A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0009

Chapter 9

The San Diego twilight tinged the sky with a reddish-orange hue that slowly dissolved into shades of deep purple, as if the horizon itself were bleeding under the weight of the secrets the world insisted on hiding. Jack Williams dragged his feet through the narrow hallway of the dilapidated building, the heavy cardboard bag in his thin arms protesting with each step he climbed. The damp smell of mold mingled with the salt of the nearby ocean, permeating the air, clinging to his skin like a second layer of exhaustion. It had only been a day since ChaosGacha had turned his reality upside down, and the weight of that single day weighed on his shoulders as if it were a week.

At work, the hours dragged on like rusty chains. Between restocking shelves and attending to distracted customers, Jack’s eyes devoured every yellowed page of the local and national newspapers he managed to leaf through between clients—metahumans sprouting like weeds across the country, inexplicable catastrophes, monsters emerging from the urban shadows and devouring the fragile balance of a society that feigned normalcy. Albuquerque still echoed in the news with grainy images of destruction, and Fred Nelson wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. The planet seemed like a powder keg with a lit fuse, ready to explode at any moment. Jack felt a tightness in his chest just thinking about it—he was no longer the boy who escaped into comic books and anime. He was a survivor in a world that devoured the weak without ceremony.

As he turned the key in the rusty lock, the familiar creak of the door echoed like a sigh of relief. The tiny apartment greeted him with the same combination of dampness, stale food, and suppressed despair he had learned to tolerate. Jack leaned against the door with his shoulder, locked it out of habit, and carried the bag into the cramped kitchen. His arms trembled slightly from the effort—seventy pounds of bones and stretched skin weren’t made to carry extra weight—but he ignored the familiar ache as he emptied the groceries with methodical, almost ritualistic movements: firm potatoes that smelled of damp earth, fresh vegetables with leaves still wet from the dew of the cheap market, and packages of chicken thighs, the most affordable meat he had found, but which still weighed heavily on his dwindling pockets. Each item stored in the refrigerator represented a small victory against chronic hunger, but also a painful reminder: he needed a better, stronger body if he wanted to survive future rolls. The suit gave him borrowed power; the rest depended on him. The cold air from the refrigerator blew against her pale face as she closed the door, bringing brief relief to her skin, hot from the exhausting day.

The bathroom was a cramped cubicle, with cracked tiles and a shower that spat out lukewarm water. Jack removed his shift clothes, feeling the sticky fabric peel away from his thin skin, and stepped under the stream. The water ran through his disheveled hair, carrying the smell of diesel and accumulated sweat from the gas station. As he scrubbed his arms with cheap soap, his muscles protesting, his mind raced: metahumans, monsters, Vought, GDA. The newspaper had mentioned “external forces” as a solution, but Jack knew that meant corporate superheroes and shadowy agencies hunting anomalies like him. Kevin’s world—full of flying heroes and everyday threats—was now his too, and the system wasn’t simple. He increasingly doubted it was just a friendly roulette. From the suit to Maomao’s cream, information had become scarce, almost intangible. The suit possessed an internal system that described its functions with clinical precision, but the porcelain pot? Only the frantic notes in the notebook preserved the knowledge. No direct access, no floating menu explaining the next step. It was as if ChaosGacha was testing him, forcing him to improvise in the dark.

The sudden ring of the doorbell cut through the sound of the water like a distant gunshot. Jack froze, his heart racing. Kevin. They had arranged it earlier—a meeting to map out the chaos surrounding them. He turned off the shower, grabbed the thin towel and wrapped it around his waist, cold drops trickling down his legs as he walked barefoot across the uneven floor. The peephole slightly distorted the figure outside: Kevin, with his familiar, chubby silhouette. Jack opened the door, a breath of cooler night air rushing into the apartment.

Kevin entered carrying a large whiteboard under one arm—the cold metal clinking against the door frame—and a folded tripod in the other hand. The smell of new marker and fresh sweat accompanied him, mingling with the lingering scent of Maomao cream that still subtly hung in the apartment’s air. He gasped as he leaned the board against the living room wall, the sound echoing in the confined space.

“All set, mate?” he asked, his voice hoarse with the anticipation of a long night ahead, his brown eyes gleaming with that mixture of excitement and determination that Jack was beginning to recognize as his friend’s trademark.

Jack closed the door behind him, turning the key with a firm click that sealed off the outside world.

“Good night,” he replied, his voice still heavy from the dampness of the shower, a tired smile curving his pale lips.

Kevin blinked, as if the greeting had brought him back to reality, and scratched his poorly trimmed red beard.

“Good evening. Get ready quickly, you have a lot of work to do tonight.”

Jack nodded, feeling the rough towel against his skin, and went to his room. As he put on an old t-shirt and worn sweatpants—clothes that seemed even more insignificant after the impeccable luxury of the tuxedo—he heard Kevin in the living room adjusting the tripod with metallic noises and the dragging of the painting. The air was thick with expectation: the smell of food stored in the kitchen mingled with the sea salt that entered through the half-open window, and the distant hum of sirens in the city served as a constant soundtrack to the latent danger.

Back in the room, Jack found Kevin already positioning the whiteboard in the center, the tripod firmly on the worn linoleum. Markers of various colors rested on the bottom edge, ready to record ideas, sketches, and strategies. His friend turned, wiping his hands on his baggy jeans, his round face sweaty from the effort of carrying the materials upstairs, his eyes scanning Jack from head to toe and noticing the deep dark circles under his eyes and the posture still slightly hunched from the day’s fatigue.

“Dude, you look like you got run over by a truck. Did you read the newspapers today? That mess in Albuquerque… and there are reports of even worse things happening in Texas, in New York.”

Jack sat on the worn sofa, feeling the springs creak under his light weight, and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. The cool touch of the forgotten towel in the room contrasted with the residual warmth of his skin. He described in detail what he had read: apparitions of uncontrolled metahumans, catastrophes that seemed orchestrated, the feeling that the fabric of reality was unraveling on multiple fronts simultaneously, like seams giving way under tension accumulated over a long time.

“This planet is in chaos. One step away from exploding. And I… I’m in the middle of it right now. The system isn’t simple, Kevin. I can’t access anything more about the suit or the cream beyond what the suit itself shows me internally and the notes in the notebook. It’s as if it wants me to earn every fragment of power I receive.”

His long fingers drummed on his knee, his analytical mind already mapping out variables: the ethical risks of feeding the Gacha with illicit items, the physical frailty that still made him vulnerable outside of his suit, the constant fear of detection by the GDA or Vought. The subtle scent of Maomao’s cream, reapplied earlier, lingered lightly on his face, a comforting and almost ironic contrast amidst the tension that enveloped every thought.

Kevin nodded slowly, positioning the first marker in his hand like a weapon. He drew a vertical line on the board, dividing it into sections with the practical precision of someone who had spent time thinking about it before arriving: System, Threats, Plans, Physical Improvements . His movements were energetic despite his chubby body, and the smell of fresh marker filled the air.

“So let’s map it out. You need a better physique, right? You can’t just rely on a fancy suit. Eating chicken every day isn’t going to turn you into a super soldier, but it’s a start. And I… I’m in, man. Let’s discuss the variables of the new world—for you, at least. For me, it’s the same old thing, full of flying idiots and evil corporations.”

He chuckled softly, and the sound was genuine enough to break some of the tension in the air for a moment.

The hours passed as they filled the board, and the air in the small, stuffy apartment seemed to thicken progressively, heavy with the lingering scent of fresh herbs and dried flowers from Maomao’s cream that still subtly clung to the two young men’s skin—an almost surreal contrast to the musty smell of the walls and the light touch of salty breeze that entered through the half-open window. Jack Williams and Kevin Harlan stood side by side, their shoulders almost touching—Jack’s lean, elongated body contrasting with his friend’s shorter, stockier silhouette—their eyes fixed on the whiteboard, now scribbled from top to bottom with markers of various colors: names, arrows connecting theories, approximate dates, and frantic questions that filled the white space like a chaotic map of a universe that revealed itself to be more dangerous with each passing hour.

The yellowish light of the lamp cast elongated shadows on the notes, making the letters tremble slightly with the subtle movement of the air, while the distant hum of sirens in the city and the occasional rumble of a truck at the port served as a constant reminder that the world outside did not expect careful planning. Kevin scratched his poorly trimmed red beard, the rough sound of nails against hair filling the brief silence, and tilted his head to the side, analyzing the scene with half-closed brown eyes.

“So we have no idea what kind of world… it’s become, theoretically,” Kevin murmured, his hoarse voice laden with a mixture of disbelief and restrained excitement, his body leaning forward as if the painting could reveal answers simply by its proximity.

Jack ran his long, pale fingers through his still-damp hair, feeling the cool strands against the warm skin of his forehead, and took a deep breath of the heavy air before answering, his low, reflective voice echoing in the confined space.

“When I made the choice between these two worlds… I didn’t imagine this would happen.” The words came out heavy, laden with the weight of eighteen years of escapes and disappointments, his deep green eyes scanning the notes on the board as if searching for meaning amidst the chaos. “And now I’m stuck in this mess. Not that I’m going to look back for my old life.” He paused, feeling the bitter taste of resignation on his tongue, the lingering smell of raw chicken still permeating the nearby kitchen mingling with the tension of the moment. “Recently this… gacha… maybe it’s a necessary change my life needed. Although I think I’ll die in the process.”

Kevin let out a short, hoarse laugh, the genuine sound cutting through the air like a temporary relief, his chubby body swaying slightly as he patted his thigh, his eyes gleaming with that stubborn loyalty Jack was beginning to value more and more. The laugh echoed off the thin walls, mingling with the distant honking of a horn at the harbor, and Kevin shook his head, still smiling, but with a growing seriousness returning to his round, sweaty face. The whiteboard dominated their view: names of iconic characters from the Invincible universe urgently scribbled on it—Omni-Man, actually Nolan Grayson, the Viltrumite patriarch with his unwavering hero facade; Mark Grayson, the young man who would inherit a legacy of destruction and redemption; Oliver Grayson, the younger half-brother whose existence carried unpredictable ramifications. Next to it, arrows pointed to potential calamities: the Viltrumite invasion that loomed like a shadow over the planet’s future, villains Jack remembered from the comics and the animated series—Angstrom Levy with his alternate dimensions, the Sequid, the global conspiracies that threatened to engulf entire civilizations. There were also notes about The Boys: Homelander and his smiling psychopathy, Vought with its toxic marketing campaigns, and the inevitable crossover between these two universes that made everything even more volatile and unpredictable.

Jack frowned, mentally tracing the lines on the board, his analytical reasoning sharpened by years of devouring stories working at breakneck speed.

“Since it’s a completely different universe from what I read in the comics or saw in the animated series, I highly doubt that the timeline I’m in will follow the same course.”

The voice deepened, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the frame, feeling the dry marker against the skin.

“And I haven’t the slightest idea how much time is left before the Invincible storyline begins. I already know the plot will be completely different from the comics and the Amazon cartoon. However… something big is going to happen. After all, from the moment Mark awakens his powers, everything changes. A clock, the end of the world could arrive at any moment.” He gestured vaguely to the painting, the movement stirring the air and intensifying the subtle scent of the cream on their faces. “So, no sightings of a boy in yellow and blue flying around.”

Kevin, who at that moment was leafing through a small, worn notebook pulled from his denim jacket pocket, checking hastily scribbled notes, looked up and shook his head.

“No.” The word came out firmly, practically, as she pointed with the marker to a specific section of the board. “But don’t worry. Omni-Man, global hero. He’s out there. And if he has children, I’ll find him.”

The tone was confident, but Jack felt a chill run down his spine—the physical vulnerability still present even after the shower, the lean muscles tense beneath the old t-shirt, the skin prickling from the night wind that carried the distant scent of diesel and the sea.

“Dude, be careful,” Jack warned immediately, his voice low but urgent, turning to his friend, his green eyes fixed on his, his pale hand briefly landing on Kevin’s chubby shoulder in a gesture of genuine concern. “They, this family, are monitored by the GDA. Anything strange that happens to them, they track people down very easily.” The agency’s name came out laden with tension, evoking images of drones, shadowy agents, and omnipresent surveillance that Jack had gleaned from newspapers and the fragmented knowledge he possessed.

Kevin shook his head, scratching his beard once more, the rough sound filling the brief silence as he leaned over the notebook.

“Relax. I’m not going to do that kind of research.” The voice carried a pragmatic determination, the brown eyes scanning the notes. “I’m going to… look in phone books, checking if… Mark’s mother exists, and if she’s really married to… some mustachioed man. The hardest part will be figuring out their city.”

He paused, waiting, and Jack answered without hesitation, his analytical mind already weighing risks and possibilities.

“Baltimore. But it’s not certain. After all, this universe is clearly different from what I knew. So we’ll have to do thorough and extremely discreet research.” Jack felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, his heart racing slightly at the image of invisible targets turning towards them, the musty smell of the apartment seeming more oppressive for a moment. “I wouldn’t even risk doing something like that now, especially since the GDA is extremely powerful. And I think we’d just be putting a target on our own backs.”

Kevin nodded slowly, his body moving with a sigh that made the nearby chair creak, as he flipped through another page of his notebook.

“Yes, but as I said, consulting phone books shouldn’t be a problem. Knowing that this woman exists. If she’s already married, that’s a big step in our research.” The tone was optimistic but anchored in caution, thick fingers drumming in the notebook as he visualized the plan. Jack nodded, understanding the reasoning, feeling a spark of relief mixed with lingering anxiety—Maomao’s cream still refreshing his face, a tactile reminder that small Gacha victories could pave the way.

“And this could be research that isn’t so invasive and could go unnoticed by the GDA. After all, neither of us is anyone.” Jack’s words concluded the thought with a note of austere realism, the two turning their gaze back to the scribbled board, the air between them heavy with strategy, calculated fear, and the loyalty that bound them.

Jack’s eyes slowly slid across the scribbled whiteboard, leaving the section where the names of aliens with almost godlike powers were etched in urgent red letters, arrows connecting cosmic threats and unpredictable ramifications that made the air in the apartment seem even heavier and more oppressive. Kevin, beside him, leaned his chubby body forward, the marker still between his thick fingers, as they both focused on the top of the board marked with the title The Boys in thick strokes of dark blue. The yellowish light from the lamp hanging on the ceiling cast elongated shadows on the notes, making the letters dance subtly with each night breeze that swayed the thin curtain, and the distant hum of sirens in the port city served as a constant backdrop—a reminder that danger was not mere theory scribbled on the board, but something alive and breathing in the streets of San Diego.

“They could be one of the most dangerous things on this planet right now,” Jack murmured, his voice low and reflective, heavy with the day’s accumulated fatigue but sharpened by the analytical reasoning honed over years of devouring comics and TV series. “Looking specifically at this part of the problem, we can see its main source, which is Vought. A company so powerful that they themselves don’t know the roots of the problem they might cause. They know they have a gigantic count of metahumans, or rather, modified beings. And perhaps it’s the faction that dominates most of the metahumans on the entire planet. The number of… heroes and even villains on that company’s payroll is so large, so extensive, and so deep that we don’t even know where to begin to unravel it.”

Jack felt his chest tighten with the magnitude of the information, the weight of physical vulnerability still present in his narrow shoulders and slightly hunched posture, while the fresh scent of the cream reapplied earlier refreshed his skin—an ironic contrast to the corporate rot that the chart exposed in arrows and names. Unlike the GDA, a global agency that sought, in its own twisted way, to protect the planet, Vought only cared about itself—and having psychopaths as the company’s spearhead didn’t help matters. The fact that it had Homelander, a complete smiling psychopath, and a whole bunch of other equally unstable heroes, only aggravated the problem.

That part of the chart listed the names of the main heroes now linked to Vought—precisely so they would at least have some idea of ​​how much time they had before disaster struck. Apparently, the Seven were still in their original lineup: Homelander as leader, Queen Maeve as co-captain, A-Train—apparently new to the team—The Deep, Black Noir, Translucent, and Lamplighter. According to what Kevin had gathered, there were no talks of replacements or changes, suggesting a considerable window of time before this part of the problem became a critical issue. Perhaps they could even prepare to prevent it.

Kevin, also staring at the same line of problems, frowned deeply, his round, sweaty face glistening in the dim light, scratching his poorly trimmed red beard in a nervous gesture that produced a harsh sound filling the brief silence between sentences. The notebook in his other hand trembled slightly as he compared his notes with those on the board, the smell of fresh marker mingling with the heavy air of the apartment.

“Man, this is really problematic,” he said, his hoarse, deep voice echoing off the thin walls, laden with genuine concern that made his chubby body lean even closer to the painting. “They dominate most of the metahumans on the entire planet. The level of power they possess is immense. How are we going to fight against that?”

”I don’t know.”

Jack’s eyes landed on a word he himself had written there, highlighted in vibrant blue strokes that mimicked the original color of the legendary compound, and he felt a spark of cautious determination rise in his thin chest, mixed with the chronic fear that years of family trauma had ingrained in his psyche.

“However, perhaps we can level the playing field, so to speak.”

Kevin followed his friend’s gaze, turning his head curiously, his brown eyes fixed on the same word, the air between them thickening with the implication of the calculated risk. Compound V , written on the whiteboard, painted blue to match the original color. It was a key they could use to not rely so heavily on Gacha—even though it was their strongest power—without which any direct confrontation with Vought or the Seven would be pure suicide. It could be what catapulted them into a new league, however extremely dangerous that leap might be.

“Do you think we’re going to make it?” Kevin asked, his voice heavy with practical doubt as he flipped through his notebook looking for cross-references, sweat slowly trickling down his broad forehead and the smell of nervous exertion intensifying in the confined space.

Jack took a deep breath, feeling the humid air of the apartment fill his lungs, the subtle taste of sea salt on his tongue.

“Succeeding? I don’t think that’s the problem. The problem is surviving the process. Now we have to hope that gacha can provide us with something to get through this.”

Kevin nodded slowly, processing the words, his body moving with a heavy sigh that made the nearby chair creak slightly, unwavering loyalty shining behind the worry in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, my friend, I agree with you.”

The conversation stretched on for long, dense, and intertwined minutes, the two young men alternating glances between the painting and each other, analyzing every detail sketched with obsessive precision. Jack detailed how Vought represented a corporate hydra with tentacles extending through marketing, politics, and military power disguised as heroism—controlling not only public heroes like Homelander, whose smiling psychopathy sold soda while covering up atrocities, but also a deep network of paid villains and hidden experiments that made any direct confrontation suicide. The current formation of the Seven, still intact and without mention of recent replacements or losses, suggested a valuable window: time to accumulate value in ChaosGacha, train the fragile bodies to the limits of the Tuxedo Elite, and map weaknesses without attracting immediate attention from the GDA or Vought itself.

Kevin contributed pragmatic observations, pointing to the notebook where he had listed street rumors and newspaper articles, emphasizing the company’s massive control over modified metahumans—which raised the risk of any hasty research or action to catastrophic levels. Compound V emerged as the risky counterpoint: a substance capable of granting genuine powers, but whose effects ranged from transformation to total destruction of the host organism, depending on factors that neither of them yet fully understood. Each word exchanged deepened the immersion in the analysis—Jack describing the ethical and logistical ramifications, the initial reliance on Gacha to acquire samples or information about Compound V, and the need for absolute secrecy to prevent Vought’s sights from falling on two nobodies like themselves.

The apartment seemed to shrink around the two of them, the weight of information thickening the air, with the distant sound of waves crashing in the harbor and the occasional creaking of the old building punctuating the reflective silences. Jack felt the fatigue accumulating in his lean muscles, but also a growing clarity—creative reasoning revolving around strategies: infiltrating indirectly, accumulating value from black market items without exposing the system, and using the time of the Seven’s stable formation to plan the dangerous leap. Kevin, loyal and determined, echoed every concern with alternative plans and warnings about psychopaths like Homelander, whose presence raised the existential danger to a level where any mistake would cost not only their lives, but potentially the fragile balance that still remained on the planet.

The two remained engrossed, scribbling new arrows and notes on the board, sweat mingling with the floral scent of the cream, their bodies tired but their minds sharpened by their shared urgency. The world outside—with its corrupt corporations, its false heroes, and its vile threats on the horizon—offered no respite. But there, in the wretched heart of the apartment near the port, an alliance was forged in detailed knowledge and careful planning, built upon the one thing no corporation or agency could buy or destroy: the deliberate choice of two nobodies to no longer be just that.