Valor: DC

In the heart of Gotham City, where shadows clung to the stone walls like spectres, a solitary figure trudged through the downpour.

Maro Dumont, a boy of unassuming countenance, clutched his schoolbooks close to his chest, a hapless wanderer in the gloom of a darkened metropolis.

He frowned as the rain pounded against the pavement. It pooled and coalesced onto the floor, turning the street into a dark mirror reflecting the grim skies of Gotham. 

Maro's footsteps echoed through the alleyways, the splashing of water the only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence.

Unbeknownst to him, malicious eyes lurked in the inky darkness, watching his every move.

"I should have just asked Anderson to drop me off...", he muttered under his breath, his chest tightening with regret. That thought had gnawed at him the moment he had left work.

Yet, obligations lingered. He had chosen to take on the responsibilities of a part-time job, despite his young age and mountain of homework assignments, all to ease the financial strain his father's illness had placed upon their household. 

Gotham had always been home, he knew its streets well, or so he thought. Normally he wouldn't risk walking alone this late, but tonight had been different. He had left school late due to a double detention, some overdue homework from Maths and English. 

The work was trivial, something he could have done in his sleep—if he had remembered it.

But he didn't.

So he had ended up finishing work later than usual, and Anderson, his only ride, had a late shift. That had left Maro with two choices, sleep in the restroom until 3 in the morning and hope that some drunk wouldn't bumble in and urinate all over him, or make his own way home. 

The bus ride had been an easy affair, it was all autonomous and simple, barring the awkward moment where Maro dropped his change all over the floor and had to scramble to pick up every dime. 

The walk home, however...

The rain intensified, as if sensing his unease. The heavens wept in sympathy for Maro's plight.

Though through his thin school shirt and blazer, it felt more like nails driving into his shoulders, plastering his skin with harsh cold wetness.

Turning the corner, Maro froze.

Emerging from the shadows like wraiths, were a group of hooded figures.

They surrounded the unsuspecting boy with predatory intent. The atmosphere deepened with malice, the air heavy with the scent of danger.

"Empty your pockets, kid," one of the figures hissed, a voice dripping with malevolence.

Maro's pulse quickened. He caught the gleam of metal—knives, maybe a gun. His throat tightened as fear clawed at him. He could barely breathe.

Instinct took over before logic had a chance. He bolted, his schoolbooks forgotten as he sprinted down the alley.

One of the hooded thugs pursued him with the tenacity of a shadow.

Maro craned his head back every few seconds to see if he had lost him, his heart dropping every second he saw him inch closer.

The rain lashed at him, soaking his uniform as the city's narrow alleys swallowed him whole. 

He raced through the streets, lungs burning, muscles screaming, and rain streaming down his face like the tears of his forsaken city pre-emptively mourning another of her victims. 

His shoes slipped on the slick cobblestones, the world a blurred diorama of fear and adrenaline.

His heart pounded in rhythm with his ragged breaths, and he could hear the rapid footsteps behind him, closing in.

The gunshot came next—a deafening crack that sliced through the rain-soaked night.

There was no pain, just the buckling of his legs as his foot slid out from under him. He collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving pavement. 

Shock and dread intertwined as blood seeped from his shirt, mingling with the rain that pooled beneath him. Then came the pain, as the hooded man drew back his hood and searched Maro's bags and pockets.

He let out a curse, pocketing the change from Maro's bus fare, before running away—his figure disappearing into the shadows. Like a wraith, he had claimed his soul, and back into darkness he returned. 

Maro gasped, struggling to draw in breath. His vision blurred as he stared up at the cloudy sky, the falling rain masking the tears that slid down his cheeks.

This was it. The end.

He had so much to say, so many memories he wanted to revisit, but he hadn't the luxury. He couldn't help but cry as his final moments were overwhelmed with sirens, shouting, and cracks of thunder. 

What had happened to the silence a few minutes ago?

Why had the city come alive just as he was about to die?

This was it. The end.

But then—something strange. As his consciousness ebbed, a wave of energy surged through him, as though the very universe was reaching out, refusing to let him slip away so easily.

A glowing blue screen blinked into existence above him, illuminating the alley with an otherworldly light.

—

Maro Dumont 

Race: Human

Strength: 2

Agility: 2

Endurance: 1

Vitality: 3

Intelligence: 9

Luck: 1 

— 

It was a summary—a brutal, clinical assessment of his dying form. A cruel reminder of just how human he was. And how pitifully he lived.

[User Identified.]

A disembodied voice intoned, echoing throughout Maro's fading consciousness. It was monotone and cold. He couldn't help but equate it with the voice of Death.

[You have been chosen.]

Maro struggled to comprehend what was happening. 

He mustered all his remaining strength into confronting the voice that had birthed in the wake of his demise.

"What is this?" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the roaring city.

[The Hero System welcomes you.]

The voice replied cryptically. The words cut through the haze in his mind. 

[Do you accept?]

Maro's thoughts were disjointed, blurred by pain and fear. "If I do… will I live?" He probed.

[Yes.]

 He had no time to question it, no time to think. With grim determination he whispered, "Fine..." the last of his strength fading. "I accept."

And then, like a fleeting dream dissolving with the dawn, Maro's consciousness flickered, fading into void.

Darkness swallowed him whole. 

Maro's eyes fluttered open to soft, sterile light.

He blinked, disoriented.

The last thing he remembered was lying on the rain-slicked streets of Gotham, bleeding out. Now, he was in a hospital, alive, and unharmed.

The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, and the faint murmur of conversations drifted from beyond the hospital room door. 

Confusion clouded his tired gaze as he sought to reconcile the tangible world with the events of last night. The status screen, now a distant memory, lingered only in the back of his mind. 

He stared at the white sheets draped over his body, the pristine bandages on his chest, and for a moment, he wondered if it had all been a nightmare.

Then, a figure approached – a nurse with kind eyes and gentler words. She spoke of a miraculous recovery, the work of God, she claimed. 

He listened, grappling with the news of his survival. Yet, as he did so, a lingering awareness remained – The Hero System. 

It was an invitation to a destiny Maro had no business claiming, and it had saved his life. But he was no Hero.

"System?", he called out, hoping it had been a figment of his imagination.

A fleeting whisper in the corridors of his fading consciousness, or cold delirium seeping in as he died at the feet of Gotham's negligence.

But then the voice returned.

[The Hero System welcomes you.]

Maro's stomach twisted at the sound, his heart sinking.

He pressed his palms against his forehead, trying to calm the storm of thoughts in his head. "So... it wasn't a dream," he muttered, biting back a groan.

Before he could dwell any further, the door creaked open.

His father stood there—a frail, weary man, his body bowed by years of sickness and hardship. His cane clicked softly against the floor as he walked over to Maro's bedside.

"Maro," his father rasped, his voice filled with warmth despite his evident exhaustion. "It should be me in that bed... not you."

"You already spend most of your days in bed, I won't let you steal mine." Maro forced a smile, guilt gnawing at him. "I'm fine, Dad. Really. You didn't have to come all this way."

"I had to see you," his father said, easing himself into the chair beside the bed. His movements were slow, labored, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp with concern. "They told me... you were shot."

"I was," Maro admitted softly, eyes trailing to the window where the city skyline stood in the distance. "But I'm fine now. They said it was a miracle."

"A miracle?" His father scoffed weakly. "More like stubbornness. You've always been too tough for your own good. Just like your mother."

A gentle smile played on his father's lips, and he reached out to place a frail hand on Maro's.

Maro's lips twitched into a half-smile, but the weight of everything that had happened still hung over him like a storm cloud. He wanted to tell his father everything—the attack, the voice, the system. But how could he? It all felt too surreal.

His father's expression softened, lines etched by time deepening as he sighed, "You don't always have to be so strong, Maro. It's okay to admit when you're scared."

Maro clenched his jaw, he was far from fine. In fact, he was terrified. He had died, cold and alone, and it played in his head constantly. But for his father's sake, he forced a nod.

"Yeah, Dad. I know."

The hospital room, with its sickeningly clean scent and incessant hum of medical equipment, became the backdrop for their shared strength. 

But in the quiet that followed, as his father drifted into an uneasy sleep in the chair beside him, Maro stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.

The system had saved him... but at what cost?

Nothing in this world was truly free, and he had a feeling he was due to find out just how much his life was worth. A cruel herald for what could only be danger to come. 

And as he lay there, in the blinding hospital room—he couldn't help but wonder.

Perhaps death was a mercy.