The Machine God

Chapter 211

The World Is Watching, Pt. 3

Franklin de Castillo landed in the snow and held out his left arm, inspecting the damage. The armored bracer was cracked from the wrist to the inner elbow, fracture lines running through the metal like a frozen river splitting its banks.

He clicked his tongue and blew out a breath. It misted in the cold air, drifting upward before the mountain wind tore it apart.

The valley stretched between two peaks, both capped in snow that had been pristine half an hour ago. It wasn’t anymore. Trees lay scattered across the valley floor in craters of churned earth and shattered rock. Above, part of the eastern peak was still crumbling, a slow landslide of stone and ice grinding its way down the slope with a deep, rolling thunder that vibrated through his boots.

Caroline touched down beside him. She looked composed, as though the action so far had been a brisk walk rather than one of the harder fights of her life. Franklin knew better. He’d seen Pinnacle’s fist connect with her ribs hard enough for her to shatter the mountainside on impact. She was standing through sheer Delvane stubbornness, and he respected her too much to acknowledge it.

Across the valley, maybe forty meters away, the man they’d come to intercept stood with his arms crossed. Relaxed. At ease. As if two Tier 3 superhumans had just given him a light warm-up and he was waiting for the real challenge to begin.

No visible damage. No torn clothing. Not even breathing hard.

“Just get out of my way,” Pinnacle said. His voice carried across the distance without effort.

Franklin chuckled. “No can do. He’s a pain in this old man’s backside, but at the end of the day, that boy is my son.”

“I already told you. I’m not interested in your son.”

“Can’t help but notice you were heading in a straight line toward where he is, though.”

“We’re on a completely different continent.”

Franklin shrugged. “Never seems to stop you ending up where you’re going, does it?”

Pinnacle growled, low enough that it barely carried. Then he uncrossed his arms. “Do you really think you can stop me from going wherever I please?”

Franklin considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. He tilted his head, made a face, then held up his cracked bracer as evidence. “I mean, if I’m having a particularly excellent day and you’re having a shitty one, I think my odds are one in five. At least.”

“I am not having a bad day.”

Franklin nodded. “And I’m not having a particularly good one, I guess.” He jabbed a thumb at the woman beside him. “That’s why I brought her.”

Pinnacle’s gaze shifted to Julia’s mother.

She met it without flinching.

The Delvanes were renowned for carrying the classic set. Flight. Strength. Durability. The combination that had defined what superhumans could be since the very first serum recipients took to the sky. Caroline embodied every one of those gifts at a level that made her one of the most dangerous people on the planet.

And Pinnacle was somehow simply stronger. Faster. More durable. More everything. He’d taken their best shots and shrugged them off, landed his own that had rearranged the surrounding landscape, and still looked like he could go another ten rounds.

The worst part was that none of them had a clue what the bastard’s powers actually were. Every encounter, every report, every scrap of intelligence painted the same maddening picture. He just did things. Showed up where he wanted. Hit harder than anyone should. Walked through attacks that would kill most superhumans. And nobody could explain how.

Franklin smiled at him anyway. Some fights you picked because winning wasn’t the point.

***

Trent sat with his arm around Sophia, watching the room fill up.

The bar had been a wreck when they found it. An underground space beneath a collapsed apartment block, right where the Scar met what was left of the Bronx. Flooded, cracked, forgotten. It had taken weeks of hauling debris and shoring up walls before it even resembled something usable. Months more before it felt like home.

Now it was the closest thing the Scarred Crown guild had to a headquarters. A long bar counter stretched along the back wall, salvaged bottles and whatever they could buy lined up on shelves behind it. Steel beams braced the ceiling where the original supports had buckled, ugly but solid. Rooms had been dug out of the surrounding concrete for storage and planning, and someone had strung warm lights along the rafters that softened the rough edges of the place.

The widescreen television showed a live feed of the palace grounds in Dubai. White marble terraces. Rows of chairs facing a shaded stage and podium. Guards posted along the perimeter. People were filing in through security checkpoints, finding their seats. Commentary ran along the bottom of the screen, inaudible beneath the noise of two dozen people settling into every available surface.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The entire guild had come when called. Sofas were already full. Stools along the bar were claimed. A few sat on the box freezers and storage chests pushed against the walls. The newer members stood behind the couches or leaned in doorways, not yet comfortable enough to take a proper seat.

Devon had the far end of the bar, one arm on the counter, the other wrapped in fresh gauze from wrist to elbow. He held his beer in the bandaged hand without complaint. Rosa perched on the stool beside him, a bruise darkening the left side of her jaw. Near the pool table, Andre leaned against the wall with his weight shifted off his left leg.

Nobody mentioned the injuries. Nobody needed to.

Sophia shifted against him. Her fingers traced slow patterns on his forearm while she watched the screen. She fit here the way she fit everywhere, easily and without fuss. He’d told her once that she was the only person who could make a concrete bunker feel like a living room, and she’d told him to shut up and get her another drink.

She was such a romantic.

Jason sat on the arm of the couch to Trent’s right, one foot on the cushion, watching the television with a quiet intensity.

“Crown, you really think this is gonna be that important?”

Trent glanced past Jason. One of the mid-rank guys, perched on a freezer lid with a beer on his knee.

“Yeah, bro. Alexander said so himself, and that G is playing at a level we ain’t ready for.”

It wasn’t hard to recall meeting the Machine God. He’d burst into the room with lightning crackling down his cybernetic arm, fully ready to throw down with Trent and his two guild members despite being outnumbered. They’d been in the middle of a recruitment pitch, sharing knowledge about superpowers with Jason and the others.

But the man had been decent. Respectful, even. Offered fair work to the same kids Trent was trying to recruit, and hadn’t pushed when half of the crew stayed.

A man like that didn’t waste his time suggesting people watch something unless it mattered.

Micky cut in from behind the bar, where he’d been pouring drinks for anyone who wandered close. “We needed to bring everyone in to discuss what happens next anyway. Now that the Paragon Society assholes are hunting us, we gotta switch things up.” He set a glass down hard enough to rattle the bottles. “Takes half our leadership to throw down with Gravimax alone, and he ain’t fucking slowing down.”

Trent nodded.

One of the newer members spoke from behind the couch. “Man, that’s the Machine God’s fault too. Stirred shit up crazy with his stunt. Everything was chill before he went on a fucking joyride in a yacht.”

Murmurs of agreement moved through the room. Sophia’s fingers paused on his arm for a moment, then resumed.

Trent said nothing. Couldn’t deny the ring of truth in it. The yacht, the footage, the six-billion-credit heist broadcast to the world. After that night, something in New York shifted. The Paragon Society had always been aggressive, but Gravimax took the Machine God’s display as a personal insult. As though every villain in the five boroughs owed him an answer for it.

Trent didn’t blame Alexander. The man surely had his reasons, and they were probably bigger than New York. Bigger than the Scar.

But the Scar was home. And it was no longer safe. Which made it a problem nobody at this bar had an answer for yet.

The screen showed the conference continuing to fill with arrivals. Most of them looked like reporters, with camera crews or recording drones trailing behind. They settled into seats with the efficiency of people who attended events like this for a living. A few positioned themselves along the sides with handheld equipment, jockeying for angles on the podium.

“Yo, that’s the Nakamura twins!” someone called from the bar.

Heads turned. On screen, two identical men in matching dark suits crossed the terrace side by side. They moved in perfect synchronization, steps landing at the same time, hands adjusting jacket buttons in mirror image. A murmur of appreciation went through the room.

Micky leaned over the bar. “Those two are legit. You know they published a paper last year on power synergy that basically rewrote the book on how combo abilities work? Half the training methods we use came from their research.”

“They’re kind of creepy though,” Andre said from his spot against the wall.

Rosa looked at him. “What? Why?”

“They can literally share everything, right? Senses. Experiences.” Andre shifted his weight off his bad leg. “So what if one of them is driving and needs to take a dump? You think he, like, you know, sends it to his brother?”

The room split. Half of them burst out laughing. Rosa’s face twisted in disgust. Sophia buried her face in Trent’s shoulder, shaking. Someone near the pool table gagged loudly, which only made the laughter worse.

“Bro, you are foul,” Micky said, but he was grinning.

Andre shrugged. “I’m just saying, man. Nobody’s asking the real questions.”

“Holy shit! There’s the Northern Shield and the Sword Goddess!”

The room shifted. People craned forward, a few standing to get a better look at the screen.

Two figures made their way across the terrace toward the front row. The first was a lean man in a well-fitted suit and glasses, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. He took his seat without fanfare, pushing his glasses higher up his nose as he settled in.

The woman beside him was impossible to miss. Hjordis, the Sword Goddess, a literal translation of her name that had stuck as naturally as breathing. Even unarmed and dressed for the occasion, she looked every inch the warrior. Tall enough to draw the eye from across the terrace, fiery red hair pulled back from a face that belonged on a battlefield, shoulders that could carry the weight of a world. She scanned the crowd as they sat, the way someone who’d spent a lifetime fighting sized up a room without thinking about it.

Despite his appearance, her brother ran one of the most respected superhero guilds on the planet. Even if he looked as if he belonged more in a library or doing someone’s accounting. Not that anyone would ever call him a nerd to his face. And doubly not with the Sword Goddess towering protectively beside him.

Someone in the back whistled. “Damn, I’d let her take me in any time. She’s fine as fuck.”

Laughter rippled across the room. Rosa threw a bottle cap in the general direction of the voice.

“You wouldn’t survive the arrest, bro,” Trent called back. Sophia snorted against his shoulder.

As the terrace continued to fill, Trent’s senses prickled. A woman in a tailored white blazer took a seat at the far left of the front row, chin raised, posture stiff with the kind of self-importance that practically begged for a camera to find her. A man in a grey suit and dark glasses stood behind her chair. He didn’t sit. Didn’t move. Didn’t look around. Just stood there, hands clasped, perfectly still.

Trent frowned at the screen for a moment, trying to place what had set him off. Nothing came to mind. Just a woman and her bodyguard.

He shrugged it off and gave Sophia a squeeze. Then he glanced across to the bar. “Hey Micky! Toss me a beer. It’s about to begin.”