### I am gar for him
It was a great idea after all! For the first time this month, I was able to feel my limit, and after four hours of intensive swimming, my "flying muscle," as Dad called it, was so overworked that even a slight acceleration caused me a bout of nausea.
I didn't go down into the deep. For the first time, the three hundred meters of water column above my head was more than enough. Flying away from the shore, I reached my speed limit quite quickly, and although it was a very significant indicator even by the standards of Earth's best superheroes, it's still fatally not enough if I really plan to change something in the future. And the fact that I got exhausted so quickly clearly shows how far the current me is from my past self, let alone my father.
However, I was wrong about one thing: I thought that during active flight, I would consume the oxygen supply in my lungs much faster, but this did not happen. There were slight differences, but they could well be attributed to the fact that I was constantly under pressure and experienced environmental resistance. But this is not at all the blood oxygen consumption that one would expect if, for example, running while holding your breath.
And so far it looks as if Viltrumite levitation is not related to physiology... well, or at least does not require active oxygen absorption, which by and large means the same thing, because any organ works by pumping blood and the substances carried by it. But anatomically I do not differ from a human. No additional organs, not even increased mass due to the increased tissue density that one would expect from a creature with such strength and durability... although, an idea immediately arose in me of how the Viltrumite ability to levitate could instinctively reduce our weight.
And this hypothesis is actually very easy to test: you just need to examine a sample of Viltrumite tissues separately from the host, or after their death.
Another effect of the underwater training was the heating of the water by friction. So far it didn't bother me much—especially since I have a very high temperature threshold and even if the water around me boils, I will feel quite comfortable—but this effect can highly unmask my underwater training. That is, if I swam all day only in that bay where I originally entered the water, then, I think, I could raise the water temperature in the nearby area by a few degrees, and this is already an anomaly that could attract unnecessary attention to the place.
But overall, the training went about as I expected. I didn't even meet a single shark or sea monster that would try to eat me. As a result, having swum a few times to Japan and back, I returned to my bay without incident. Toward the end, I was so tired of "flying" that I tried swimming using more classical methods. It was fun, and I even managed to develop a good speed—quite at the level of a high-speed boat.
Stepping onto the shore, I realized that I hadn't brought a towel and, moreover, hadn't thought about how I would wash the salt water off myself. Oh, how short-sighted of me.
Wincing from the tension of the "flying muscle," I hovered slightly above the ground and focused on my... let's call it the sense of flight. Hmm, yes, I think I can do this. Starting at a low speed, I tried to spin myself as much as possible, like a centrifuge or a screw—I think that's what a standing spin is called in figure skating.
But this was already a truly significant test for my stomach; it almost turned into a vomit carousel, and for a few seconds after stopping, I, as they say, floated, almost completely losing my spatial orientation. And, judging by the ground cleared of pebbles within a radius of a couple of meters, I overdid it a bit with the rotation speed, but at least I definitely shook all the water off, along with the sea salt.
Alright, time to head home before Mom suspects anything.
*** Some time later, the Graysons' hometown. By the way, I couldn't find any mentions of the heroes' place of residence in the comic, I would be grateful for a hint... ***
I didn't want to stick my neck out, but shit has this property: it usually doesn't ask if you want it or not, if you're expecting it as a guest, or wouldn't want to see it for another hundred years; it doesn't care, it just comes, and that's it. So these three didn't ask my opinion about their presence in my life. And in vain...
But let's start in order. It was already the second month since the day I began to slowly train my powers, and accordingly the third since acquiring them. I was getting better at masking my training as various teenage activities: for example, rollerblading on the skates gifted to me in honor of an "excellent" semester, or just hanging out with William and my—though mostly his—friends.
But, naturally, I didn't just use Will to cover my absences. At least a couple of times a week I really did hang out with the boys. And this was one of those days.
We had just finished showing off to the locals at the neighboring district's skate park—unfortunately, we didn't have one of our own—and, satisfied with the displayed toxic masculinity and simple boyish stupidity, the whole crowd piled into Burger Mart, that very dump where I "learned to be a man and earn my own money" in my past life.
And although I don't remember everything that happened in my childhood—no one remembers, unless they have an eidetic memory, or suffer from memory loss, usually senile—but one thing I can say for sure: absolutely no one ever robbed this dump! It's such a dump, I repeat this word too often, don't I? But I simply cannot otherwise describe this place that stole the last evenings of my carefree and meaningless teenage existence from me. No self-respecting robber would poke their nose in here under any pretext! But if these three respected themselves, they didn't show it in any way...
And so we sit in this establishment, bothering no one, the guys pouring out their admiration and respect to me for rubbing the noses of the high schoolers from the neighboring district—on the track, naturally, I didn't beat up kids—when these... most typical, I would even say the most stereotypical gangsta boys straight out of their paradise, burst through the doors.
Shapeless hoodies, fake rings, bandanas with skulls drawn on the face, one has a white balaclava pulled over his face, and a chain worn outside his t-shirt, too thick to be gold, especially since this loser is personally robbing such a dump. Apparently, he is the leader of the attackers. Everyone is holding their guns in one hand, raising them above their heads—very convenient to aim like that, probably—in general, morons imitating their rapper idols, from whose music videos they picked up such handling of weapons.
All this was accompanied by inarticulate screams with a prevailing content of the sound "Yo" and the conquering of territory through monkey-like jumps from table to table.
"Empty the register, fat bitch!" demanded the white-faced one, addressing my former, but hopefully not future, employer. "And no funny business!"
He reacted very quickly to what was happening: raised his hands and began to sweat profusely and tremble his lower lip, but hadn't yet realized what the robber was demanding of him—apparently paralyzed by fear, it happens.
While the leader tried to get his demands met by the boss of the establishment, his accomplices—there were two of them—ran from table to table, tearing jewelry off customers if there was any, snatched phones from hands, and demanded cash. One of them jumped up to our table for some reason—it seems my mocking look, which he noticed, was to blame—and started yelling something about "little white bitches," although Shlomo was among us, and he is blacker than any of these three and also a Falasha, an Ethiopian Jew.
The boys were noticeably scared and started babbling something incoherently and shaking with fear. I don't blame them, after all, the racist had a real gun in his hands, and human life is fragile, and nobody wants to die young. Will's friends rushed to comply with the robber's demands and lay face down on the table, starting to lay out their ridiculous pocket money. By rights, I should also comply and not provoke the bastard, but then I won't be able to assess the situation and react in time if one of the morons loses their nerve, and I don't want to humiliate myself in front of this ape either. Clockwell either got too nervous, or just followed my example, and also was in no hurry to kiss his plate of food, but at the same time he took the money out of his pockets and dumped it on the table—a whole five dollar bills crumpled by a shaking little hand.
No matter how sick these moron robbers made me, I wasn't going to reveal myself for this. And it's not even that I hold a grudge and want this dump to go bankrupt before my parents get the idea to send me here for a part-time job, not at all. However, I can deal with them quietly, if, of course, they manage to pull everything off and escape the crime scene with the loot.
"Do you need a special invitation?" the still alive and free gangsta interrupted my reflections on my future fate, pointing the gun at my face and... nervously glancing at the cash on our table, probably beginning to understand himself how stupid it was to demand money from kids.
"You better find someone your own size and leave the kids alone," a calm male voice suddenly rang out, miraculously stopping all the noise, groans, and screams.
Everyone looked at the speaker. It was a provincial-looking guy—a sort of cowboy, he even had a hat, although not exactly a redneck—slightly over thirty, maybe even forty, short in stature, with a two-day stubble. Generally quite a natural type for America, albeit washed out of the public consciousness by leftist propaganda in recent decades. Addressing the robber, he not only didn't look in his direction, but didn't even bother to tear himself away from his food and beer. Under the observation of two dozen frankly astounded eyes, the cowboy bit off a piece of his burger, chewed it diligently and washed it down, and so demonstratively, with smacking, with the rest of his beer.
There he is—an American hero!
And he achieved his goal in full. Now no one cared about the table with the kids, including our gangsta, who rushed to use the provided opportunity not to embarrass himself by having a showdown with a kid. Even the leader forgot about the boss and the under-robbed register.
"Nah, will you look at him?" one of the robbers sneered.
"Are you getting cocky, you freak?!" our thug yelled, running up to the guy and putting the barrel to his temple.
"Excuse me," the leader in the white balaclava chimed in oilily. "Are we bothering you?"
"No, not at all," ignoring the barrel at his temple, the guy answered just as politely. "You see, this might be the last meal of my life, and although the beer here is trash, and the patty in my burger is heavily overcooked and tastes like stale oil, I would still like to enjoy them properly before I beat you up and, with a high degree of probability, one of us dies."
"My God, this guy is cool!" Will whispered in admiration, devouring the man with his eyes... it seems he just changed his orientation.
But it's hard to disagree with him, this guy really is too cool for this world... unless he has superpowers, of course, then he's just masterfully showing off, which is also an important skill for a superhero.
The gangsta holding the barrel at the guy's temple hesitated a bit, throwing a glance at the leader waiting for a cue to act—like a predator falling into a stupor if the prey that always ran away from it in fear suddenly behaves unusually, he felt the dangerous unnaturalness of the situation.
But the cowboy didn't give the robbers time to think and began to act himself. As soon as the thug with the gun looked away from him, he jumped up from his seat at the counter, pushing the barrel away from his head with his elbow, and striking the bandit in the face with the empty beer mug with his other hand. Contrary to the laws of cinema, the glass did not break from the impact of the bottom against the human skull—instead, there was a hollow sound of empty objects colliding.
"Freeze! Sheriff's Department, you're under arrest!" he yelled, pulling a gun from under his jacket and pointing it at the leader. "Drop your weapons!"
Only now did it become clear that in fact he was also very nervous and was not a fearless superhero at all—just a good actor and a principled cop—but from this, he gained even more respect in my eyes.
And although his action was largely idiotic—it would have been safer for everyone to let the morons take the money, and not put the lives of civilians, and especially kids, in danger—but on the other hand, he started acting only when the robbers picked on those same kids. And apparently he's an ordinary guy, without superpowers, but at the same time he overcame his fear and put his life on the line in a deliberately losing situation to fulfill his duty and protect the kids...
And also, human lives now directly depend on whether I intervene in the showdown or not, because I doubt that everyone here will see tomorrow's sunrise if I decide to sit on the sidelines.