The car slowed to a stop and the agents got out.
Mason and Mallory followed suit with the former positioning himself beside the previous deputy director. He dwarfed her completely, and though he still found the drastic height difference with everyone a bit jarring, he leaned down anyway.
“I’m guessing…" He whispered close to her ear. "My performance here will count towards my enlistment or whatever you guys are calling it?”
The woman looked up at him. “Yes. Though the meat of it will be a mission. Anyone can use superpowers. It’s the inherent one every human has that we’re interested in.”
She punctuated that by jabbing the side of her head with a finger.
Ah... brains. Those seemed to be lacking in a lot of supes. Still, that didn’t mean power didn’t count for nothing. Look at Homelander. That guy could possibly be the most pathetic person ever, but no one would ever know it.
Being able to lift tanks and fly faster than jets had a way of masking your frailties like an obviously padded suit.
One of the agents walked up to Mason with a duffle bag.
“Change of clothes.”
While he took the bag, Mallory walked over and shook hands with the woman dressed in an army uniform waiting for them.
Huh, she wasn’t just a woman. If his eyes weren’t deceiving him, the marks on her suit indicated her rank as general.
“General Henderson.” Mallory confirmed with her greeting.
“Colonel.”
Colonel? He had no idea Mallory held that rank. Good to know.
The woman retracted her hand after they shook hands. “We’ve cleared out this section and prepared the facility. It should have everything you need.”
We all turned to look at where she stretched her arm toward. The agents grabbed the giant suitcases they unloaded from the trunks of their SUVs and went forward upon Mallory’s wave.
“Thank you. That’ll be all.”
The general didn’t seem bothered at all by the dismissal.
“I’ll leave you to it. I’m available if you need anything.” She shared a nod of understanding with Mallory and climbed into a golf cart, driving away from the scene.
Already impatient with how much time they’d spent doing nothing, Mason hurried after the agents into the facility and found a room to change in.
Upon first glance at the clothing in the duffel bag, Edna’s knowledge of hypermaterials educated him on its properties and the sensors built into the articles.
It was some sort of Kevlar composite capable of withstanding tremendous forces, the same material used in the suits of most noteworthy supes.
It rankled him to put on this inferior stuff knowing he could do so so much better, but impatience wouldn’t solve that problem so he quickly changed and presented himself.
The scene outside had changed. Computer screens had been set up from the open suitcases. There were also cameras, a couple of other devices and even a drone. The guys at the top were taking this semi-seriously.
Good thing he wasn’t the only one.
“I’m ready.” He announced and walked forward, fighting the urge to bounce on his feet and warm up. Unlike the clothes, the sneakers felt great.
“Here.” Mallory handed him a tiny, flesh colored bit and pointed at her ear.
He took it and slotted it in, feeling none of discomfort he expected. They weren’t like earbuds in that regard.
‘Proper spy stuff.’
They tested the comms to great success right after. By the time they were done, an agent holding a tablet walked over to Mallory’s side.
“We’re ready ma’am.”
“Lead the way.”
They left the building but didn’t go far. Right near the edge of a plot dedicated to a group of planes preferred by drug smugglers, they stopped.
Without a word, Mason walked to the nearest aircraft, finding it no different from the many he’d flown in Ghost Recon.
The agent gave him a nod and he returned it before palming the dusty, metal hull. Both hands went below the craft and he planted his feet before lifting, slowly.
“How much is this?” He remarked after raising the whole plane above his head, balancing it on a single, outstretched arm. “Cos it feels like nothing.”
“Well?” He tossed it up and down a few times and directed his gaze at the duo who looked a bit stunned.
“That's the Cessna 172. Empty weight 1675 pounds.”
There were a whole lot of creaks and shifting dirt as Mason lowered the plane.
“You didn’t start with at least a ton? Come on man.”
“Let’s move on.” Mallory stopped whatever he wanted to start in its tracks.
The next plane weighed two tonnes, and the one after it four and half. He balanced both on a single arm and noticed a repeat of the spooks looking at him weird.
However, he was enjoying himself a lot so he shelved the questions for later.
Aircraft number four was a big step up from the rest, being 21 tons of pure metal and machinery. It boasted not just a mass but a size much greater than its predecessors.
So much so that Mason chose to position himself right beneath its midpoint in order to lift it. When he got there though, the description for Do You Even Lift resurfaced and gave him pause.
‘Doesn’t this mean I can lift it from anywhere? The wing even?' He paused, juggling the decision to go for it. Ultimately, he didn't. 'Next plane. I’ll try it on the next one.’
With both palms pressed flat against the underbelly of the plane, he heaved and lifted, finally feeling a bit of strain. However it was so miniscule he felt confident enough to leave the job to one arm.
Unknown to him, the plane had come clean off the ground despite his position, something the already intrigued spectators noticed as soon as it happened.
“Is this enough?” He slowly pulled an arm away, easily confirming his suspicions when his other arm didn’t buckle or weaken.
“Do I drop it now?”
Whatever had gotten Mallory and the agent in a funk seemed to subside with this display, like they'd just confirmed something.
They gave him the all clear and directed him to the next aircraft, demonstrating more impatience than him.
“That’s a Boeing 787. 115 tons.” The agent informed, the very act drawing his attention and giving him pause.
Why did they tell him the weight of this one?
Now he really wanted to know why they were acting weird now. He hoped it was nothing bad.
While he situated himself near the bottom side of the engine hanging off the plane’s right wing, the stares boring into him intensified. He expected them to caution him about the spot he’d chosen, but nothing of the sort happened.
He took that as an agreement and grabbed what he could of the cylindrical engine. This time, the plane fought him. His feet dug shallow grooves into the densely packed earth as he finally met his match.
Well, a little below his match because that shallow hold allowed him to lift the entire thing off the ground, landing gear parting ways with the earth after a few seconds.
The plane tilted on its side as his muscles strained and forced it upward, making it perpendicular with his body. It looked as if the plane had been flipped on its side and balanced on the tip of its right wing.
However the spectators knew the feat of impossibility had a name and presence, as seen by the hulk keeping the giant hunk of decommissioned machinery not just aloft but intact.
Somehow.
This was something even Homelander couldn’t do.
Right then and there Mallory resolved to get the Secretary of Defense on board with the program no matter what. Even if she had to resort to the piece of blackmail she’d secured for a rainy day, it would be worth it.
While the old agent processed the never before scene, Mason took it even a step further. He’d fucked up by lifting from the wing when he realised he had no way to lower it without causing damage to the plane and surroundings.
The tiny perfectionist in him didn’t want to end the strength test with this black mark, no matter how inconsequential it was. So in his infinite wisdom, he flexed every ounce of strength and tossed the plane.
Not straight up, but just a bit high enough to buy himself some time. Time to do what?
A muffled boom went off at his position when he tossed the plane. A huge flame jet scorched the earth beneath his feet and launched him straight toward the underbelly of the plane.
Throwing both arms up in a U shape, he caught the falling behemoth and grunted when the weight slammed into him.
Still, he managed to slow its descent by boosting the jets and lowered it gently, leaving a shallow crater filled with blackened earth where he landed.
“Whew!” He clapped and rubbed both hands, jogging over to the duo. “That was awesome. You guys are acting pretty weird though. Come on. You have seen super strength in action before, right?”
Mallory, hands in her pockets, huffed. “Not like this.”
“Not like what?”
The agent answered. “The way you lifted it. All that weight should’ve caved in on itself. Or on you.”
“Oh.” Mason’s face brightened with understanding. “I see. Why? Is that a rare thing?”
“Try impossible. Not even Homelander can do that.”
“....”
“Really? I did not know that.” He replied slowly.
“Hm. Be glad. Your value as an asset just increased. The mission might not even be necessary.”
Asset?
“You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.”
“Hey. You wanted to fight. That makes you an asset.”
“I know. I'm just poking fun. What’s next on the agenda? I’m thinking... speed.”
The agent replied this time, shrugging. “We’re ready if you are.”
“Great.” Mason clapped. “Let’s go.”
As it turned out, the stretch of graveyard set aside for the tests was big enough for them to have a runway one mile long. And by runway, they referred to one of the many long roads that cut through the entire facility.
Standing two meters behind Mason, Mallory and the agent watched him warm up at the designated start before he assumed a runner’s standing pose.
“Ready.” His voice came through the comms.
“Remember.” Mallory replied through a handheld communicator. “Run as fast as you can. Go.”
At the “go,” a huge back blast of wind and piercing sand blasted them in the face. After two seconds of coughs and arm waving, they finally got to see… nothing.
Just a distinct absence of the humongous kid and a long trail of dust stretching into the distance.
“Ma’am.” The agent pushed the tablet into his superior’s sight, causing her to look at him, the screen, at him again, and the screen, again.
“Is that accurate?”
Mallory didn’t know what to make of Mason now. They were here to answer questions about his powers, not generate more. How was someone so big so fast?
As if to mock her question, the ground beneath them trembled a little bit as a dust cloud closed in on them.
The person demolishing everything she knew about supes, rematerialized at the starting point, a wide grin on his face as the wind rushed past him and showered them in the dust it carried.
“Whew!”
10 seconds. This kid just ran two miles in ten seconds, and he looked nothing at all like it. It was as if he'd simply gone for a simple jog in the park.
Even with her wealth of experience, she found it hard to keep her jaw in place.
Walking toward them while the dust settled in his wake, he rested both arms on his waist and spoke with even breaths. “That should be enough right?” He asked, looking between them.
When they said nothing, he continued. “I’m thinking we do durability next. Back at the Sage Grove Center, I got shot in the face with a submachine gun and didn’t feel a thing, so why don’t we skip straight to a .50 Cal? Afterwards we can try a rocket launcher or two and then proper explosives. What do you think?”
Mallory composed herself with much effort.
“You’re enjoying this a lot. Some would say a bit too much.”
“So no on the .50 Cal?”
She started moving towards the building that had been reserved for them, the agent falling in step. “This way.”
Mason jogged after them.
‘There better be some grenades back there.’
.
.
.
.
Well, it happened.
The inevitable shoe the size of Texas had dropped on all their heads.
Robert Singer wished he could stick his foot up the ass of who in their infinite wisdom decided to supply terrorists and sicarios with Compound V and ask them what their end goal was.
He wouldn’t say it wasn’t good out loud because that was damn fucking obvious, but he still failed to wrap his head around it.
And his job as the U.S. Secretary of Defense demanded that he not only fulfill that impossible task but also mount an impassable defense against the suped up crazies.
Three minutes ago, some of these fuckers had hijacked a plane heading to the American soil. As to the reason why? They hadn’t made any demands yet, just a proud declaration of what group they belonged to.
Out of the three minutes that had passed since then, one had been spent ordering the scramble of F-16s and coordinating with other agencies. The remaining two—heading into three—had been spent on the phone with the president.
When the call neared its end, he got news of a visitor from his security personnel. When he saw the person, he almost entertained the ridiculous notion that she’d planned this.
God knows the C.I.A. had done worse things in the name of national security. Still, he acknowledged the outrageousness of it and waved for her to be let in.
Mallory walked in after he set the phone down.
“Singer. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Grace.” He grabbed the tablet he’d been fiddling with before his life became harder in a short few minutes. The screen had been paused and it showed an image of Mason holding an RPG, having caught the missile fired at him. “I know you didn’t come her because you appreciate my good looks.”
“Correct. I’m all business today.” She tossed a thin file onto his desk.
Singer opened it and spent a few seconds looking through the content. “What’s all this mambo jumbo?”
“It’s from the kid. He says if we get him the stuff on that list, he can make clothes capable of sustaining assault rifle fire at close range. He also says it’ll protect decently against supe attacks as well.”
Well, ain’t this a fucking miracle.
“Really?” Singer didn’t sound the least bit impressed. “This… is your Hail Mary? Vought has Homelander and every other supe worth their salt at their beck and call. You expect me to drop them, for this? Some kid, who I’ll admit is quite impressive, but still a kid and also BY HIMSELF. How do you want me to explain it to the president? And what if he dies? You know Vought won’t let him go. As a matter of fact I’m surprised he isn’t dead already with that head popper running around.”
“Singer. This is Vought we’re talking about. They caused this. They’re responsible.”
That sentence did nothing but give a rise to his hackles.
“You think I don’t know that?! Dammit, I hate this as much as you do, but this is gonna happen with or without me. Unless your boy proves he can do better than the Seven and every other supe sucking on Vought’s tailpipe combined, the deal is going through.”
For whatever reason, his tirade didn’t have the expected effect. Grace had a smirk at the edge of her lips.
“What did you—No. Are you fucking kidding me?”
“He’s faster than an F-16.”
“He is not supported by the United States Military.”
“Or anyone. And since the plane’s over international waters…”
‘You crafty bitch.’ Singer leaned back in his seat.
“So what’s your plan then? How do you expect this kid to resolve a terrorist hostage situation?”
“We don’t. His job is to get there, assess the situation and update us. You guys have a situation room on site right?”
“You know we do.”
Mallory waved for the door. “Then the view’ll be better from there. After you.”
“Hmph.” The suspicious and irritated Secretary left his seat and buttoned up his suit. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”