I am gar for him

It was a great idea after all! For the first time this month I could feel my limit, and after four hours of intense swimming, my "flying muscle," as Dad called it, was so overextended that even a slight acceleration gave me a nausea attack.

I didn't go down to the depths. For once I was more than satisfied with what the three hundred meters of water above my head could provide. As I flew away from the shore, I reached my speed limit fairly quickly, and while that was very significant even by the standards of Earth's best superheroes, it was still fatally low if I really planned to make a difference in the future. And that, and how quickly I'm exhausted, is a clear indication of how far removed the current me is from my past self, much less my father.

However, I was wrong about one thing: I thought I would use up the oxygen in my lungs much faster if I was flying actively, but that was not the case. There were some small differences, but they could be put down to the fact that I was constantly under pressure and experiencing environmental resistance, but it was not the blood oxygen consumption that you would expect if, for example, you were running while holding your breath.

And so far it looks as if Viltrumite levitation has nothing to do with physiology... or at least, it doesn't require active oxygen uptake, which is pretty much the same thing, since any organ works by pumping blood and its transported substances. But I am not anatomically different from a human being. No, no additional organs, not even an increased mass, due to the increased tissue density that one would expect from a being of such strength and solidity... though, an idea immediately occurred to me as to how the Viltrumite ability to levitate might instinctively reduce our weight.

And this hypothesis is very easy to test: you just need to examine a sample of vitrumite tissues separately from the host, or after the host's death.

Another effect of underwater training was the heating of the water by friction. So far it hasn't really bothered me - especially since I have a very high temperature threshold and even if the water around me boils, I feel quite comfortable - but this effect can greatly disguise my underwater training. That is, if I swam all day only in the bay where I entered the water initially, I think I could raise the water temperature in the nearest water area by several degrees - and this is already an anomaly, which can attract unnecessary attention to the place.

But overall, the training went about as I expected - I didn't even encounter a single shark, or sea monster that would try to eat me. In the end, after swimming a few times to Japan and back, I returned to my bay without any adventures. Toward the end, I got so tired of "flying" that I tried swimming in more classic ways. It was fun, and I even managed to get a pretty good speed - quite on par with a high-speed boat.

Upon reaching the shore, I realized that I hadn't brought a towel and moreover, hadn't thought about how I was going to rinse off the salt water. Ah, I was inconsiderate.

With a wince of "flying muscle" tension, I slightly lifted myself off the ground and focused on my... let's call it the feeling of flying, hmm, yeah, I guess I could do that. I started with a little speed and tried to spin myself around as much as possible, like a centrifuge or a screw, as they call a standing rotation in figure skating.

And this was a really significant test for my stomach, I almost got a vomitous merry-go-round, and for a few seconds after stopping I, as they say, floated, almost losing my orientation in space. And, judging by the pebbles cleared from the ground within a couple of meters, I overdid the spinning speed a bit, but I shook off all the water at once, along with the sea salt.

Okay, it's time to go home before my mom gets suspicious.

*** A little while later. USA. Arlington. Grayson house ***

I didn't mean to pry, but shit, it's just the way shit works: it usually doesn't ask if you want it or not, if you're waiting to see it, or if you haven't wanted to see it in ages; it doesn't care, it just comes, that's all. These three, too, were not interested in my opinion about their presence in my life. And in vain...

But let's start in order. It was the second month since I had begun to train my powers, and the third since I had acquired them. I was getting better at masquerading my training as various teenage activities, like skating on the rollerblades I'd been given in honor of an "excellent" semester, or just "hanging out" with Clockwell and some of my-though it was more likely to be his-friends.

But, of course, I didn't just use Wil as a cover for my absences. At least a couple of times a week I did hang out with the boys. This was one of those days.

We had just finished getting fucked up with the locals at the neighborhood skate park - we didn't have our own, unfortunately - and, satisfied with our demonstration of toxic masculinity and boyish stupidity, we all went to the burger mart, the same hole where I had "learned to be a man and make money" in a previous life.

Although I don't remember everything that happened in my childhood - no one remembers unless they have an eidetic memory, or suffer from a memory disorder, usually senile - I can tell you one thing for sure: no one has ever robbed that hole! This is such a hole (I say that word too often, don't I? But I just can't think of any other way to characterize this place, which stole the last nights of my carefree and meaningless adolescent existence), that no self-respecting burglar would come here under any pretext! But these three, if they respected themselves, they did not show it...

So there we were, sitting in the place, not bothering anyone, the boys pouring out their praise and respect for me for rubbing the noses - on the track, of course, I didn't hit kids - of high school kids from the neighborhood, when these... the most typical, I would even say stereotypical, gangsta boys from their paradise walked in the door.

Shapeless sweatshirts, fake rings, bandanas with skulls drawn on their faces, one has a white balaclava draped over his black face and a chain on top of his shirt, too thick to be gold, especially since this loser is personally robbing such a hole. Apparently, he's in charge of the attackers. In general, the idiots imitate their idols-rappers, from whose videos they picked up such a way of handling the weapon.

All this was accompanied by unintelligible shouting with prevailing "Yo" sound and conquering territory by means of monkey jumps from table to table.

"Empty the register, you fat bitch!" demanded the white-faced man, addressing my former, but hopefully not future, employer. "And no nonsense!"

He reacted very quickly to what was happening: raised his hands and began to sweat profusely, shaking his lower lip, but did not yet realize what the robber demanded of him - apparently paralyzed by fear, this happens.

While the ringleader was trying to get his demands met by the chef, his two accomplices were running from table to table, stripping jewelry from customers if they had any, snatching phones out of their hands and demanding cash. One of them jumped up to our table for some reason - I think my mocking glance at him was to blame - and started shouting something about "little white bitches," even though Shlomo was among us, and he was blacker than any of the three of them and also a Falasha - an Ethiopian Jew.

The boys were visibly frightened and started babbling and shaking in fear, and I don't blame them; after all, the black racist had a real gun in his hands, and human life is fragile, and no one wants to die young. Will's friends hurriedly complied with the robber's demands and lay down on the table and began laying out their ridiculous pocket money. I should have obeyed and not provoked the bastard, but I wouldn't have been able to assess the situation and react in time if one of the jerks had lost his nerve, and I didn't want to humiliate myself in front of that monkey. Clockwell either got nervous or simply followed my example, and was in no hurry to kiss his plate of food, but he took money out of his pockets and dumped it on the table - as many as five crumpled dollar bills with his shaking hand.

As much as I was sick of these idiot robbers, I wasn't going to expose myself for it. It wasn't that I was vindictive and wished this dump would go bankrupt before my parents got the idea of sending me here for a part-time job, not at all. I can deal with them quietly, though, if they can get away with their loot.

"Do you want a special invitation?" interrupted my thoughts about my future fate, the gangsta, still alive and free, pointing his pistol in my face and... nervously looking at the cash on our table, probably beginning to realize how stupid it was to ask the children for money.

"You'd better find someone your own size and leave the kids alone," suddenly came a calm male voice that surprisingly stopped all the noise and moaning and shouting.

Everyone looked at the speaker. He was a provincial-looking man - a kind of cowboy, even with a hat, though not a redneck - a little over thirty, maybe even forty, short in stature, with two-day stubble. In general, quite a natural type for America, though washed out of the public consciousness by leftist propaganda in recent decades. When he turned to the mugger, not only did he not look in his direction, he did not even deign to tear himself away from his food and beer. Under the scrutiny of two dozen frankly fucking eyes, the cowboy took a bite out of his burger, chewed it thoroughly, and drank the rest of the beer, all while munching demonstratively.

He was an American hero!

And he got what he wanted. No one was interested in the table with the kids any more, including our gangster, who hurried to take advantage of the opportunity to avoid embarrassing himself by having a showdown with the kid. Even the ringleader forgot about the chief and the underpaid cash register.

"Nah, look at him, will you?" One of the robbers grinned.

"What's the matter with you, motherfucker?!" Our jerk screamed, running up to the man and putting the gun to his temple.

"I'm sorry," the white balaclava-wearing ringleader said softly. "Are we disturbing you?"

"No, not at all," the man also replied politely, ignoring the gun to his temple. "It's just, you know, this may be my last meal in life and even though the beer is crappy and the patty in my burger is overcooked and smells like butter, I'd still like to enjoy them properly before I beat you up and, in all likelihood, one of us will die."

"God, this guy is awesome!" Wil whispered admiringly, devouring the man with his eyes... he seemed to have just changed his orientation.

But it's hard to disagree with him, this guy really is too cool for this world... unless he has superpowers, of course, then he's just a masterful show-off, which is also an important skill for a superhero.

The gangsta, holding his gun to the man's temple, hesitated a little, glancing at the ringleader in anticipation of a directive to act - like a predator who goes into a stupor if his prey, who always ran away from him in fear, suddenly behaves unusually, he sensed the dangerous unnaturalness of the situation.

But the cowboy gave the robbers no time to think and began to act himself. As soon as the robber with the gun took his eyes off him, he jumped up from his seat behind the counter, elbowing the barrel away from his head and hitting the bandit in the face with his empty beer mug with the other hand. Contrary to the laws of cinema, the glass did not shatter as the bottom hit the man's skull - there was a resounding sound of empty objects colliding.

"Don't move! Sheriff's Department, you're in custody!" he yelled, snatching the gun from under his jacket and pointing it at the ringleader. "Drop your weapon!"

It was only now that I realized he was actually overreacting, too, and wasn't a fearless superhero at all-just a good actor and a principled cop-but that made him all the more respectable in my eyes.

And although his action was largely idiotic - it would have been safer for everyone to let the jerks take the money and not put the lives of civilians, and children in particular, in danger - but on the other hand he began to act only when the robbers accosted those very children and, judging by everything, he is an ordinary guy, without superpowers, but he overcame his fear and put his life on the line in a knowingly losing situation, to do his official duty and protect the children...

And whether or not I interfere in the showdown now directly affects people's lives, for I doubt that everyone here will see tomorrow's sunrise if I decide to sit on the sidelines.