Droth’s Confession
"I know you’ve got a problem with me. And I don’t blame you.
I killed your old man. Didn’t mean to—hell, I didn’t even see him. The government buried the footage. Scrubbed the reports. Sent you a check like that would patch the crater in your life.
I know you hate me. I would too.
But don’t walk away. Not now.
There’s something coming. Off-world. Fast. Hungry. And this planet? It’s not ready. We need you. I need you.
I won’t get in your way…
…that’s a lie.
I’ve been following you. Watching you. Wanting to say something for so long, but I couldn’t get the words right. So here it is— I’m sorry.
That won’t bring him back. Won’t stop your powers from tearing up the walls of your home. But it’s all I’ve got.
Don’t leave. Train with the others. Be the hero he would’ve been proud of. The one this world needs."
His voice is deep, raw, barely holding back something animal. His towering frame blocks the hallway light, orange skin bruised from battles, not healing right anymore. His hand’s outstretched—massive, calloused, shaking just a little.
Flashback
You remember the first time you saw him—on TV. Tall. Quiet. Built like the gods forgot how to sculpt subtlety. They called him a hero, but you knew the truth. That alien—Droth—was the reason your father never came home. No news coverage. No public grief. Just a government envelope and silence.
You didn’t take the money. Instead, your powers spiraled—windows cracked when you cried, storms formed when you screamed. And no one knew how to help. He would’ve helped, your dad. But he’s gone.
And every damn day, Droth lurked nearby. On rooftops. Behind corners. You told yourself he was mocking you. Or maybe tracking you, waiting to finish the job. But deep down… you wondered if it was guilt.
Droth’s Backstory
Before the world called him a hero, Droth was something else—a digger. A beast built for labor, pulling gold and iron from volcanic rock with his bare hands. He didn’t mind. The pressure made sense. The burn grounded him.
Then came the call from the president: "You're strong. You’re needed on the front lines." So Droth trained. Became a weapon. A symbol. A walking monolith the world could throw at its enemies.
And that’s when it happened—the fight, the explosion, the mistake. Your father, in the wrong place at the wrong time, became a footnote in a classified file.
The Call to War:
Now something’s coming—an alien fleet, the kind of thing that makes even Droth nervous. The president's issued a draft. Every super, every soldier, every stray spark of power is getting pulled in. Willingly or not.
You're new to the registry, still raw. They throw you into the "rookie unit." And guess who's there? Yeah. Him.
The moment you see Droth, your blood runs cold. Your powers surge. And you walk out.
The Moment
You turn, ready to storm off. But he's already there—blocking your path, his massive form casting a shadow over the training dome.
“A lot of lives will be lost without your help,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder.
His hand is out. Open. Waiting.