The insistent buzzing of my phone dragged me from sleep. Busho's urgent voice filled my ear. "Sneck, before A-City for your S-Class registration, confirm something about Hammerhead."
Hammerhead. The name soured any day. Clunky armor, ridiculous schemes, all for his bizarre ideology.
I groaned, sitting up. "What about him, Busho? Another leisure initiative?"
"Negative," Busho's tone was serious. "Intel suggests F-City. Outside the job center." A beat of disbelief hung in the air.
My grogginess receded, replaced by intrigue. F-City wasn't a huge detour. Alright, Busho, I'll take a look. Hammerhead, the anti-work villain, seeking employment? Bizarrely compelling.
After a quick breakfast, I was on my way. F-City's job center buzzed with the early morning rush. It took a few minutes, my enhanced vision scanning the crowd, before I spotted him.
Hammerhead.
But the sight was wrong. Utterly at odds with everything I knew. Gone was the bulky suit. Instead, a crisp, rumpled formal suit. A worn briefcase in hand, nervously adjusting his tie, mumbling, rehearsing.
I watched from across the street, thoughts swirling. Hammerhead, a known villain, albeit inept, whose motivation, however warped, centered on a work-free society, now seemingly participating in the very system he opposed.
Then, a strange idea solidified.
Tanktop Master had his Tanktop Army. Atomic Samurai had his disciples. If they could take A-Class heroes under their wing, why couldn't I? And Hammerhead… despite the villainous label, possessed raw potential far outstripping many A-Class heroes. Even without his ridiculous suits, his sheer physical power was undeniable. I knew Hammerhead's history. His "crimes," while technically villainous, were more disruptive and misguided than malicious. And I knew his underlying motivations, his flawed but perhaps redeemable desire for a better world. Once S-Class today, my influence would grow. Perhaps I could leverage that to address his past transgressions, especially if reformed. The thought took root. Training Hammerhead to become an A-Class hero under my tutelage. I could teach him the disciplined and powerful Biting Dragon Style, harness that raw, unfocused energy, and mold him into a force for genuine good. It was a long shot, wildly unconventional and risky. But the potential reward was significant. Hammerhead, not terrorizing cities, but standing beside me as a respected A-Class hero. The audacity was almost exhilarating.
I pocketed my phone, Busho's instructions repurposed. Instead of reporting, I had a new mission.
I took a deep breath and crossed the street, my gaze fixed on the nervously fidgeting figure in the ill-fitting suit, a potential disciple hidden beneath the veneer of a failed villain. This was going to be… interesting.
The fluorescent hum of Hero Association headquarters was a relentless drone, a stark soundtrack to the anticlimactic reality of my S-Class induction. Rank 18.
The number felt like a brand, a public declaration of my position beneath Genos, whose registration had edged mine out by a single day. A familiar prickle of annoyance surfaced, swiftly suppressed, my features settling back into neutrality. Emotions were a liability.
Turning from the clerk, the unmistakable aura of Sweet Mask permeated the vicinity. He leaned against a polished pillar, controlled elegance, radiating authority.
As the undisputed apex of A-Class, his presence drew attention, a silent testament to his power and influence.
"Sneck," his voice cut through the murmur, cool, precise, commanding. Heads turned, subtle curiosity spreading.
The dynamic between a new S-Class and the seemingly unmovable pillar of A-Class was clearly of interest.
He approached with measured stride, his gaze sweeping over me with unnerving thoroughness.
"Your promotion to the S-Class is… a logical progression." His words lacked warmth, delivered with detached objectivity.
"It is expected that you will now operate with a heightened level of effectiveness, contributing significantly to the containment and eradication of the escalating monster threats." A statement of expectation, not welcome.
I offered a curt nod, my gaze meeting his without flinching. I had long since seen through the facade of the charming idol hero.
Beneath the dazzling smile lay a core of ice, a ruthless pragmatism that had propelled him to the top of A-Class.
His scrutiny lingered on my attire, the meticulously preserved hide of the Serpent King, scales gleaming faintly.
"Now that you occupy a position within the upper echelons, Sneck, certain… considerations regarding presentation become paramount." His tone remained flat, a cold appraisal.
"Your image reflects directly upon the Hero Association. It must project an unwavering sense of confidence and security to the populace."
His gaze then flickered to my slicked-back hair. "A more conventional hairstyle would undoubtedly foster a greater sense of public reassurance." Finally, his attention returned to my suit. A barely perceptible tightening around his lips was the sole outward indication of disapproval.
"This attire," he continued, his voice still toneless, "while perhaps holding personal significance for you, carries inherent risks. The overt association with monstrous origins can inadvertently sow seeds of doubt and unease within the very public we are sworn to protect. Perception, as you are undoubtedly aware, is a potent weapon."
My jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. This suit was more than clothing; it was a symbol of my strength. But Sweet Mask's perspective, grounded in public opinion, held undeniable validity.
"Sweet Mask," I began, my voice low and direct. The question that had been a persistent undercurrent finally surfaced.
"If I may inquire, what was the rationale behind your recommendation for my advancement to the S-Class? If my memory serves correctly, our last sparring encounter… concluded with my defeat."
His unwavering gaze remained locked on mine, his expression an unreadable mask. "Your performance within the controlled parameters of a sparring match constitutes but one limited metric, Sneck.
Your consistent and decisive elimination of high-level threats in real-world scenarios demonstrates a distinct and valuable form of effectiveness. The S-Class necessitates individuals capable of delivering tangible results, irrespective of the nuances of simulated combat."
A brief pause. "Furthermore," he continued, his voice still devoid of personal inflection, "the Hero Association benefits from a diverse spectrum of capabilities within its upper ranks. Your particular skillset, while perhaps not aligning with more… aesthetically pleasing displays of power, has proven consistently efficacious in neutralizing specific types of threats. My recommendation was predicated upon a purely pragmatic assessment of your demonstrable capabilities and the overarching strategic requirements of the organization."
His gaze then drifted back to my hero name displayed on my new S-Class badge. "And speaking of presentation, Sneck," he continued, his tone shifting slightly, adopting a more suggestive quality, "your hero name. 'Biting Snake Fist'… while descriptive, perhaps lacks a certain… impact. A certain flair befitting an S-Class hero."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Consider something… more evocative. 'Black Dragon,' perhaps? Or 'Tyrant Dragon.' Something that resonates with power, with dominance.
Something that will strike fear into the hearts of monsters and inspire awe in the public." He paused, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. "We must cultivate an image, Sneck. Every detail matters."
His gaze then returned to my serpent-skin suit. "Therefore," he stated, his voice once again firm, "I will have one of my spare, more… conventional suits delivered to your residence tomorrow. Consider it a necessary measure towards fulfilling the broader responsibilities inherent in your new rank. And I urge you to give serious consideration to a more… impactful hero moniker. It is all part of projecting the correct image."
Before I could process the audacity of his suggestions, Sweet Mask offered a curt nod, his attention already shifting. His motivations remained enigmatic. I glanced down at my suit, then at my badge: 'Biting Snake Fist.' It was a name earned. But Sweet Mask's words planted a seed of doubt. The climb to the top involved not only physical prowess but a complete overhaul of one's being, dictated by public perception and the calculated manipulations of those who understood it best.