Birth of the Warriors
Chapter 4: Fall of the Hour
Missed the last chapter of Birth of the Warriors? No worries! Find it here!
PRIME HQ – Viperial Expo | 5:00 PM
The particle accelerator has been relocated from the Scientific Wing to the Expo’s stage. Droves of engineers work double-time, threading thick HV cables beneath the flooring as stage lights begin warmup tests overhead. It’s just hours before the world will watch history unfold—or unravel.
Marcus Shawne steps onto the stage, his coat brushing past coils of wire and open schematics. Officially, Marcus has been called in to assist after Francis was urgently summoned back to Olympus HQ by Director Savage. Unofficially, some are saying it was for diplomatic oversight; others are whispering she didn’t trust what was happening and didn’t want her name attached if it failed. Whatever the reason—she was gone. And Marcus is here.
He finds Dr. Elias Mercer alone near the base of the accelerator, double-checking output readings on a tablet. Marcus approaches casually.
“I’ve gone over your Rule,” Marcus begins, his voice smooth, almost impressed. “And I must say—I think it’ll work. But one thing worries me. Once the core opens—once that deeper energy pushes through—I suspect the accelerator might need to increase its power intake just to stay stable. Don’t you think?”
Mercer doesn’t look up. He scratches his head, eyes still scanning numbers.
“No. It’s not about more power. It’s about sustaining what we’ve got. The issue isn’t power—it’s containment. We can only draw so much from the city grid without setting off alarms. The problem is keeping it at max load without frying the system.”
Marcus’ eyes widen slightly. “Wait…Are we really operating at full output within those limitations?”
Mercer finally turns to him with a crooked smile.
“Oh, definitely. Honestly, I oversold the energy needs to Francis. We’ve got plenty of headroom. Again, the real issue is whether this thing can run steady long enough for us to touch that inner power before it collapses.”
Marcus hums softly, pensive. “Then let’s only hope.”
He taps Mercer on his back, then slips behind the stage curtain.
Outside the curtain, Expo technicians swarm like bees—tension replacing any trace of spectacle. Massive cooling rigs are wheeled into position. Engineers debate which PRIME departments can be powered down during the event to maintain the accelerator's peak performance. One miscalculation could fry the machine—or worse. Panic has gone. In its place—focus.
***
Downtown Viperial – High-Rise Construction Site | 5:30 PM
The sun hangs low, and the skyline shimmers beneath a bruised sky—streaks of orange, peach, and fading blue. Long shadows stretch under the steel beams of the construction site. The city is winding down.
Frank Samson wraps up his overtime shift. Sweat glistens under his skin under the late sun as he hauls an 8-foot steel beam across the gravel-laced floor, arms bulging and boots crunching with every step.
A coworker leans on a support column, eyes wide: “Yo! Frank, you need some help man?! Those beams weigh like 300 pounds. How you doing that?” He jogs over, ready to help.
Frank grins and waves him off, brushing dust off his shoulder. “I’m a Samson. I got this, brotha.”
He plants the steel beam beside a growing pile, then strolls to the time clock and punches out. He hops into his dirty, forest-green Dodge Ram 1500 and cranks the ignition. The engine growls to life as the last rays of sun streak across the windshield. He drives to the edge of downtown, heading for his favorite bar—a regular Friday ritual.
Inside, the bartender greets him with a nod: “Sup Frank, the usual?” He slides over a cold bottle.
Frank nods and takes a seat at the counter, the hum of the city dimming behind a soft R&B track playing low overhead.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
His phone buzzes on the counter. The screen reads: J Baller—an old name from another life.
He declines the call. “Hell nah,” he mutters.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
Again. And again.
On the third ring, he answers, already annoyed.
“Yo? What’s up? I’m at work. Why you blowing me up?”
On the other end—chaos. Gunfire. Screams.
A panicked voice shouts: “Frank, it’s bad! We got into it with them Scotts Park dudes—some serious heat, dawg! We need help!”
Frank’s jaw clenches. He drops his head into his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. One sharp breath in. One long breath out.
“Where are you?”
“Rena Park. We’re pinned here on 7th Ave!”
He doesn’t finish his beer. He slaps $40 on the bar and storms out.
Back in his truck, he reaches into the glove box before turning the key. Out comes a Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol—and a weathered photo of his father. His hand hovers over it, knuckles tight. His eyes close.
“This shit don’t get no easier, do it, pop?”
He kisses the edge of the photo, folds it carefully, and slides it back into the glovebox. Then he tucks the pistol into his waistband, slams the door shut, and grips the wheel. The truck snarls onto the street, tires biting into the road.
Frank’s eyes are locked ahead—grief, rage, and purpose boiling behind the wheel. But as he cuts through an intersection, a figure steps off the curb.
Tyson Willis.
The brakes scream. Tires swerve. For half a second, time hiccups.
Frank jerks the wheel, missing the Marine by inches.
Their eyes meet through the glass. Neither one blinks.
“Asshole.” They both say.
And just like that, Frank roars past—headed for war.
***
Ready for the next chapter in Birth of the Warriors? Jump into Chapter 5: Bad Timing!