Invincible:Detonate

I spent the next few days laying low, watching the city move around me. Machine Head's goons weren't swarming the streets looking for me—yet—but I wasn't stupid enough to think I was in the clear.

The money helped. It gave me options. But money didn't solve everything.

I needed a plan.

Not just a "stay alive" plan. A real one.

Because right now? I was just reacting. Running. Hiding. That wasn't going to cut it.

If I wanted to survive in this world—thrive—I needed to stop playing defense.

I needed to make my move.

That's how I found myself in another back alley, waiting.

The guy I was meeting wasn't a crime boss. He wasn't even a mid-tier player. But he was useful. A middleman. The kind of guy who knew how to get things—fake IDs, burner phones

And right now? I needed all of that.

He showed up ten minutes late, a wiry dude with a twitchy smile and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"You the one looking for work?" he asked, eyeing me up and down.

"Depends," I said. "You the one who can get me what I need?"

His grin widened. "I can get anything—for the right price."

I tossed him a few hundred in cash. "Start talking."

An hour later, I had everything I needed.

A fake ID under a throwaway name. A cheap burner phone.

I also had something else—a lead.

See, my new "friend" wasn't just a supplier. He was a gossip. And the moment I got him talking, he started spilling every little rumor floating around the city.

Most of it was worthless. But one thing caught my attention.

A weapons deal.

Nothing major—just some small-time gang moving stolen ordinance through the docks. But that wasn't the interesting part.

The interesting part was who they were buying from.

A guy with a history of getting his hands on high-tech gear. Experimental stuff.

Stuff way out of my budget.

But I wasn't planning on buying.

That night, I staked out the docks, watching the deal unfold from the shadows.

Five guys. Three buyers, two sellers. Armed, but not alert.

They thought this was just another transaction.

I was about to ruin their night.

I reached into my pocket, rolling a handful of bolts between my fingers.

Then I let them drop.

Tiny, scattered clinks on the pavement.

One of the buyers turned, frowning. "What was—"

BOOM.

The explosion wasn't big, but it didn't need to be. It was just enough to send them stumbling, enough to throw the whole deal into panic mode.

I moved fast.

Before they could regroup, I was on them—grabbing one of the sellers, yanking his gun free, slamming an elbow into his jaw.

Another guy swung at me. I ducked, drove a knee into his gut, and sent him flying back with a palm full of concentrated force.

The rest tried to run.

I didn't let them.

When the dust settled, they were all on the ground—groaning, unconscious, or just too scared to move.

I crouched down, grabbing the guy I really wanted—the seller. The one with the tech.

He looked up at me, bleeding, dazed. "Who the hell are you?"

I grinned.

"Someone who's upgrading."

Then I dragged him to his feet.

We were gonna have a nice, long talk.

By the time I was done, I had exactly what I needed.

The guy spilled everything—who supplied him, where he stored his product, how often shipments came in. He even threw in some names, not that they meant much to me yet.

Most of what he had was small-time junk. Stolen firearms, low-grade explosives, maybe a few pieces of military tech that had fallen off the back of a truck.

But one thing stood out.

A cache of energy-based weapons. Experimental. Untraceable.

And best of all? Completely unattended for the next twelve hours.

I let the guy live—barely. Not out of mercy. Just practicality. Killing him would've been messy, and I wasn't looking to start a war. Not yet.

Instead, I left him tied up with one of his own zip-ties, a little concussion rattling around in his skull. He'd wake up sore, confused, and missing a whole lot of product.

Sucked to be him.

I hit the storage facility just before dawn.

The place wasn't exactly Fort Knox—just a rundown warehouse in the industrial district. No guards, no alarms, just a cheap padlock on the door.

Pathetic.

I snapped the lock with a small, concentrated blast, stepped inside, and took a look around.

Stacks of crates. Some labeled, some not. Most of it was worthless to me—ammo, basic firearms, a few stolen car parts for some reason.

But in the back?

That's where I found the good stuff.

A reinforced crate, marked with some off-the-books military insignia.

I pried it open.

Inside were three energy rifles, a compact pulse grenade, and something that looked suspiciously like a high-tech gauntlet.

Jackpot.

I grabbed the gauntlet first, slipping it onto my right hand. It was heavier than I expected, but it hummed with power. I flexed my fingers, testing the weight.

No user recognition system. No lockout. Just pure, stolen tech waiting to be used.

I could work with this.

The rifles were tempting, but I wasn't exactly the sniper type. Instead, I pocketed the pulse grenade—because who wouldn't take a free grenade?—and grabbed a second gauntlet just in case.

Then I got the hell out of there.

Back at my hideout, I spent the next few hours testing my new toy.

The gauntlet wasn't just a weapon—it was versatile. Adjustable energy output, multiple settings, even a built-in shock function for close-quarters combat.

During those few days of Laying low I had a thought.

I didn't need to rely just on my powers.

I could enhance them.

Use tools, weapons, tech—whatever gave me the edge.

Because the people in this world? They had too many advantages.

Heroes had their super strength, flight, invincibility. Villains had their armies, their funding, their insane alien dads.

Me?

I had my mind. My power. My ability to adapt.

And now?

I had a whole new set of tricks.

And things were about to change.

The first step to carving out a place in this world?

Fear.

Money mattered, sure. Power mattered. But fear? Fear was the currency that really kept people in check. If I wanted to take, if I wanted to own something in this city, people had to know what happened when they crossed me.

So I picked a target.

A small-time crew running protection rackets in Midtown. They weren't Machine Head's people, which meant I could break them without setting off alarms.

More importantly?

They had cash.

The bar smelled like piss and regret. Dim lights, a sticky floor, the low murmur of scumbags drinking away their latest payday.

Four of them sat in the back, laughing, throwing back cheap whiskey like they owned the place. Midtown muscle, the kind that broke fingers for rent money and called it business.

I let them get comfortable. Let them drink. Let them feel untouchable.

Then I walked over.

"Busy night?"

The closest one—square jaw, broken nose, cauliflower ears—looked up, already annoyed. "The fuck are you supposed to be?"

I smiled. "Your last mistake."

His forehead creased. "What—"

I slammed his face into the table.

Hard.

The cheap wood cracked under the force. Blood sprayed from his nose, dark and wet against the splintered surface. Before his friends could react, I grabbed the whiskey bottle and shattered it across his skull.

Glass rained down. He slumped forward, groaning, his hands weakly clawing at the table.

One down.

The second guy lunged.

Big arms, thick gut, bad tattoos. He swung wide—sloppy. Slow.

I ducked, stepped in, and drove my fist into his ribs.

Boom.

Not a full charge. Just enough of a detonation to fracture something inside him.

He gasped, stumbled back, clutching his side like he was trying to hold himself together. His knees buckled. Vomit splattered onto the floor.

Two down.

The third guy—lean, wiry, a rat of a man—pulled a knife.

Cute.

I let him jab forward, sidestepped, grabbed his hand, and squeezed.

Boom.

His fingers snapped open like a bear trap, the blade clattering to the floor. His whole arm shook from the shock, nerves fried, muscles twitching.

I twisted his wrist and bent it backward.

A wet, ugly pop filled the room as the joint dislocated.

He screamed.

Three down.

The last one?

Smartest of the bunch. He was already backing up, hands raised. "H-Hey, man, we don't want trouble—"

I grabbed the broken whiskey bottle, pressed the jagged edge to his cheek, and leaned in.

"You work for someone," I said, voice low, even. "I want names. Now."

He swallowed hard. "I—We—We work for—"

I drove the glass an inch deeper.

Not enough to cut. Not yet. Just enough to make his skin dimple, to let him feel how close he was to losing half his face.

He shook like a leaf in a storm. "S-Salvatore! Salvatore! He runs Midtown! We just—we just collect!"

I smiled.

That's all I needed.

I yanked him forward and slammed his head against the bar.

His body went limp.

I let him drop.

The whole bar was silent. Every lowlife, every degenerate, all of them watching, none of them daring to move.

Good.

I grabbed a duffel bag from under their table, emptied it of whatever cash they'd extorted, and slung it over my shoulder.

"This neighborhood belongs to me now," I said, voice calm. "Tell Salvatore he's next."

Then I walked out into the night.

Let them think about this. Let them fear.

I wasn't here to play hero.

I was here to own this city.