Lucy woke up under a Brooklyn Bridge overpass, rain dripping through rusted beams onto his face. His "bed" was a flattened cardboard box labeled FRAGILE – the irony wasn't lost on him.
SYSTEM DAILY QUEST #1: "Gentle Giant"
Objective: 24 hours without damaging property/people via tremors.
Reward: +0.5% Synchronization (Max: 10%)
Failure: Seismic tantrum. Public panic. SHIELD attention.
SYSTEM DAILY QUEST #2: "Saitama's Regime"
Objective: 100 Push-ups, 100 Sit-ups, 100 Squats, 10km Run.
Reward: +0.5% Synchronization (Max: 30%)
Failure: Muscle atrophy. Existential shame.
Day 1
Lucy didn't mean to crush the dumpster. He just wanted to see if there was anything edible inside. But as his fingers gently curled around the rusted metal lid, the entire structure folded in like a tin can under a hydraulic press. The metal groaned once, then collapsed with a final clang.He stared at his hands."Still… not syncing," he muttered. His internal sync counter remained stubbornly at 0%. The "Gentle Giant" protocol, designed to regulate his destructive strength, wasn't cooperating.
Later, determined to stick to his Saitama Regime — 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10km run — he dropped to the sidewalk and started his push-ups. By the tenth rep, hairline cracks spidered across the pavement. By the fiftieth, tremors shook a nearby apartment complex.Minutes later, a squad car slowed down, and a tired cop rolled down the window."Hey! Construction's supposed to happen during city hours!"Lucy, mid-squat, just nodded. "Yep. I'm the foundation."
Dinner wasn't much better. He found half a pizza slice sitting beside a trash bin. Before he could grab it, a rat — battle-scarred and oddly majestic — beat him to it.Lucy reached for the other half. The rat stared him down, eyes full of ancient judgment.He took a bite anyway."Don't look at me like that. I'm training."
Day 4
Progress came in awkward, powerful bursts. Lucy managed to go twelve hours without accidentally destroying anything. A personal record.Then he sneezed.
A nearby Lexus parked innocently along the curb was suddenly a crime scene. The shockwave from his sneeze shattered all its windows in a crystalline explosion."Bless me," he muttered, fleeing the scene before anyone could blame the breeze.
The Saitama Regime wasn't going easier either. Mid-run, he tripped over a loose shoelace. What should've been a stumble turned into a full-body crash, carving a ten-foot pothole into the street. Asphalt curled upward like a crater from a small meteorite.He scrambled up and sprinted away just as the Department of Transportation truck rounded the corner."Note to self: double knot."
Dinner that night was... wet. He found a traffic cone filled with fresh rainwater, tilted it, and drank like it was fine wine.Sitting cross-legged beside a stray dog under a flickering streetlamp, Lucy cleared his throat and sang Perfect by Ed Sheeran, off-key and heartfelt.The dog howled along.It was a duet.A terrible one.
Day 7
Lucy stared at his hands, then at the cracked pavement beneath him. It was still. No damage. No tremors.For the first time, he had lasted twenty-four hours without breaking a single thing.
Gentle Giant Sync: +0.5% (Total: 4.0%)A warning pinged in the corner of his HUD:
"5% threshold may trigger involuntary Haki bursts. Proceed with caution."
His muscles ached from the week-long grind, but the Saitama Regime was paying off. Seven days of relentless calisthenics had begun to reshape him.His reflection in a car mirror showed a chiseled frame.Veins like cables, delts like armor. Even his baggy shirt gave up the fight — seams popping and stretching like they knew this body wasn't made for clothes anymore.
Lucy flexed. The shirt ripped down the middle with a dramatic fwhap.
He grinned."This is either progress... or the start of a comic book."
Triskelion – Level 7 Briefing Room
The holotable hummed to life, casting pale blue light across the dim chamber. Agent Maria Hill stood at attention, a stack of thermal and geological scans in her hand. She slapped them onto the interface, causing a 3D map of Brooklyn to flicker into existence.
Nick Fury approached slowly, the ever-present weight of global catastrophe shadowing his one-eyed gaze. His coat trailed behind him like a war banner.
Hill didn't waste time."Seven days of micro-tremors," she said. "Centered around Red Hook and East Brooklyn. Magnitudes range between 1.8 to 3.2."She tapped a control, and jagged red pulses flashed across the map."No tectonic activity. No seismic fault lines. And no known experimental weapons active in the area."
Fury leaned in. "So what are we looking at?"
Hill exhaled. "Best guess? An enhanced. Possibly juvenile. Moving erratically — appears at 4 AM in the docks, then again at noon near Prospect Park. Always alone. Always loud."
Another gesture pulled up grainy thermal footage. A blurry, fast-moving figure bolted across rooftops, trailing a distorted heat signature strong enough to fry surveillance drones.Fury's jaw clenched as the screen paused on a still frame: a colossal humanoid mid-stride, the face nothing but a blur of momentum.
"Damn," he muttered. "That heat signature's too high for anything human."
Hill crossed her arms. "It is humanoid. Skin temps spike post-exertion. Structure looks… off. Proportions are too wide in the shoulders, too heavy in the limbs. Still—"She hesitated. "It could be a kid. A mutant. One that doesn't know what the hell he is."
Fury didn't flinch. "Doesn't matter. If Hydra or AIM gets to it first, we've got a walking WMD in their pocket."
"And if he's just scared?" Hill asked, voice low.
Fury looked her dead in the eye."Then we contain him. Before someone else buries him — or worse, uses him. In this game, survival means getting there first."
The holotable zoomed in once more. The blurry figure vanished into a blur of static.And somewhere in Brooklyn, a quiet tremor rolled beneath the pavement.
Williamsburg Diner
The Williamsburg Diner looked like a relic from an alternate universe — one where health codes were more like suggestions and the apocalypse had just missed. Neon lights buzzed and flickered half-heartedly above chipped paint and a rusting sign. The door hung slightly crooked, and the windows bore the stubborn grime of a thousand yesterdays.
Lucy stood outside, swaying slightly. His stomach growled with enough force to draw a double take from a passing cat.He stared at the diner sign, something tugging at the back of his mind. Déjà vu? Maybe. Or maybe all crummy diners felt the same when you were starving.
His plan was simple. Pirate Protocol:
Eat. Run. Vanish.
Inside, the smell hit first — a cocktail of burnt grease, overused oil, and something vaguely resembling regret. It clung to the air like a bad ex. Three patrons occupied the place:
Han, a wiry man with a fading smile, scrubbed the counter with the intensity of someone trying to erase bad memories.
Oleg, a mountain of flesh and stubble, stood near the coffee machine, eyeing the muffins like they owed him money.
Max, all leather jacket and eyeliner sarcasm, lounged on a stool near the register, carving the outline of a cupcake into the counter with a butter knife.
Lucy stepped in, ducking slightly under the doorframe. The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle before deciding it wasn't paid enough to care.
Max didn't look up."If you're here to sell Bibles or guilt," she said, voice deadpan, "the trash is out back."
Lucy blinked. "Just… contemplating breakfast."
Oleg appeared beside him with silent speed unnatural for a man his size."Big man needs big meal!" he boomed. "Oleg recommends Sausage Surprise! Surprise is… where it's been."He waggled his eyebrows, proud.
Han groaned. "Oleg! No more surprise menu! Only FDA-approved mystery today!"
Lucy, caught between nausea and starvation, grunted. "Just coffee. Black. Like my soul."
He slid onto a stool. It groaned beneath him — an ominous creak that triggered a red flash in his peripheral HUD:
Warning: Gentle Giant Protocol at Risk. Structural Integrity: 14%.He sat still. Breathed. No cracks. Crisis averted.
Max finally looked up. Her gaze scanned him — the tattered clothes, the ripped seams, the overgrown hair, and most offensively, the tiny mustache clinging to his upper lip like it had nowhere else to go.
"Damn," she said. "You look like a Spartan who lost his spear and found a used Q-tip."She gestured vaguely at his mustache.
Lucy touched it, wounded. "It's vintage. Like oppression. And unpaid taxes."
Max snorted. "Okay, Quixote. That'll be $2.50. Or a really compelling sob story."
He smirked. "Once, I sneezed and exploded a Lexus."
Oleg whispered reverently, "Strong lungs…"
What followed wasn't friendship. Not quite. But it was something — a shared rhythm in sarcasm and shadows. Max's wit was jagged and self-aware, cutting and playful. Lucy parried with dry humor and the weariness of someone who'd tried too hard to be soft in a world that only respected loud.
Time slipped past. Lucy didn't notice his hand relaxing from its usual white-knuckled tension.He forgot about the plan.He forgot to run.
The coffee was terrible. The company? Surprisingly warm.The tremors, for once, stayed outside.
The smell of bacon grease, burnt toast, and industrial-strength sarcasm still lingered in the air when Lucy's eyes caught it — a faded, grease-curled sign taped to the diner's front window.
HELP WANTED (FEMALE WAITRESS).
He blinked. "Really subtle."
He turned to Han, who was currently battling a pancake with a spatula and losing."You hiring?" Lucy asked, tapping the sign.
Han winced. "Sorry! Only girl waiters! Customers like… smiles. And hips that don't crack floors!"
Max chimed in without looking up. "Yeah, we discriminate based on gender and structural integrity. Very progressive."
Lucy raised a brow. "What if I'm not a waiter? What if I'm your… ambiance? Your poster boy. I sing."
That got Oleg's attention. He looked up from his muffin inspection with sudden, gleaming interest."You sing? Like… prison shower sing?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Or make Sophie's underwear fly off from five booths away sing?"
Max spun her knife. "Try it. If I puke, you're banned. If Han cries, you're hired."
Lucy nodded solemnly. He turned to the corner, where a sad, grease-stained acoustic guitar leaned against the wall like it had survived the Vietnam War and then been dumped in dishwater.
He picked it up gently. Heavy. Slightly warped. Still alive.
He closed his eyes. Jason's memories stirred — the boy he'd once been, the voice he'd trained in echo chambers and empty bedrooms. Whitebeard's lungs, however, gave it a whole new kind of power — a resonance deep enough to stir tectonic plates.
Fingers found the chords instinctively. He strummed once. The diner paused.
"I found a love… for me…"
The sound rolled out like a fog, deep and oceanic, velvet with sorrow and hope in equal measure. Max's pen froze mid-scratch. Oleg's usual pervy grin slid into something reverent. Han dropped a ceramic mug — it shattered, forgotten.
"Darling, just dive right in… and follow my lead…"
The song hung in the air like stardust. Notes shimmering between fluorescent lights and dusty booths.
When he finished, the silence felt louder than applause.
Han sniffled into a dishrag.Oleg wiped a single tear with a muffin.Max looked mildly offended. "Okay… you murdered that. In a non-literal way. Can you bus tables without murdering them too?"
Lucy gave a dry smile. "I'll sign a waiver."
Han was already rummaging for forms. "Job is yours! But—uh—age? For payroll?"
Lucy reached into his jacket and produced something only a system-born reincarnate could wield with confidence:
SYSTEM-GENERATED ID CARD
Name: Lucy
Age: 18
Max snorted so hard her coffee nearly shot out her nose. "Eighteen? Bullshit. You look thirty. At least. Did you age in dog years? Or prison?"
Lucy deadpanned, "Hard living. And time zones. Very confusing time zones."
Han, already scanning the ID, nodded like that made perfect sense.
Rent in Brooklyn was a joke. The kind of joke that ended with a punchline involving kidneys on the black market and a 5th-floor walk-up with exposed wires.
So Lucy, broke and exhausted, found his sanctuary in a nearly abandoned J-train car after midnight. The city hummed in its sleep, neon flickering off greasy windows, rats holding late-night council under vending machines.
As he stepped off the diner's back lot, Max followed him, tossing something toward him with a casual underhanded swing. A lumpy, threadbare blanket — the kind that probably had fleas, and maybe a soul of its own.
"Try not to get stabbed," she muttered. "Or stab the train. We need you tomorrow to distract the customers from Oleg's 'hygiene' crisis."
Lucy caught it one-handed. "Do I get hazard pay for possible tetanus and airborne STDs?"
Max smirked. "You get leftover pie and my undying sarcasm. Welcome to hell, Quakey."
"Hell's cozy," Lucy said, tossing the blanket over his shoulder like a cape.
The train doors groaned open for him like a tired doorman. He picked a corner seat where the graffiti was minimal and the urine scent was merely ambient. Laying down across the faded orange plastic, he bundled the blanket around his shoulders and pulled his knees up to avoid sticking to the seat.
It wasn't much. But it was… something.
He stared at the ceiling as the train lurched into motion. Flickering lights cast brief glows over passing tunnels — dancing shadows, bits of reflected memory. His muscles ached, not from battle, but from wiping counters, lifting chairs, dodging Max's wit.
He smiled to himself.
He had a terrible job. A half-soggy pie for dinner. No bed, no shower, and a blanket that smelled like grandma's attic met a raccoon.
But he also had something else.
A name.A purpose.And — bizarrely — a found family of misfits who saw him, not just the giant he could become.
His fingers twitched.
SYSTEM SYNC: 4.0%Tremor Control: Stable.Haki Suppression: Optimal.
Then, without warning:
SYSTEM ALERT:Routine Seismic Scan Detected.SHIELD Surveillance Drone #7 — 200ft Above Diner. Trajectory: Passive Recon. Recording active.
The smile didn't fade. Lucy closed his eyes.
Let them watch.
He'd survive. Maybe even live.
But for now —He pulled the blanket tighter.
Ignored the drone.