"Thank you. Have a very pleasant day," Alex said automatically, stretching his mouth into what he could only describe as a cringe-worthy grin. He didn't need to see the customer's reaction to know the expression was a complete failure. The smile didn't reach his eyes—whatever that phrase was supposed to mean. Maybe it referred to the cold, dead look still lurking in his gaze, the monster within him bristling with discomfort at playing nice. Or maybe it meant he looked too stiff, too wide, too fake.
Whatever it meant, he was pretty sure he was the dictionary definition of it.
Inwardly, he sighed. Outwardly, his body moved like a machine on autopilot. An accumulated century's worth of muscle memory from checkout counters took over—his hands scanning, typing, bagging, greeting—all without conscious thought. It was convenient, really. If he'd been fully aware of every tedious second, he might've torn the store apart out of sheer boredom.
Maybe Dana had a point about him being a villain.
"Hello, welcome to Tech Mart. How can I help you today?" he heard himself say, monotone.
"About fucking time," the next customer snapped.
That got Alex's attention.
The man was large, broad-shouldered, white-skinned, with a shaved head and a tattoo wrapping his arm. 'Extreme Endurance Eating.' It looked innocuous to most—but Alex recognized the symbol. A discreet calling card of Empire Eighty-Eight, a white-supremacist gang with a parahuman leader.
Just great.
At least the man stuck with Alex's preferred skin tone. Small mercies. He slammed a tattered box onto the counter.
"This piece of shit you sold me is busted. Was doing my thing when it crashed—and then it fucking exploded in my face. I want a replacement. The latest fucking model. Now."
Alex didn't flinch. "We're sorry for the inconvenience, sir. If you'll let me take a look at the device, we may be able to resolve the issue much faster."
He pulled the box closer, fingers tracing over the edges. The packaging was a mess—crumpled, smudged, and torn. Either it had been smashed recently in a rage fit, or the box was significantly older than the customer claimed.
He opened the lid. A thin puff of smoke drifted out. The hive of technical voices in his mind immediately flagged that as a bad sign.
The first thing he noticed: the laptop hadn't exploded—it had been bludgeoned. Hard. Like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Probably the brute now glaring at him.
Second: Glue. Parts of the frame had been crudely glued together. Obvious signs of unauthorized tampering. Warranty voided.
Third: The manufacture date stamped inside the box.
Over six years old.
Tech Mart policy covered warranties for five.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Alex began, already bracing himself, "but I'm afraid this device is no longer covered under our refund policy. You see—"
Before he could finish, the man lunged over the counter, grabbing Alex by the collar and yanking him halfway across. Their faces were inches apart. Alex wrinkled his nose at the stench—bad meat and nicotine breath.
"The fuck did you just say?" the man spat. "You motherfuckers trying to cheat me?"
"Of course not, sir," Alex replied evenly, even as his instincts screamed to lash out. "But this device's warranty expired last year. On top of that, there are visible signs of physical damage and tampering—both of which void any remaining coverage. As such, we cannot offer a replacement. However, if you're still interested in a new laptop, we do have some excellent deals—"
The man slammed Alex's head against the counter.
Gasps erupted from the nearby customers.
"You know who you're fucking with?" the man growled. "I eat scrawny shits like you for breakfast. Now you're gonna get me a brand new laptop, and a thousand bucks for my trouble—or me and my boys'll make you wish you were never born."
Okay. Fuck this.
Alex moved faster than the man could register. He seized the bastard's arm and wrenched him sideways, smashing a fist directly into his face. The crunch of breaking cartilage was deeply satisfying.
The customer went airborne, crashing into a nearby display and shattering it. Alex leapt over the counter in pursuit, ramming his knee into the thug's gut. Bones cracked. Blood flew. The man coughed up a mouthful of it.
Alex didn't let up.
One punch. Then another. Then he grabbed the man by his shirt, dragging him toward the store's front entrance. They stopped by the sliding doors. Alex leaned in close.
"Let me make this absolutely clear, fucker," he said in a low, gravelly growl. "You have no idea what you're fucking with. If I ever see you again, I'm going to drive my fist through your stomach—then beat you to death with your own spine."
Then he hurled the man through the doors.
He flew across the lot, flipping over the first row of cars before skidding across the pavement in a bloody, ragged heap.
Alex turned back to the stunned crowd. "Just had to eject a hostile customer, that's all," he said, forcing another awful grin. "And did I mention—half off all second toasters today?"
Business resumed far too quickly. Maybe Brockton Bay was just numb to violence at this point.
Still, Alex got the inevitable call to the manager's office. He sighed, dragging his feet toward the back.
He really didn't need this today.
The biomass coiled under his skin, practically pleading to tear something apart. He held it in.
"You called for me, Boss?" he said as he entered. "If this is about the stand I broke, I'll fix it up right away."
Mr. Drisk, a doughy man with an oily comb-over and a permanent scowl, glared up from his desk.
"It's not about the stand," he said stiffly. "Though I'm extremely concerned about the altercation. Sit."
Alex did as instructed, hands curled into fists in his lap to keep the claws from sliding out.
Drisk slapped a paper onto the desk dramatically.
"Tell me, Mr. Donald. Do you know what this is?"
Alex glanced once. "My employee file," he said, body going still.
Now he was worried.
What had they missed? What detail had slipped past Dana's careful forgery? Was Drisk suspicious? Would he need to silence the man?
"I ran a routine background check," Drisk said. "Your records didn't exist in Brockton Bay until yesterday. Some of us would call that very suspicious. So I'd like to ask you—"
He didn't finish.
Alex's hand snapped out, crushing Drisk's skull like a melon. The man's body jerked once—then went limp.
Alex moved quickly. Biomass tendrils reached out, dragging the corpse toward him as he consumed it, clearing the desk in the process.
He rifled through the manager's memories, sorting them into usable data.
To his relief, Drisk hadn't alerted anyone. He'd simply deleted Alex from the system and prepared to fire him.
Honestly, getting fired was a mercy.
Retail had been a terrible idea.
"Hey Don," a coworker said as Alex exited the office. "What'd Sam want with you?"
Alex forced a shrug. "Didn't like how I handled the racist asshole. Gave me a resignation form and told me to get lost."
"What? That's bullshit. You didn't even make it to payday. Pretty sure that's illegal."
Alex waved it off. "Not worth the hassle. If I spent time fighting it—or dealing with that guy trying to sue me—I'd lose more than I'd make. Waste of time."
He turned toward the exit. "Catch you later."
"Hope you land somewhere better," the guy said, turning back to the shelves.
Alex didn't reply. They didn't matter. This job had always been temporary.
What did matter was Dana's reaction to him getting fired.
She wasn't going to be thrilled.
And then it hit him.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
He'd forgotten to rob the safe. He could've grabbed a few grand, disappeared, and no one would've noticed until both Don Donald and Sam Drisk were long gone.
Idiot.
That moment of regret faded when he noticed movement behind him.
Four figures. One limping.
Alex walked past a reflective windowpane and caught a glance over his shoulder.
The Empire Eighty-Eight thug. And he'd brought backup.
Alex smiled.
Even if they didn't have cash, they probably knew where to find some.
He veered toward a nearby alley, pretending to be oblivious. Casual. Strolling.
Footsteps picked up behind him.
Perfect. They'd taken the bait.
He led them to the alley's dead end, a brick wall waiting ahead. Their boots echoed off the enclosed walls behind him.
"Hey, fuckhead!" the thug barked. "Time to learn what happens when you fuck with Empire Eighty-Eight!"
Alex let the moment hang.
Then he jumped backward.
He twisted mid-air and landed facing them—grinning wide, eyes glowing red, claws unfurling from his arms.
The first one barely had time to scream.
His head split apart in an arc of blood. Alex devoured the corpse in seconds.
The others started to scream. Good. He leapt again, slicing through the air, trailing crimson.
Then something slammed into the alley, sending tremors up through the pavement and a shockwave of dust.
Alex growled.
Not again.
The cloud burst as something hurtled toward him at high speed.
His instincts flared—he dodged, leaping away just as the object impacted the wall behind him. It exploded in a shower of bricks and dust.
He turned, quickly devouring the bodies of the fallen before snapping his 'disguise' into place.
The dust cleared.
And there she was.
Glory Girl.
Face twisted in fury.