JohnnyZ
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[Life is Good] Chapter 29
🕑 Added 2025-01-05 02:05:20 +0000 UTC"Good evening, Miss Oyama," I said slowly, still half-asleep and trying to shake off the ‘dream’. "Hey, uh, my eyes aren’t red, and my pupils didn’t turn white, right?"
She clearly expected a different kind of question, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up. Still, she leaned in for a closer look as I did my best to bug out my eyes like a cartoon character. After a couple of seconds, Yuriko straightened up and shook her head.
Before I could shift into my usual repertoire of questions like, "So, what exactly are you doing in my room?" she tossed a stack of clothes at me with a sharp, "Get dressed."
I’m telling you—this world is messed up. In Marvel 11, if a girl’s standing by your bed at night, she’s supposed to say, "Take your clothes off." And if she throws something at you, it better be her panties, not… this.
What did she throw at me? A skin-tight bodysuit. Looked like an X-Men suit but with no logo and a black-and-white camo pattern. A belt and a set of thick plastic zip-tie cuffs completed the ensemble.
"I asked McCoy for it," she said, noticing my raised brow. "Hurry. We’re in a rush."
As I changed, I couldn’t help but think that combining Yuriko’s no-nonsense attitude with Jubilee’s hyperactivity would create one perfectly average person—a perfectly average person who would regularly beat my ass while shooting fireworks for flair. Lovely.
When I finished dressing… well, damn, I had to admit—it looked good. The bodysuit hugged me just right, emphasizing without overexposing. Stealthy, but sexy. Too bad there was no mask—just… a balaclava.
I held it up, unimpressed. Yuriko looked at me. I looked at her.
"Are we going to mug someone?" I asked, deadpan.
"It’s for training," she muttered. "You’ll wear it in the car. Let’s go."
I decided against asking dumb questions like, "Why now?" or, "Where are we going?" or, "Ma’am, you’re not about to do anything unnatural to me, are you?" Instead, I silently trailed after her, figuring she’d explain on the way.
Sure, I had some doubts. But Yuriko wasn’t malicious. Professor Xavier had reassured me about her intentions when I asked why a Japanese shadow kept following me around. According to Charlene she didn’t pry too deep into Yuriko’s mind but confirmed that the woman felt a personal debt to me, one she had assigned herself. Knowing Yuriko, she wouldn’t change her mind on a whim. Most likely, we were headed for training. Some weird, Japanese-style torture session. Like sitting under a waterfall at night to awaken my dantian by setting my ass on fire with friction. Or something like that.
We reached the garage. Yuriko walked to a car, opened the door, and started it up. I slid into the passenger seat, watching her expectantly. I’d gotten used to these silent exchanges with her. When it came to business, she was straight to the point and didn’t waste words.
"Combat training," she said, her eyes on the road as the car warmed up. "A mansion two hours away. In the basement, slaves. Five or six guards. Thugs. Mission: free the slaves, neutralize the guards, call the police. Questions?"
Her cold gaze swept over my confused face.
"Why me? I mean, this sounds more like a mission, not training."
It wasn’t fear—five thugs weren’t exactly terrifying unless they had a heavy machine gun or a grenade launcher. But still—how the hell had the grown-ups signed off on this?
"It’s my decision," she replied flatly. "You want to get stronger. Simple training doesn’t motivate you—I see that. Since your kidnapping, you’ve learned how to zap people, glow a bit, and not set your own hair on fire. Pathetic. You’re stagnating in a bubble where everyone coddles and protects you."
The car rolled forward as the garage doors opened. "Even your encounter with the Hulk didn’t change that."
Ouch. That was harsh. But she wasn’t entirely wrong. My only real breakthrough had come during the Stryker incident—and not even because of my own efforts, but thanks to a damn electric chair. My personal progress? Contact shocks in hand-to-hand, the strobe light trick… not exactly impressive. My melee skills were mediocre, and swordwork was practically nonexistent. Okay, fine. Maybe she had a point.
"Lehnsherr and Xavier want to boost mutants’ reputation," she continued, voice as cold as ever. "This ‘training’ fits the bill. You save the kidnapped, show them you’re a mutant, and the media will be shouting your name tomorrow. Got it?"
"Why me and not one of the combat team?"
"Because you’re a boy. No markings, hidden face. A hero in the shadows. Big impact."
She made a stone-faced expression and stared at the road. Knowing her, that meant end of discussion.
Well… actually… Not bad! I liked this plan. Not for the glory—more for the chance to help people. Decent intel, no god-level enemies in sight. Slip in, get close, shock everyone into unconsciousness. I was fully charged, so even if there were a dozen enemies, I’d be fine. Six? Easy. The only trick would be ensuring no civilians got hurt. After that, a dramatic rescue, declare I’m a mutant, and vanish. Simple.
We drove on. I inspected my outfit. Stylish, functional, with a utility belt where I stashed the zip-tie cuffs. Camouflage. Possibly protective. But… one thing still bothered me.
"Miss Oyama, do you think I could ask Dr. McCoy for… a reinforced codpiece?"
"A… codpiece?" She shot me a quizzical look. "Not armor plates? A codpiece? Maybe protect your heart instead of… your testicles?"
I sighed deeply, fixing her with a disappointed stare.
"Miss Yuriko, without a heart, you can’t live. Without a dick… there’s no point."
Bingo. The stunned look on her usually icy face? Priceless.
She recovered quickly, muttering, "Ask her yourself," before turning her full attention back to the road.
As we drove, my thoughts drifted back to that dream. Weird. So vivid, so coherent. Definitely not random nonsense like Hydra stormtroopers invading the set of Bachelorette. Who was that sketchy guy? What was "dojutsu"? A dream, or some eldritch Marvel BS?
I didn’t feel different. No urge to slaughter family for power. No 360-degree vision. Nothing. I really, really hoped it was just a dream. Because gifts from creepy, pencil-drawn entities? No, thanks.
We sat in silence. Yuriko didn’t bother putting on music, and the only entertainment available was staring at the road or the occasional passing car. I dozed off a little. But judging by how I felt, it wasn’t for long. The Evil awakened—or rather, I did—as we pulled over on some abandoned path that didn’t even qualify as a dirt road. Asphalt? Not even a hint of it.
"From here, we walk," Yuriko muttered, stepping out of the car. Well, I followed her.
We trekked through a sparse grove for about fifteen minutes before reaching a small two-story house. A single light was on in one of the ground-floor windows. All around, it was silent, dark, and empty. There were a couple of abandoned fields, a creepy scarecrow, and a small hill off in the distance. A light layer of snow coated everything, just enough to make it crunch underfoot if you weren’t careful. Yuriko rattled off the address for me to remember, gestured toward the house, and leaned against a tree. Yeah, I didn’t expect her to come with me. She might show up later, though.
Alright. Game time.
I crouched low and headed toward the scarecrow first. No worries about being spotted—pitch-black darkness, the house was still far away, snow falling, I was in camo, and it was around five in the morning. These thugs weren’t trained; I doubted they had decent security or proper look outs. At best, some half-asleep women fighting fatigue with coffee and gossip.
Reaching the scarecrow, I sighed in relief. Plain old straw-stuffed dummy. No malevolent energy, no rusty knives sticking out. Good. I’ve watched too many horror movies to not check.
Next up: the house. I crept closer, careful not to let the snow give me away, avoiding the window with the light. When the house entered my energy field of vision, I slowed to a crawl, scanning carefully.
Once at the wall, I paused to assess the scene. Three heat signatures in the lit room, sitting around a table from the looks of it. One more to my right, lying flat—likely asleep. Two more on the second floor, also horizontal and tangled together. As for the basement... unclear. Just a large blob of heat with arms and legs poking out. Probably a bunch of captives huddled together for warmth. Or tied up that way. Doesn’t matter. Time to get to work.
I traced a finger along the windowpane, slowly melting the glass into a neat rectangle. Careful to catch the piece, I leaned it against the wall before stepping through. The window was wide and low enough to climb in without acrobatics. A bit awkward, but I managed it silently. My eyes adjusted to the even darker room, watching the thugs' silhouettes and listening closely.
Two doors in the room—one leading to the sleeping woman, the other probably to a hallway. The first door wasn’t locked. Three steps. A touch. Zap. Her sleeping body transitioned to unconscious. Plastic zip ties came out—wrists, ankles, gagged with her own shirt. Done. No need for fancy knots. This was going to be quick.
Out into the hall. Muffled voices, light leaking under another door. A staircase nearby. First, the second floor. I crept up, illuminating my path with a faint glow from my palm. A turn, a door, and a cozy couple inside. One stirred. I lunged, palms pressed—zap. Two more down. Repeat the tying ritual. Now back to the first floor.
I stood before the door hiding three awake women. Judging by the chatter, they were playing cards. Made sense. My footsteps upstairs could be dismissed as someone visiting the bathroom. No need for stealth here. I flung the door open and stormed in.
“Strobe light!”
Three shocks later, all three swore and flailed before going limp. One actually grabbed a gun, but thank god she didn’t manage to flip the safety off. I trussed them up and exhaled. Clean sweep. Damn, I felt like Hitman. Not even that nervous. Okay, a bit of tension, but no heart-pounding panic or shaky hands.
Basement time. Because who knows? Always check. Relaxed vigilance has killed many heroes and villains alike.
The basement door was locked with a hefty padlock, the kind that stood out from the flimsy decor of the rest of the house. Probably just captives down there, but paranoia demands thoroughness. I melted the lock and descended.
Darkness. Rustling. Whispering. The stench of unwashed bodies and human waste. I pulled off my balaclava and conjured a mask of light—triple win: hide my face, flaunt my mutant powers, and light the place up.
There they were—a chain of people bound hand to foot, a twisted human centipede of suffering. Young adults, all women, seventeen to twenty-five, clad in only underwear, battered and bruised. Their eyes squinted at the sudden light, faces torn between hope and fear. In the corner sat buckets—makeshift toilets. The room was divided by a metal-bar partition, one side crammed with prisoners, the other a guard station. Of course, another padlocked gate. Smart move, keeping the captives from swarming anyone coming down.
"Ahem." I cleared my throat. "Ladies, good evening. Oddly enough, it really is a good one. The bad guys upstairs are neutralized. I’ll get you out now. There’s a shower up there—dream come true, I know." I saw flickers of joy and disbelief across their faces. "Also, there are six captors tied up and unconscious. Please, when you hit them—and I know you will—don’t kill them. We need them to talk to the cops about this whole trafficking operation. Deal?"
A chorus of shaky female voices answered. One, bright and commanding, rose above the rest.
"My mom’s a police captain! Can you call her? They might have moles in the force, but if I talk to her, we’ll be safe for sure."
A stunning blonde with ocean-blue eyes beamed as the gate swung open.
"Great idea, Miss…"
"Stacy. Gwendolyn Stacy. But just call me Gwen! And you?"
"Apologies, Gwen," I smiled, even if she probably couldn’t see it through the glow, adding a hint of regret to my voice. "But I’m going incognito here—mutant, and a man, you understand. Let me handle these chains first, and then we’ll chat somewhere more comfortable, alright? You can just call me ‘Mister Mutant.’"
Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Eighteen girls were packed into the basement. Without any fuss, I melted through each chain link and sent them upstairs to find keys. One of those girls, coincidentally named Gwen Stacy—yeah, really. From the looks of things, Spider-Man wasn’t her. Ahem… Anyway, Gwen and I went to the first floor, commandeered a phone from one of the thugs (I left mine in the car—didn’t want my number traced), and used her fingerprint to unlock it. We dialed Captain Stacy’s number.
While Gwen hurriedly recounted her adventures to her mother and relayed the address I whispered to her, I herded the unconscious criminals into the card-playing room with help from two of the now-free girls. The ladies? Not exactly gentle. Every crook smacked their head into corners and doorframes. One moment particularly stood out—a fiery-haired, green-eyed beauty in black lace lingerie who accidentally stepped on a thug’s face, purring, "Oops! I’m so clumsy today."
By now, the thugettes had woken up but stayed meek. Two pointed guns will do that. Especially since their captives, now fully freed, had frisked them for every weapon, tool, and concealed danger before stripping them to their underwear and tying them up again with my handy restraints.
"Mister Mutant," Gwen’s voice, full of mischief, broke into my thoughts as she approached. The way she said my pseudonym was pure amusement. "My mom said a helicopter’s en route, and rescue vehicles are already on their way. Will you stay?"
"Sorry, no. I’m not eager for attention on my true identity. Just happy to help."
"Wait!" She thrust a paper into my hand, two rows of numbers scribbled across it. "Here—our phone numbers. Mine and Mom’s. If you ever need help… or just want to talk, call. Neither of us has ever had anything against mutants. We’re very grateful. You can even call me just because..." She blushed a little, letting out a soft giggle.
"Uhh… definitely, Gwen." I slipped the paper into a belt compartment, waved to the girls, and headed back into the dark.
Yuriko hadn’t moved a muscle. She waited right where I left her, standing as still as a statue. As I drew near, she turned silently and led the way to the car.
Once we were driving, she finally spoke. "How did it go?"
I gave her a quick rundown, including the rescue and the neutralized threats. She nodded. And… that was it. No "good job" or "nicely done." Nothing. Maybe tomorrow—or later today, technically—I’d get a full debriefing and a critique of every little thing I did wrong.
For now, we drove in silence.
