Unbeknownst to the country watching, the Hero Exhibition is perhaps the most grand event held world wide for the last two decades.

  As the hour of the event grows nearer, people stream in from the Angel’s City and the area just beyond, nearly a hundred thousand, if not more, arriving with excitement and alacrity. The massive stadium had been erected just outside city limits over the course of the last year, a towering inverted dome with enough capacity for nearly eighty thousand live viewers. All around it some seventy smaller rings have been set up, in which heroes just short of making it to the inner stadium are already entertaining the sparse crowds as they trickle in.

  A dozen cameras rolling in tandem view the stadium, and what they see is carried across the country by long chains of wires and grand towers so that every television in the nation can see the exact same thing. Nothing else is on, nor would it be watched if it were. Everyone is simply too eager to see the show.

  Everyone.

  Silently, subtly, and with great care, a dozen figures slink into the stadium through a back entrance, and take their place in the glass box overlooking the entire thing. Lying in wait for them, dozens of staff are there to serve their every need. It’s the best seat in the house, and filled only with the most important people.

  Among them are faces both familiar and unfamiliar. A brunette woman in an orange-red dress silently chats with her brusque peer in full military dress bedecked with honors. To their left an ancient looking crone in all grey silently puffs an ivory pipe, while a man of whirring and hissing clockwork steel confidently chats with a pair of sharply dressed old men. They are the country’s leaders, their best and brightest alongside their oldest and wisest. Only one is missing, the crown jewel of them all.

  The man who is not a man, but an angel.

  But nobody looks for him, and the show must go on. Outside the glass cage, many more are flowing in. Hidden in plain sight amongst the stands, a pair of women silently take their seats: one a titan, the other merely a person, here to support a friend. She is not the only one though—dozens of heroes take to the stands, disappointed at missing their chance to participate, but refusing to be discouraged. Today is still an exciting day.

  And, of course, not everyone is simply there to enjoy the show. Deep in the tunnels beneath the stadium, aides and other staff rush about to prepare the show, their flurry of action the storm around the eye that is the nearly thirty heroes set to perform. Of them, two sit close, conversing in a hushed whisper: the lady of ice, and her former companion and the newbie to the Exhibition, the ambitious runner herself.

  “They briefed you on logistics?” Darya asks politely. Charlie only nods her head.

  “Good, good,” Darya continues, nodding as well, “Well, the TV there will be showing the live broadcast as it airs, so you can watch for your cue and watch the rest of us.” She says, pointing to a large monitor mounted on the wall before the benches where the heroes wait.

  “I assume you’ll be watching?” Charlie asks softly.

  Darya nods, “Yeah, I watch everybody. Not much else to do while you wait.”

  “Right,” Charlie replies, “Good luck, I guess.”

  Her old lover only nods.

  Then the screen flickers to life, vibrantly displaying an energetic pair of announcers with the stadium behind them. Both smile widely with gleaming teeth.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” The male announcer begins, “Welcome one and all to the twenty-first annual Hero Exhibition!”

  “Without any further ado,” the female announcer starts, “let’s get us all started on the main event!”

  As the burgeoning crowd cheers, the stadium begins to rumble, inner mechanisms automatically setting the scene for the first hero to begin. One among the group in the tunnels stands and begins walking out without hesitation.

  “So it begins,” Darya whispers to no response.

  As the first hero steps out, the crowd cheers once more.

  —

  Three figures sit on deck of a small fishing boat, out in the cold, choppy waters of the northernmost reaches of the Atlantic ocean. White-tipped waves crest all around them, every so often praying the deck with the brine of the deep ocean. A bearded man in a puffy red coat stands at the helm, shaking visibly—though for all the cold, he should have more than enough gear to be warm.

  He is accompanied by a pair of strange individuals—both Chinese: a man and a woman, and neither dressed at all for the cold. Despite this, they seem bored rather than concerned. The woman absentmindedly spins a small blade on her finger, while the man yawns and gazes at the horizon.

  “Hey,” he says suddenly in Chinese-accented English, “I see land. Is that it?”

  The other two peer off the boat into the distant fog towards the horizon, straining their eyes to see if they can catch a glimpse of what he claims to have spotted.

  “I think I see it,” the woman pipes up next, “It is…hazy. Like it's more distant than the rest of the horizon. Is it a mirage?”

  The man at the helm shakes his head, “No, no—land of ice…strange. Always.” He replies in broken, heavily accented English. His voice is shaky, reflecting his current state. He gestures from the helm uselessly, “I can not see, but is there. No more islands.”

  “There better not be,” the other man says harshly, causing the man at the helm to flinch, “I hated that other place. What did you call it, Farrah? No respect from those people.”

  “Faroe,” the helmsman replies shakily, “Faroe Islands.” His hands grip the helm until they turn white, and his expression turns stony, as he attempts to hide his true thoughts.

  “Yeah, that,” the other man says dismissively, “Let’s just hope these people have the sense to set out a welcoming party.”

  “I think they already have,” the woman says, pointing up. All three passengers of the vessel turn their heads skyward to a spot where something akin to cracks began to form high in the sky, as though the air itself was breaking. After a few moments, the shards of sky seem to burst forth, leaving behind a block of inky black darkness out from which a trio of figures emerges. They do not fall, only hovering up there, looking down on the boat.

  “We sons of Mijkal greet you, Energizer!” a trio of voices sounds from above, “What brings you to our land?!”

  Drake smiles, “I wish to speak to your father!” He shouts up at them.

  The three figures all look at each other, then seem to come to a decision.

  “Mijkal of the Void has graciously granted your wish!” one of them calls out, “He asks that you join him at his palace in Reykjavík at once! Prepare to be transported!”

  Drake Lee smiles.

  “Finally.”

  —

  The first act is exciting, only to be surpassed immediately by the second. With each new round, more and more people enter the stadium, only to be more and more amazed by what they see. The whole extravagant event escalates towards a climax that promises to exceed even the expectations of the most optimistic of viewers.

  One hero summons a spectral horse and jousts with a mechanical knight across the stadium. He goes four rounds in which he purposefully redirects his lance at the last second before finally smashing the synth steel cavalier with a single crushing blow.

  Another hero shocks the audience by transforming before their eyes into a magnificent serpentine dragon, though he doesn’t stop there. Impressing even those that have seen the form flying over their own city streets, he smashes a pair of massive boulders together hard enough to shatter them both to pieces, raining dust and debris across the stadium floor.

  One hero picks stragglers out of a whirling cloud of drones using shots of light that make impossible corners at crucial moments to strike from every angle imaginable. Another uses their seemingly miraculous ability to disappear in a puff of mist to appear to the audience as though in multiple places at once.

  All throughout this, vast swarms of people fill the stadium to half capacity, while hundreds of thousands more tune in from as much as a continent away to view the spectacle. All together they watch, some more interested than others, but all excited to see what comes next.

  Deep in the tunnels below the stadium, the ambitious runner is not the only one to lean in just a little closer when a woman dressed in blue and white takes to an empty stadium.

  “Our next hero hails from a pocket of warmth in the midst of a cold land,” the announcer cries enthusiastically, “You know her, you love her, let us give a warm welcome to this cold-hearted queen all the way from the Foundry—give it up for the Lady of Ice and Snow, Khionne!”

  The crowd cheers, as the heroine bows.

  The next instant, the stadium floor is ice. It was not before, then, in a flash, it was. The crowd gasps as the object of their attention begins skating gracefully across the ice, slowly at first, then picking up increasing speed.

  Just as the audience begins to think this is it, forms begin to burst from out of the ice: statues of men made from pure frost. Some hold guns or knives, intended to look like criminals, and just as gracefully as before, Darya begins to strike them down. She skates between them with startling speed, shattering them with her bastardized ice pick, or gouging them with harsh kicks made lethal by her skates, or even just ramming them with enough speed to shatter the ice.

  She begins to escalate. More statues pop up, some now clearly not just criminals, but villains. They laugh maniacally, or else appear as though in the middle of an attack more magical than conventional. With startling grace and speed, she destroys each and every one, expertly skating around the piles of ice shards left in their wake.

  Then it’s over. She skates to a stop, the stadium empty of statues, and basks in the cheers of the crowd. Deep in the tunnels, Charlie sighs, and shakes herself.

  This is no time to dwell on the past; she has a job to do.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  —

  The meeting place is almost tame, considering the nature of the men who will be meeting in it. On a balcony overlooking the shore of the Atlantic, shielded from the cold winds by glass walls and floors reminiscent of a greenhouse, sits a room with a table wrought from silvery synth metal and big enough to sit four, though only two seats—expertly carved things of cherry wood with plush red cushions—sit at it now. At the one furthest from the entrance sits a man with graying blonde hair dressed in elegant navy blue robes. He calmly takes a sip from a beautiful china cup as his guests enter, smiling warmly as if he greets old friends.

  For their part, the guests at the Reykjavík palace look thoroughly out of place. Disheveled, dressed in street clothes, and drenched in seawater, the broad-shouldered man and his slim wife seem like commoners before a king. Drake, however, displays a total lack of concern for this dichotomy as he takes the second seat at the table, his companion shadowing him in a mirror of the thin, freckled girl who casually attends the table on the other side, replenishing her father’s cup as he empties it.

  “Ah, to finally lay eyes upon you,” Mijkal Eriksson, king of the void, sighs, “Had I known I was to meet an Emperor today, I would've worn my good robes.” He chuckles to himself, a sentiment shared by no one else in the room.

  “I suppose you understand why I am here, then,” Drake Lee, the strongest man alive, begins.

  “I have my theories, of course, but I find it’s better to know for sure,” Mijkal replies, “And to that end, only you—or, I suppose, the Oracle—could tell me truly.”

  “In truth, it is that very woman who brings me here today,” Drake admits, “She told me a certain someone fled to the USC, and who else but you could’ve allowed them passage?”

  “The Nimbus Witch, I suppose,” Mijkal sardonically provides, “or my darling boy, Brynmar, who I have graciously lent them as a show of good will.”

  Drake’s eye twitches, but he holds his expression, “This particular individual would not have been let in by the USC themselves. That rules out such options.”

  “Oh dear,” Mijkal fakes a gasp, “I do hope you aren’t implying I helped a fugitive enter the USC. That would violate several treaties, and I take those very seriously, I’ll have you know.”

  Drake glowers, “Enough games, Mijkal.” He says harshly, “Everyone knows you have a monopoly on spatial abilities. If you didn’t let them in, then you must know who did.”

  “I hear ol’ Foster was able to send birds over the wall, have you considered asking them?” Mijkal suggests unhelpfully, still wearing the same warm smile.

  With a horrid noise, Drake smashes his fist into the table, nearly tearing the wrought steel in half, “They went west, not south!” He roars. Though the women in the room flinch, Mijkal merely looks down at the tea slowly dripping in small rivulets from shattered china that once lay on the table, wearing an expression akin to curiosity on his face.

  “Hmmm…” the void king hums, “I suppose that is rather damning.”

  Drake stares at him in disbelief, breathing heavily. The king of Iceland merely looks back up at him and smiles warmly once more.

  “Alright, I admit it,” the smiling man says, “I let the titaness and her ward into the USC. Please don’t tell the good mister Alston, he would be livid if he knew.” He stops and scratches his chin for a moment, “Oh, wait, I forgot. He already knows. Oops, I guess I didn’t need to hide it after all. My apologies if I frustrated you, Mr. Lee.”

  Half the room stares at the man in disbelief, as he gestures to the girl at his side. Obediently, she begins carefully picking up shards of fine china from the wreckage of the table, seemingly ignorant of the man standing ominously over her.

  “Now, is that all you needed from me?” Mijkal smiles,

  “Or are you looking for something else?”

  —

  Finally, it is her turn.

  The ambitious runner stands, and makes her way out the tunnels to the stadium floor. Her heart pounds, her hands are sweaty. The crowd has not had a disappointment yet; she wonders if she will be their first.

  Then she steps out into the light, amongst the hushed crowd.

  Dressed in a blue so light it’s almost white and so gray it could be camouflage in a raincloud, she walks out onto the stadium floor. Her suit is minimal, accented with navy blue bracers over her wrists and ankles, and a simple utility belt around her waist. It’s new, however, and speaks of a subtle, quiet confidence, that is mirrored in her stride. She does not even smile.

  “-for her first ever event, please welcome our newest up and coming hero, Frontrunner!”

  A few scattered cheers can be heard, but most of the crowd is silent, judging. For many of them, they knew at least a few of the heroes performing—from the news, from their hometown, or even for a lucky few, personally. Some dedicated fans even knew them all. All except for her. In the entire crowd, maybe a dozen souls know Charlie Gardner, and even less know Frontrunner.

  Now is the time to change that.

  “So that’s your newest pet project?” Up high in the glass box, the crone in grey leans over to whisper to the endless flame standing next to her.

  “I wish I could claim credit,” Operative Vermillion of the USC replies, “But it was Lynn who brought her to my attention, and Julian who recommended her. And apparently Jonathan who found her, but she was already a hero before that.”

  “You’ve got a lot riding on that runt,” the raiser of the wall replies in a raspy voice, “better hope she’s up to the task.”

  “She’s already come a long way,” the firebird says confidently, “Ask Lynn, she’s the one in charge of her training.”

  Several heads in the room turn to the woman draped in military honors, who grunts noncommittally, “She’s got the Gardner rebellion in her, is all I’ll say.”

  “Gardner?” the mechanical man cuts in with a sexless, autotuned voice, “I haven’t heard that name in eleven years, eight months, fourteen days, and two hours at least. Well, with that sort of heritage, and the praise she’s getting, I have high hopes.”

  “Cool your jets, Apex,” the crone scoffs, “At least wait until we see her perform.”

  “Trust me, Selene,” Vermillion replies, “If nothing else, I can promise it will be interesting.”

  Down on the stadium floor, Charlie steps calmly to the very center, as a few dozen workers haul a series of impressive-looking artillery pieces in a semicircle around her. Inside, her mind is whirling, but with a stern look and a calm demeanor she faces down enough firepower to waste to every hero to take the stage before her.

  Across the stands and around the world, viewers slowly begin to take in what they see before them. None of them know this hero, but, some with shock, others with cool certainty, one by one they realize that soon they either will, or there won’t be enough of her left to know anymore. One way or another, this hero will be remembered forever.

  A couple in the stands, surrounded by their friends and heroes, clutches each other tightly as they watch with bated breath. Deep in the tunnels, the ice queen stares calmly at the screen, but clenches her fist enough to turn it white. Up in the stands, a new friend worriedly wonders if this is about to be the last time she sees her first true companion.

  The ambitious runner raises her hand; the world holds its breath.

  It falls, and the first shot rings out.

  As the ringing shot dies, sixty thousand gasps echo all at once. Triumphant and proud, the ambitious runner clutches the still-smoking shell in her left hand. With a deft movement, she casually tosses it aside.

  Then the next shot rings out, and the next. Each time a round fires, she catches it with as much graceful skill and tosses it aside with as much casual contempt. She shows the world they are nothing to her, these guns that could kill any of her peers. They believe her.

  The guns grow faster, and so does she, until she catches a shell in each hand and still has to throw them away fast enough they tear gouges in the packed earth floor and send dust clouds into the air. Still, she continues, and so do the guns, even when the entire stadium roars with sound, even when the dust and smoke blot out all view, even when the spectators begin to cover their ears and wince. No matter what, the onslaught never ceases.

  Until it does.

  The silence seems to echo, as though it was as forceful as the sound. The dust settles slowly, but the careful eye already knows what it will see. Not one shell hit the back wall of the stadium; not one shell even made it close to the crowd. And slowly, calmly, and laboriously, the dust finally fades, and every single one of the nearly half a million people tuned in see her victoriously clutching the final shell.

  Then she drops it, with a thud even the cameras can hear, and calmly makes her way back to the tunnels she came from.

  Everyone is silent. This time, however, it isn’t quite the same.

  This time, someone watches her from that shadows of the tunnels and frowns.

  —

  Drake Lee takes a deep breath, then seems to settle himself, though rage still simmers in his gaze, “Would you…consider…using the same method on us so that I can follow them into the USC?”

  “No,” Mijkal replies matter-of-factly, “That would definitely not go over well.”

  "That didn’t stop you before,” Drake growls.

  “It might have,” Mijkal admits, “Were I sending an armed nuclear missile into their midst as opposed to a former citizen and her rather harmless-looking adopted daughter. Sending you would be almost like declaring war, and the USC has never lost a war.”

  “They only ever fought the one,” Drake counters. Beside him, his companion winces.

  Mijkal tuts, “Someone never learned their history. Most of the USC’s member countries never signed the Panama Deal, and resisted attempts to be forcefully initiated into the alliance. And that isn’t even remotely dredging up the mess that was the Superhuman Accords. No, the union as a whole has fought at least three wars—arguably many more, if you count each suppressed country as a separate war.”

  “Fine,” Drake hisses, “but you still implied letting the titaness through was different. I’ll remind you, citizen or not, she’s as dangerous as I am. I would know—I fought her.”

  “And, if I recall, you claim to have won that duel,” Mijkal says, smiling darkly, “Unless, of course, you’re suggesting that was a lie.”

  The room falls silent.

  “You dare,” Drake says in a low voice, “imply I am weaker than her?”

  Mijkal grins widely with unreserved glee, “Never, my good sir! You put words in my mouth. Why, one could almost imagine that was your assessment, instead of mine!”

  A beat.

  And then Power fills the room.

  “You arrogant bastard,” Drake roars with power emanating from his voice. The windows of the room begin to crack under his will.

  “I will kill you. I will tear down your island and slaughter the family you’re so proud of. I will take everything you have built and throw it into ruin. Do not defy me! You are arrogant and weak, and your words will not protect you from me! No matter how clever you are, I am still the strongest man in the entire fucking world!”

  Mijkal sighs, “I cannot stop you from doing as you will.” Then a sound like glass breaking, and the world falls away. “But touch me or my family, and I will leave you spinning in the void for the next millenia."

  The world seems shattered there, the room as it was surrounded by jagged darkness that suddenly becomes light and matter beyond it. It is as though a giant hand crushed the thin glass pane that is space itself, leaving the four of them sitting still in endless darkness. Drake’s companion pales, Mijkal’s servant stands solemnly, and the two gods stare at each other over a ruined table waiting for the other to break first.

  Then slowly, hesitantly - as though every movement pains him - Drake Lee sits back down. The world fades back to normal the moment he does, returning the room back to its scenic view of Reykjavík and the Atlantic beyond.

  “Surely,” the tired emperor says, “There must be something I can offer you that would buy me passage.”

  “Of course there is!” Mijkal replies happily, “Why, if you’d started with that instead of the threats we could’ve reached an agreement ages ago!”

  “Is that so?” Drake asks with a strained smile.

  Mijkal only smiles back.