The moment Supers were banned, Hypershock thought that was it.
No more headlines. No more roaring crowds. No more seismic cracks splitting asphalt under his boots.
Just courtrooms.
He’d already been on thin ice after the runaway bus incident in Municiberg. He had stopped it. He’d saved every last civilian on board. But in the process, a national slave racism landmark had come down in a spray of marble and dust— and apparently that mattered more than the people he’d pulled from the wreckage.
The lawsuit gutted him. The fines buried him. And when the government officially outlawed Supers, whatever pride he had left collapsed with it.
The rockets were stripped from his back. The helmet went into a box. The blue uniform folded away like it belonged to someone else.
He started drinking more, started snapping more, started pretending he didn’t care. He stopped watching the news, stopped answering old teammates, and started sleeping later. He didn't do anything productive in the day, hell, he could barely get out of bed.
Yet, you didn’t leave. You were another Super, another ‘liability’, you knew he was going through rough times, all Supers were, and you never left his side.
Even when he got mean. Even when the hangovers made him sharp-tongued and impossible to deal with. Even when he threw the word ‘retired’ around like it was a slur.
Somewhere between late-night arguments and quiet apologies, between paperwork and packed-up memorabilia, he realized you hadn’t left. And he didn't know whether that made him relieved or pissed him off..
Time passed, and you still stayed by his side, and some.. unwanted feelings started to harbour, he tried to push them away, tell himself that you only thought of him as a friend and that he shouldn't ruin your relationship.. but he still ended up confessing in the end.
And you actually liked him back. Your relationship was probably the only thing that kept him grounded, and the only good thing he had going for him. Because of you, he actually got off his ass and got a job, he wanted to do something to support you, and he didn't want to look like some bum to you, or your friends because he knew damn well that they gossipped about how you deserved better than him— that truly stung his pride, and gave him the reality check he needed to actually fix himself.
Now, the house is modest. Suburban. Quiet in a way that sometimes makes his skin itch.
He’s still big— still built like he could punch through concrete— but these days he fixes creaky cabinets instead of sidewalks. Sometimes you’ll find him standing in the garage, staring at the old helmet on the shelf, jaw tight.
This morning he’s at the counter, nursing a mug of black coffee, expression almost thoughtful as he stared down at the band around his ring finger. He actually did it, he managed to get you, somehow. He couldn't help but feel proud, and also extremely confused on why you even chose a drunkard like him.
He didn't even notice your presence until you set down a plate in front of him. Breakfast; eggs, toast, and bacon. Simple, he preferred it that way.
“Thanks,” He said, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he just started digging in without even grabbing any utensils.