Chapter 66: Anniversary Adversary

Wednesday Dec 16th, 2021. Harlem New York.

The interior of the bodega rested in a space of stark contrast with the outside streets of Harlem.

It was warm.

Outside, a snowstorm ravaged the island of opportunity like all of new york owed the planet something.

The streets were slick with brown sludge and black ice.

Inside, The tile floors were near spotless. In New York that was saying something— especially with all the little kids in puffer coats and boots stomping around.

A teenager angrily chased after their muddied wet prints with a mop. Working to earn his. As anyone did.

And it wasn't due to the harsh winter.

The news blared from the box tv rested at the top corner of the store above the bread isle.

"—reen Goblin and Spiderman have single handedly decimated ninety percent of Manhattan's south end playing an explosive game of catch! LIKE A GOD DAMN FATHER AND SON IN A BACKYARD! And what? We have to pay for it?! And then Harlem, our savior Luke Cage and his discount avenger team haven't been here in months. Leaving us to deal with the supervillain drug lord business they inflated! Sometimes I wish I was a mutant… being able to leave to that Krakoa island that popped into existence last year must be heaven on earth. But you know the US… that won't last long. Not long at all. Winter's here. But I get the feeling when the snow clears and the suns spotlight is back on us it's gonna be uglier."

The kids continued to play chase along the spotty isle's of food despite the harrowing broadcast. Again, more contrast.

"Haha! You can't catch me, Amir!! Nah nah na boo b—" The child was cut off abruptly from his taunting chant in the laundry detergent aisle upon running into a man.

He hit the ground hard holding his nose. Wind knocked clean out of his lungs.

His friends caught up to him, just in time to see the mean lean down over the child.

"You good?" A dead voice croaked from a throat that wasn't used much. His dreads fell out of his hood, reaching for the boy like twisting fingers. They smelled like rainwater and burnt wood beneath the cologne wafting from his brown skin.

He wasn't scary per se. Not until you focused. Not until you saw the silver fangs. And the five o'clock shadow on his cheeks that insinuated he had genuine face fur if he let it grow.

Then the lights flickered. And from the shadows of his hood, his eyes flashed. Like a cat in an alley during midnight traffic.

Not human.

"Ah!" The boys left their friend scrambling to get to his feet alone and chase after them as they fled the store. But not before nabbing a few items wildly on the way out.

"You little shits!" The owner yelled from the register.

The man sighed and grabbed his laundry detergent. Walking towards the register silently. He could feel the shop cleaners eyes on his back like poking fingers as the tv continued to go on about mutants occupying their new oasis.

"That all, sir?" The owner said from behind the cash register.

"You know the deal."

"I do…. But they don't." The man pointed back towards the newly installed camera behind him. Sweat lined his brow and made his neatly gelled hair glisten more.

"Do you have any form of ID?"

The man— over six feet tall in boots with a face covered in stubble raised an eyebrow as he looked from the register to his chocolates, beer, condoms and laundry soap.

"I'm s-sorry it's a new protocol. I mean ehg… you could be a mutant with an aging ability and actually be twelve!"

"Creative." The man pulled out an ID out of his wallet and held it to the man, then the camera.

For a moment the store owner froze. The ID said Trey Conwell. But he'd been calling the regular shop-goer Bronte for weeks.

"Is that all?"

"Y-yes."

Brontë grabbed his bagged items with both hands and left the store.

The outside world welcomed him in shades of whites, greens, blues, silvers and brown. Cars whizzed past, wheels eating up dirt infused slush and grime. Rats huddled in horses in the alleys.

News papers crunched and tore under the thin layering of snow on the sidewalk.

It all felt fake.

Disconnected.

Dead.

Brontë stomped through the slog, turning up the music in his headphones until the world was drowned in tempo and tune.

He knew the route like the back of his hand. He didn't even notice when he reached his apartment. Muscle memory was like a second entity sometimes.

"WELL FUCK YOU TOO!"

Brontë stopped at the colorful graffiti painted concrete steps leading up to his apartment complex. He looked up at the monochrome brick titan with low eyes.

Icicles dangled from the rooftops. Dying Christmas lights bordered apartment windows, splashing green and red glow onto the snow at his feet.

The couple continued to argue in the name of Christmas spirit and….. toxic love.

Home sweet home.

Brontë marched his way up to his apartment and pushed through his unlocked door calmly.

No reason to lock it. He didn't have anything expensive that he couldn't retrieve by scent.

Plus, people didn't like to spend much time in the top floors of apartments.

Your risk of getting vaporized by a thrown super soldier or gamma powered alien significantly increased the higher up you went.

He looked around his dodgy abode in silence.

Lights off. Windows open. A twin sized bed with a black wood headboard hugged the left wall and most of the room. Beside it a punching back hung from the ceiling. On the other side a weight bench caved in the floor ever so slightly.

No tv. Just a record player and stereo system on the other side of the room.

Next to the window a desk with a beatpad and laptop joined by wires was left on. He could still hear the sample on repeat as he slid off his headphones. The sounds reverberated from the laptop and through the wood desk, sending vibrations into the electric guitar leaning against it.

It caused the tightly tuned strings to let off the faintest electric hum.

His right arm tingled.

He put away his groceries and took off his coat, tossing it to the bed as he pulled up a seat to his desk.

Despite only wearing a black tank top and cargo pants the cold winds sweeping in from the open window didn't slow a thing.

He laid a finger on the beatpad—

His phone vibrated for the millionth time in his pocket today.

"Fucking…." He trailed off as he clicked on the screen and saw the date.

He opened up his messages, scanning them from oldest to newest.

Unsaved contact (five texts): "I had a great time last night. I appreciate a man who doesn't tell a lie about his capabilities…. In many areas. Xoxo."

Unsaved contact (four texts): "Hey dreadhead, why you playin hard to get like I won't get crazy on here? You getting me tight on here, Cause I'm really not the one to….."

Cartier Red (one text): "Aye I got an album listening party in the Bronx I want you to slide to. Im trynna buy a new pack off you 2!"

Alicia (one text): "I like the beats…. But the poetry ain't bad either. If you're interested in collaborating on that front contact my agent at 212….."

He scanned past it all with two swipes until he saw a name. Three names. And a number.

Laura (eight texts): "Hey, hermano. I'm sure you're not ready to talk. In many ways none of us are. But it's been a year. I hope you're doing ok. Thank you for keeping close to Gabbie. I'll be out of South America soon. Stay strong. Stay safe. Keep making that music."

Gabbie (six texts): "Yo tentacle-head! FaceTime me tonight or I'm gonna ask out a boy you don't approve of and tarnish our family name. Lots of love! Seriously tho…. I miss you."

Ma (one text): "Hey honey, me and your dad get Christmas off so we're coming to visit. Clean up that apartment and tell your little girlfriends to stay outside! Also, Junior really needs to talk to you."

And then the number. A famous number. A number shown on billboards across New York as a beacon of help and advancement in science.

The Fantastic Four (one text): Hello, Bronte. My name is Reed Richards. I've been in contact with Hank McCoy of the Xavier Institute for months now and I've followed the events of the Wakanda/Talokan war extensively. I believe it would be in your best interests to stop by. Whenever is you can…"

Overstimulation.

Brontë shut off his phone and placed it face down on the desk.

He rested his face in his hands. Correcting his breathing.

Silencing his screaming nerves.

It had been a year.

The days blurred.

The events still felt fresh as open wounds.

He'd been in a war that completely altered the anatomy of not only himself but his world.

And still life went on. With and without people he would've killed for.

He defeated his greatest enemy. He learned to control his powers. He fought gods.

Daken was a traitor.

Daken turned on them for lacking brutality where it mattered.

For lacking vision and understanding that even though they killed Romulus, their enemies still outnumbered them in the millions. So deeply it was ingrained in the very fabric of society.

Brontë and his siblings were battling a hunter. Daken was trying to train them to battle the status quo of prey and predators as a whole.

Apparently it wasn't enough.

And they lost Raze for that.

Everything else went black.

He woke up.

The dead island once occupied by primal Vampires was lush and alive. Thanking him.

He didn't even remember leaving, he just knew he did. Made sure his people were safe. Searched the oceans for Raze everywhere. Cursed out a few search parties for incompetence.

Nothing.

The King and Queen wanted him to stay in Wakanda.

He'd done enough living away from home.

But now that he was there— home. He couldn't help but feel…. Elsewhere.

He had a nightly remedy for that.

Home was where the heart was, and his was beneath the felt keys of his beat pad.

He got to work as usual.

He started the instrumental like he started his days. Explosive— with a start and heavy trauma that would send any listener into fight or flight immediately. Than the descent. As the tune went on he muted certain jarring overlays and guitar riffs, letting muffled 808 drum lines and sampled humming cadences ride the vacant space alone.

He let it build. He upped the pace and cleared the elements. Adding in synths. Adding in what he missed.

Aspects from Raze's playlist.

The dark and unconventional style of Earl Swearshirt beats. Both triumphant and lonely. Both offbeat and so in line it felt like magic.

The grimey and old school effects of Fifty… Mob Deep… so on and so fourth.

Brontë picked up his guitar, playing it next to the microphone, adding Latin elements to the sample in remembrance of Laura's musical preference. Followed by pop drum line and catchy instrumental hooks that would've had Gabbie head bobbing in her room like always.

He sat in the finished product.

It was garbage. It was cluttered and messy and violent and unconventional to the point of audial erosion. It was distinct. It required nuance and understanding to feel in its entirety.

It was his family.

They sat around him. All of them. Coming in and out of the spotlight in his minds eye as the music went on repeat.

It would've been perfect.

But it was lacking an element. He could physically feel where it was missing.

Gone from the fold.

Daken.

He got up from his desk, disconnecting the headphones and turning the volume to its bass boosted maximum. Letting the chaotic clan of musical aspects bounce through the small apartment as he laid in his bed.

His face was clear as day in his mind.

Daken…. Daken…. Daken.

He couldn't sleep.

Not normally.

Not without help.

He pulled the desert eagle out of his drawer and placed the barrel in his mouth.

The bass dropped.

He fired.

Sleep welcomed him.

He lay still in bed. Knocked out of consciousness by the jolt of heavy gunfire to the roof of his mouth.

Everything still.

Until his right arm moved.

In a blur it launched upward.

Palm facing the far wall.

A slit shimmied into existence in his palm, opening into an eyeball.

It looked around the room with purpose before the whole hand turned and looked at Bronte.

The hand lowered down until the eye was face to face with Bronte.

"...we…. Will get better, Bronte. I will mend all that has been torn. You and our family…"

Suddenly the skin of Bronte's right arm slithered and shifted like a liquid before turning dark blue…. Riddled with thick veins and sectional spikes. Fingers tipped by talons. Forearms lined with fin-blades.

The blue skin spread across his body in the form of a suit like paint across a canvas. Transforming the once plain image into something expressive and with intent. A work of art, even….

Something recognizable.

A dragonoid symbol in white stretched across his hulking chest. A mouthless mask covered his face soundlessly. Nose holes split open in the mask, suddenly allowing the host to breathe once more. Followed by more opening between the outlines of razor sharp teeth between the blocky jaw portion of the mask.

The suit finished forming when a set of white eyes snapped open.

Suddenly the being sat up. Stretching. Observing its surroundings. Raiding the fridge. It stood up on raised heels like a bipedal wolf at six and a half feet tall and dangled the chocolates over its mouth.

The jaws split open and revealed a canine set of jaws full of razor sharp fangs and a prehensile tongue.

"Laaaaa…" It snarled as it scarfed down the chocolate and began cleaning.

The whole time it mumbled, "Mend….. mend… mend…. Mend…."

Half an hour later and the house was spotless.

The creature built over Bronte's body approached his stereo and began playing classical music.

As it hummed to the violin and flute melodies it picked up his phone.

The being looked down at its finger. Slowly, human prints swirled onto the surface and it began typing away.

Phone to ear, listening to the ringing.

"Dj's Pizza what can I get for you?"

"Meat lovers pizza….. with extra meat! Protein is important for hyper carnivores!… and extra cheese! Fats are a vital calorie dense macro nutrient that's good for you as long as you're active! WE are active—"

The man taking the order on the other side of the phone sighed as if he began to recognize the voice and the eerily specific order.

"And lots of water….. and a protein shake. I got it. Are you going to give us an actual name this time? Our drivers can't get into your apartment with a verb, bro."

"What is this Verb you speak of?….. are they violent? Why are they trying to get into our home?" The being peeked out of the windows as it held the phone to its head.

"Ok bro. Extra cheese and extra meat on the meat lovers pizza with a water and protein shake for…. Mend?"

"HAHA YES!…. Erhm. Excuse me. Yes, that is correct, phone."

"Sweet. We'll have to drop it off outside."

"Perfect. I'll get it on the way back."

The man on the phone paused.

"What? Way back where?"

The being hung up the phone, "No more questions. We must speak to our family."

It opened up Bronte's recent messages and began replying.

Once finished, it set down the phone.

"The Fantastic Four called us….. I've heard about them….. the stretchy man…. And the force field woman…. And the rock monster… and the fire man. What does he say?"

The being hopped out of the window and sat crouched on the fire escape.

Massive weight slowly weighting down the metal.

It looked down at its hands.

"Oh yes…. Flame on!"

The suit piloting Bronte exploded into flames and flew off into the night.