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CHAPTER TWO - DEAN
🕑 Added 2024-12-05 07:11:08 +0000 UTCThe sound of the storm was deafening, an unrelenting roar of rain, wind, and death. Dean Stansfield—Gallant—stood amidst the destruction, his visor scanning the battlefield as Leviathan’s hulking form carved through the city like a force of nature. Brockton Bay was unrecognizable, a fractured, drowning skeleton of itself. And yet, Gallant couldn’t let himself falter. Not here. Not now.
His power hummed faintly at the edges of his perception, a constant stream of emotional impressions that mixed with the raw noise around him. Fear was everywhere—spiking in jagged bursts from the fleeing civilians, steady waves from his fellow capes, and a suffocating, oppressive undercurrent from himself.
He forced the latter down. Gallant couldn’t afford fear. They couldn’t afford fear.
“Move!” a voice barked, and he turned just in time to see Aegis directing a group of civilians toward cover. His friend was shouting, waving his arms, trying to be heard over the storm. Gallant’s heart ached with a mixture of admiration and dread. Carlos never wavered, but even his determination had limits.
Gallant extended his senses further, reaching out to the people Carlos was guiding. Panic. Despair. Hope flickering like a candle in a hurricane. He steadied himself and projected calm from his fingers—tight beams of gentle reassurance to temper the bitter emotions inside their minds. It was something small, almost trivial in the face of Leviathan’s onslaught, but it was all he could do.
A shadow passed over them, and Gallant’s blood ran cold. Leviathan. The Endbringer’s massive, scaled body moved with impossible speed, tearing through buildings as though they were paper. And the ground shook as water surged in its wake, a relentless tide that swallowed everything it touched.
Gallant gritted his teeth and activated his comms. “Aegis, we’ve got to keep the civilians moving. He’s too close!”
“I know!” Carlos shouted back, his voice strained but resolute. “We just need a few more seconds—”
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the crash of a building collapsing under Leviathan’s swipe. Gallant flinched, the psychic shockwave of sheer terror from the people caught in the destruction hitting him like a physical blow. His knees buckled for a moment, but he forced himself upright, scanning the area.
There was no time to process the emotions flooding him. He saw Vista holding a section of debris together with her warped space, her face pale and strained as she struggled to keep it from crushing the people beneath. Glory Girl—Victoria—darted through the air, a streak of golden light as she fought to draw Leviathan’s attention away.
Gallant’s chest tightened as he watched her, his heart a mixture of pride and fear. She was unstoppable, a shining beacon of power and confidence, but Leviathan was a monster beyond anything they’d faced before. She was a speck compared to him, and the thought of losing her made him want to scream.
But he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now.
Drawing on his power, Gallant sent another blast of calm toward the civilians and then turned to help Vista. “I’ve got you,” he said, his voice firm as he reached her side.
“I can’t hold it much longer!” Vista gasped, sweat streaming down her face as she fought against the collapsing structure.
Gallant placed a hand on her shoulder, letting a steady flow of reassurance bleed into her. “You don’t have to. Just hold it for a few more seconds.”
Together, they managed to stabilize the space long enough for the trapped civilians to escape. But as soon as the last person was clear, the structure gave way, crashing down with a deafening roar.
. . . . .
Dean hated his powers.
Not in the abstract sense, or even in the way some capes resented the sacrifices their powers demanded of them. For Gallant, it was the sheer, frustrating inadequacy of his ability that gnawed at him, especially on days like this.
The battlefield was chaos—screaming civilians, capes shouting orders, the relentless roar of the storm as Leviathan tore through Brockton Bay, and lives slipped through their fingers faster than they could save them.
And what was Gallant doing? Projecting calm.
Gallant’s jaw tightened as he reached out with his power, sending out blasts of reassurance toward another group of panicked civilians being herded by Aegis. It worked—he could feel their fear ebbing slightly, their emotions dulling enough for them to follow orders without breaking into a blind sprint. It was useful, sure. It might even save a few lives in the chaos.
But it wasn’t enough.
He glanced over at Victoria, his heart catching for a moment as he saw her streak through the air, a golden comet crashing into Leviathan with impossible force. The shockwave from her blow rippled outwards, momentarily halting the creature’s advance. She was fearless, larger than life, a hero in every sense of the word. And there he was, standing on the sidelines, trying to keep people from panicking while she risked her life.
Gallant clenched his fists, the ambient emotions around him pressing against his psyche like an oppressive tide. His power let him feel everything, every single flicker of terror from the people they were trying to save, every pulse of desperation from his teammates. It was a relentless tide of emotions, a reminder of just how much was riding on them.
But his power didn’t let him do anything about it. Not really.
He wasn’t like Victoria, who could punch an Endbringer and make it matter. He wasn’t like Aegis, who could throw himself into the fray without worrying about whether he’d survive. Gallant could project emotions, sense them, and maybe nudge people into making better choices. But when it came to the raw, physical destruction Leviathan brought, when it came to stopping a monster like that, his powers were little more than a Band-Aid on a severed artery.
He hated it. Hated feeling so useless.
A distant explosion shook the ground beneath him, and Gallant snapped out of his thoughts. He turned, his visor catching sight of a tidal wave surging through the ruins, larger than any that had come before. His breath caught in his throat, his body frozen for a split second as the sheer magnitude of it registered.
But his first thought wasn’t for himself. It was for Vista.
She was still struggling with another section of warped debris, her small frame trembling with the effort. The wave was coming too fast, too powerful, and Gallant’s instincts kicked in. He moved without hesitation, sprinting toward her, shouting her name.
“Vista! Get down!”
She looked up, startled, her wide eyes meeting his through the rain. There was no time to think. He pushed every ounce of calm he could into her, a desperate attempt to steady her as he reached out, throwing himself between her and the oncoming destruction. His safety be damned.
The wave hit.
The world disappeared in a cacophony of sound and force, water crashing against him with an unstoppable momentum. He felt himself lifted, thrown like a rag doll, the breath ripped from his lungs as he fought to keep his bearings. His armor, built to withstand impacts, groaned under the pressure.
And in those fleeting moments, as the darkness closed in and the roar of the water became a muffled hum, his thoughts drifted. Not to the fear or the pain, but to the girl he genuinely cared about.
Amy.
A pang of regret struck him, sharp and undeniable. He’d seen the cracks in her armor, the weight she carried, and he should’ve said more. Done more. Left some kind of message, something to let someone know what was going on with her. But he hadn’t.
Useless.
And then there was silence.
The cold surrounded him, heavy and all-encompassing. His body felt weightless, his thoughts distant, but one thing lingered in the recesses of his mind: the faint, flickering hope that Vista—hidden within his arms—had made it. That maybe, just maybe, his last act had been enough.
. . . . .
When Dean came to, he was flying.
The sensation was disorienting, a rush of cold wind biting against his cracked helmet, and a peculiar weightlessness that made his stomach churn. For a moment, his mind reeled, unable to process what was happening.
And then his instincts kicked in. He flailed, the joints of his suit groaning under the strain as his hands pushed feebly against something solid—a pair of arms holding him securely.
“Vista?!” his voice came out unfiltered, raw, throat tight with panic.
“She’s safe, Dean.”
The voice was deep and steady, brimming with a calm authority that instantly caught his attention. He blinked, his vision swimming as he struggled to focus on the figure holding him aloft. It wasn’t a brute force grip—it was secure but gentle, as if the stranger was cradling him with care despite the weight of his armor.
“She asked me to take you to Panacea,” the man added, his tone tinged with warmth.
Gallant twisted his neck painfully, trying to get a better look at his rescuer. The cracks in his helmet’s visor distorted his view, but he could make out a figure dressed in red and blue, the colours bright against the dark clouds.
“Who—” Gallant began, his voice cracking as he tried to piece together what was happening. The pounding in his head, the ache in his body, and the overwhelming disorientation all blurred together.
“I’m Superman,” the man interrupted gently, his voice carrying a certainty that seemed to cut through the chaos still roaring below. “I’ll explain more later, but for now, just hold on.”
The name wasn’t familiar—this wasn’t someone he’d worked with before. Not Aegis, a Protectorate hero, not one of New Wave, not anyone from Brockton Bay’s chaotic roster of capes. And yet, there was a presence to it, something that made him instinctively trust the man despite the circumstances. That made him want to believe his words.
The city stretched out below them in a fractured, waterlogged sprawl. Waves still churned through the streets, and Leviathan’s towering silhouette loomed in the distance, surrounded by flashes of powers and desperate heroics. It was a scene of pure devastation, but oddly enough, as he clung to the stranger’s words like a lifeline, the weight of everything—the Endbringer, the destruction, his own inadequacies—seemed to lift, carried effortlessly by the man who called himself Superman.
From up here, for just a moment, the noise and chaos seemed further away. Vista is safe. That was enough.
