The United States is the world's top oil-refining powerhouse, churning out nearly a billion tons of crude annually—about a fifth of global capacity.
From east to west, refineries dot the landscape like fucking stars, keeping gas prices dirt-cheap for Americans.
10 p.m. Eastern Time, Philadelphia Energy Solutions.
The biggest, oldest refinery on the East Coast, it's a top-ten beast nationwide.
With over 150 years of history, it employs more than 1,000 workers, processing 335,000 barrels of crude daily into gasoline, diesel, jet fuel, and other petrochemicals.
At 10 p.m., while fat-cat capitalists snore, the refinery's workers are still grinding. Two more hours till they clock out.
At the gate, two security guards yawn, pacing lazily.
Sleep's hitting hard—they could use a cigarette to stay sharp.
In any other factory, getting caught smoking might earn a chewing-out. Here? Light up, and you're spending your life in prison.
One guard rubs his face hard, then hears a faint sound in the distance.
Both squint, spotting two bright lights speeding toward the refinery.
Car headlights.
They relax, but curiosity kicks in.
Who the fuck's coming to a refinery this late?
Minutes later, two tanker trucks roll up.
One guard asks, "Any scheduled tankers tonight?"
The other shakes his head. "Not that I know of."
"Fuck it, then. Send 'em packing."
The first guard steps into the road, waving a "STOP" sign at the trucks.
Refineries are high-risk, so security's tight as hell. That red stop sign carries weight—vehicles stop, or guards can use lethal force, guns included.
But shit gets weird. The lead tanker doesn't stop—it floors it, barreling forward.
"Shit! Stop! You fucking blind?!" The guard yells, waving harder.
The tanker ignores him, speeding up.
Fuck. Trouble.
Panic hits. The guard dives out of the way, grabbing his sidearm.
The tanker's window rolls down.
A joker-masked figure levels a shotgun out the window.
Bang!
A blast of fire erupts, hundreds of pellets slamming into the guard's chest.
He hits the ground, chest screaming like a swarm of bees stung him.
Thank fuck for the bulletproof vest.
He tries to roll for cover, but another shot rings out—this time at his head.
Bang!
His skull explodes, gray brain matter mixing with blood and flesh, splattering the ground.
Fucking semi-auto shotgun, he thinks as he dies.
The joker-masked bastard repeats the process, dropping the second guard.
The tankers smash through the iron gate, roaring into the refinery.
The shotgun blasts shatter the night, drowning out the factory's hum. Workers and guards hear it.
Alarms blare across the refinery. Over a hundred guards sprint to the armory, grabbing vests and rifles, rushing to the entrance.
Screech!
Tires burn as the tankers skid to a stop. A dozen joker-masked figures jump out, armed with light and heavy weapons.
These are the Joker Organization's Philadelphia crew—Black, White, Native American, Mexican, Chinese, you name it.
Bottom line: they're the downtrodden, hopeless poor.
Leading them? The Joker Organization's head honcho—Jason Walter.
No mask, no weapons, Jason hops off the truck empty-handed.
He waves, and the jokers lug black backpacks forward.
Each pack's loaded with kilos of explosives. This is a suicide terror attack.
Looking at their goofy joker faces, Jason says, dead serious, "Stick to the plan. I'll handle the guards. You move."
Facing death, the jokers nod without hesitation.
They've got no hope left—no fear of dying. They just want to take a chunk out of the capitalists before they go.
"You're the vanguard purifying this world. Your sacrifice will go down in history, a warning to the future!"
Jason bows deeply.
The jokers return the gesture, tighten their packs, grab their weapons, and scatter to their targets.
Watching them go, Jason's lips curl into a smile.
Let the killing begin.
He activates his power, floating dozens of meters into the air.
From up high, his superhuman vision maps out the guards' positions and routes.
He rockets toward the nearest squad.
Nearby, a dozen guards in heavy bulletproof gear and riot helmets waddle like fat penguins, taking cover near a workshop.
They're here for a paycheck, not to play hero. No one's dumb enough to go toe-to-toe with Jason's crew.
Their plan: hunker down, hold the workshop, suppress the enemy with gunfire, and wait for police backup.
That's all the job's worth.
"Called it in yet?" One asks.
"Done. Police choppers are minutes out."
"That fast?"
"No shit. This refinery's owned by old-money capitalists—Philly's top taxpayers. The second they heard trouble, the cops tripped over themselves to get here."
"Pfft. Cops won't do shit against the Joker Organization."
"They're not all superpowered freaks. These are probably Philly newbies—desperate nobodies. Bet you most are black."
"Shit, say that louder and you're fired."
"Nah, we're all white here. Who's gonna snitch for them?"
…
As they bullshit, Jason drops from the sky, slamming the ground.
Bang!
The guards look up, stunned.
Fuck. Who jinxed it? You fucking summoned the Joker boss.
They snap out of it, grabbing heavy weapons and unloading on Jason.
Jason's powers and limits are public knowledge—media and socials obsess over it.
These guards even got training on it. Bottom line: hit him with enough firepower to overwhelm his absorption limit, and you can repel or kill him.
In America, heavy weapons are everywhere. These guards have military-grade gear.
To protect the refinery, the big bosses ordered short-barreled rocket launchers from Stark Industries, loaded with special anti-Jason rounds.
These eight-kilo rockets aren't packed with regular explosives but Stark's custom blend—eight times stronger than TNT.
Data says one direct hit would blast Jason to pieces.
Seeing the guards confidently aim their launchers, Jason scratches his head, annoyed.
These fucking experts and their math.
Never mind that he's mastered energy absorption and release—those eight-kilo rockets can't break his energy shield.
Even if they could, he's not a dumbass. He can dodge.
Combat isn't won on paper.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Sharp whistles cut the air as the custom rockets scream toward him.
Jason bends his knees and rockets skyward like a firecracker.
One missile won't break him, but a dozen could tear him apart.
He'd already pooled energy in his feet before the guards fired.
In the air, he glances back and nearly curses.
The fucking rockets curved, chasing him into the sky.
Guided single-soldier rockets—his goddamn kryptonite. Stark Industries knows how to make a buck.
Jason's pissed but not worried.
Like he said, battle's more than numbers.
With a thought, most of his energy surges out, forming a pale blue shield around him.
The rest pools in his palms.
Gather, compress, gather, compress…
A glowing blue orb forms in his hand.
"Kamehameha!" He yells, some random-ass phrase popping into his head, and fires the compressed orb.
A blue laser, thick as an arm, tears through the night.
Boom!
It pierces several rockets, igniting red fireballs in the dark.
"Fuck yeah!"
Jason repeats the move, forming energy orbs in both hands, blasting left and right.
Boom! Boom!
More explosions. Every rocket's destroyed.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.