small explosions erupted through the circuitry.

Outside, sparks danced across the engine, and systems failed. The coupler system malfunctioned and released the box cars behind. One particular spark surged with so much energy through the front of the train; BOOM. The engine's snowplow came off. The engine bucked like a bronco as it rolled over the snowplow and derailed. It grinded a trench through the dirt for one minute plus twelve seconds before its momentum expired and flopped on its left side. Only Harrison Ford in leg irons narrowly dodging the crashed train, would complete the scene. And as Hollywood physics would have it-BABOOM! Diesel fire and smoke spewed into the air like a volcano from its top as far as the eyes on the nearby roads could see. But one thing remained ambiguous-what happened to its two combative occupants?

Now that was a superb opening, true believers. It seems we got a new hero on the block, more hardcore than the average UA student and with a mighty wind quirk like Inasa Yoarashi to boot, only deadlier. Needless to say, no compunction about killing the bad guy when necessary or plain feels like it. That's a habit he'll have to break where he's going.

Stay tuned for our next chapter of "Go Beyond the Sky," after the release of the latest chapter from Octopath Isekai: Path of the Disciple. Until then, we'll give you the stats of this chapters villains encountered.

Present Mic: Now folks let's review today's episode's quirks.

Capa Dr Espejo: His quirk Funky Dust. He can generate reflective light particles which in large quantities can render anything they cover next to completely invisible. On top of being a twisted serial kidnapper who gets his rocks off making loved ones disappear, he's also a wimpy coward who can't stand being hunted by an apex predator.

Destleria: His quirk Alcoholism. He secretes ethanol made from bodily fluids to turn any innocent drinking water and other liquids into an alcoholic beverage. Besides pyromania streak, why he chose a life of villainy is puzzling otherwise he'd be living big as a bartender.

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