Tom entered a normal office where his natural enemy was waiting for him. The government made sure to put something completely immune to his powers.
He was the fattest, ugliest bastard that the catboy had seen. Just a bloated corpse could even come closer to the level of visual dismay he exuded. Thick pinkish lips like slugs, greasy black hair that only covered half that bumpy dome, and pale skin just littered with all kinds of small, miniature deformities from moles to skin tags. Those rolls of fat were caged inside a dark grey suit that matched perfectly with his deep brown, almost black eyes.
"Welcome to our organization, Mister . . ." the man muttered, waiting for Tom to end the sentence.
"Tildrum, Tom Tildrum," he said while sitting on a chair and coiling his tail around his waist.
"Well, Mister Tildrum, it is a wonder to have another super who is so receptive to us. Normally, they don't trust the government, but I am happy that you are giving us a chance. My name is Arnold Wolfgang, and I will assist you with everything you need to have a successful career as a hero," Arnold explained with a strange tone that Tom had problems deciphering.
He was being honest and gentle with him; something that didn't match his expectations. This did not mean that the government was clean, but at least they knew that one could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
"The pleasure is mutual," Tom muttered with a fake smile as some small talk happened next.
Nothing too strange, just some of the basic information they always asked for, like name, age, social security number, and details about your system, nothing out of the ordinary. Another agency would get all the important information on their own, so this was mostly a formality.
"So, let me be clear, your system is catboy only? It doesn't have suffixes like "gacha," "devourer," or "leveling," nor prefixes like "level 999," "glitched," "heavenly," or "demonic." Arnold double-checked the nature of Tom's system.
Prefixes dictated how initially strong your power was and gave you special boons. Suffixes, on the other hand, dictated how fast your evolution would be, from linear, like Tom, to quadratic and even exponential.
He shook his head; the catboy knew that he was not the best, but even in that case, it was better than nothing. "Nothing, nothing at all," Tom answered, getting a little bit bored with this constant talk.
"So, can I get my suit now?" He asked with an anxious tone, waiting to end this conversation as soon as possible.
"Don't you want to check team requests? We have a few that are-" Arnold was interrupted mid-sentence.
"No thanks! I will solo for now," the catboy quickie said, as the idea of joining a team was just not an option for him now.
There was a second of silence too long before his last question. "Do you want to participate in the Nemesis system?" The man asked with some clear tiredness in his voice.
Tom shuddered; he dodged that hell by pure luck a few years ago, and he was not looking forward to volunteering for it. "For now, no," he quickly answered, for Arnold to respond with a quick nod.
"Well, that is everything; your first monthly payment should be in your bank account in a few minutes." Then came the part where they took their measures.
Tom finally got what he wanted most from this organization. The free hero suit that came with each registration was a bonus.
They knew how to make incentives for the supers to go in and just sign some papers to get into their system.
The tight skinsuit that hugged his skin without leaving a single inch of him to the imagination covered his body from his toes to his neck. It was black with an almost latex-like texture and long neon red lights decorating his legs, arms, and torso. Finally, there was a triangular green button on his neck like a collar. Once pressed, a mask would come from the turtleneck and cover his mouth and nose.
It sucked for stealth; it was actually made with that intention. They didn't want supers being sneaky or extremely deadly when fighting between them.
From all the features it had, it was a worthy trade-off. Bulletproof, self-repairing fabric, protection against toxins, radiation sensors, and heat and cold protection. Something that you could not just get in a normal market. And the best part? 100% free with only a few dozen strings attached.
The main rule was normal ethics. Killing other supers was forbidden. Anything after that was optional and could be negotiated.
With everything that he wanted, Tom came back to his apartment to see all his petitions fully fulfilled.
"Damn, you even got the guacamole," he purred while slowly walking with his finger caressing the boxes still firmly wrapped in translucent plastic.
It was a lucky strike that the girl's apartment was big enough to hold all this machinery.
"Yeah, I have to do it myself; I hope it's fine for you . . ." Celene muttered, wearing her baseball cap and cleaning her glasses from the onion juice that got splattered on them.
Tom got closer, making a spin in the air, and grabbed her waist. "Awwwwwww, you are so cute when you are not making snuff films," he teased her and slapped her ass.
"Hey! I-I needed the money," she barked back, the paw mark on her posterior forcing a confession.
The catboy went behind her, his tail caressing her calf. "I also did but I choose to become a hobo instead of going around killing people," Tom purred, taking a hypocritical moral high ground when he was not better than her.
Celene took a deep breath and turned around. "Do you want an apology?" She hissed, frustrated and horny from the crude handling of her body.
Tom chuckled and grabbed her chin. "Oh no no no no, there is nothing you can say to apologize to me; there is nothing you can do to apologize to me. I will never forgive someone who tried to murder me and, as far as I know . . . killed a lot of innocent people before," he added, his tone cruel and mocking, treating her less like a human and more like a pet.
"So . . . what am I supposed to do?!" Celene asked, trying to be mad at him, but her gaze was just hypnotized by that smile and deep green eyes. Her whole body began itching, especially her loins.
He let her go and went directly to his food that was waiting for him inside the kitchen electric oven to keep it warm. "That is your problem, not mine. As far as I am concerned, you are just an asset to me, unlike the kids growing inside you, understand?" Tom muttered, looking over his shoulder at her.
"Ye-yes!" Celene exclaimed after blinking a few times; she knew that it was wrong getting so hot from being treated like this, but she didn't have any options.
Tom clapped his hands. "Good! Now let's eat! I am starving!" The ex-hobo finally said, ready to indulge in his favorite food before getting back to making weapons like all those years ago.
The moment after he took the last scrap of guacamole with some bread from the bowl, Tom was already on the move again. His tail now moved out of some vague excitement from the upcoming unpacking rather than his own will.
With one of his sharp cat claws coming out of his hands, still wet from just having washed them, he began to dissect his cardboard prey on the floor.
New tables were assembled, and wires began to spill from the machine, filling the living room as if it had become a nest of vipers. Boxes on top of boxes of materials were shoved against the wall, stripping the room of any notion of free space, decoration, or even order. However, in this chaos, Tom knew exactly where to find everything.
The first thing he crafted was a normal hand pistol that used 9mm bullets. A simple design that was downloaded from the internet, just to double-check finer details, since the catboy remembered perfectly the overall design.
If the pistol was a scalpel, the shotgun was a cleaver. It was not his favorite breaching tool, but it was the best for what he was planning. Tom did not bother with some fancy semi-auto design; with his current knowledge and tools, a pump-action design was a lot more reliable. He even went a little bit fancy and added a magnetic shell holder on the side for quick reloads.
Since this time it was not something created for some random gang, he decided to put a little personal mark on them. He didn't want to get attached to them since, after each "use," it would be cheaper to make new ones than fix them, but making something with his hands gave him a little bit of pride. So, Tom didn't go fancy; the catboy just engraved a tiny symbol that was basically two dots with a w in the middle, kind of reminiscent of a cat face emoji.
Even if he could have brought the weapons, there was something right about doing something with your two hands for Tom.