"First, the basics," the stranger began, his voice dropping into a low, instructional hum. "Superheroes are graded by their capacity. It starts at F-grade—the bottom of the barrel—and goes up through E, D, C, B, and A. Then you have the S-grades, the SS, and the SSS. You'll likely never see an S-grade in your lifetime, so don't clutter your head with them. The grading isn't about how strong your muscles are; it's about how much Qi energy your body can channel and control."
"So, it's a measurable unit? Like a battery?" Thomas asked.
"No," the man corrected, his voice stern. "We measure it through manifestations and ancient relics. Think of your body like a balloon. You are pushing air—Qi—into it. If the balloon is large and flexible, you can hold a great deal. But if you try to force too much into a space that isn't ready for it... the balloon disfigures. It stretches, it tears, or it eventually explodes."
He tapped the metal casing on his face.
"A scar is a mark of that stretching. It's a sign that you have pushed your body to the absolute limit of its capacity and survived the 'disfigurement.' It shows the world that your Qi has physically altered your form. The more scars you have, the more energy you have moved through your veins. They are the medals of our kind."
Thomas looked at the man's metal patch and then back out the window, trying to reconcile this "evolution through injury" with his own sense of logic. He thought of the balloon analogy and the way his own mind had felt like it was bursting earlier.
"So," Thomas said slowly, "to get stronger, you have to break yourself?"
"Precisely," the man replied. "And you, cub, look far too 'whole' for your own good."
The stranger adjusted his position, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor of the train. "We measure how a superhero's body deals with Qi," he continued, his tone clinical.
"Every vessel is different. Some people have a low threshold—they can't tolerate even a whisper of Qi. These are the F-grades. They show no outward signs, no manifestations, no scars. They are the ones who donate their energy to power the machines of this world because their bodies can't do anything else with it. But if the body can absorb and channel a higher concentration, it leaves marks."
He leaned forward, the light from the passing landscape flickering across the metallic oculus on his face. "Things like deep-set scars, sparkling hair, branched skin flares that look like frozen lightning—these are the maps of a hero's power. They are proof of grade and potential. That's why we value them. A man without a scar is a man without a story."
Thomas studied the man's face, his mind drifting back to the gruesome bounty posters at the station. "Is it painful?" he asked quietly. "The transformation?"
"At first? It's agonising," the man admitted, a ghost of a memory crossing his good eye. "But you learn to crave the ache. It's the feeling of growth. When my superpower first activated, my eye changed—it became something else entirely. Then, a scar tore across my cheek, a physical reaction to the energy surge. That mark alone promoted me to a C-grade superhero."
"C-grade..." Thomas repeated. He felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Based on the man's lethal aura and the way Oliver had spoken of superheroes, he had assumed he was sitting across from an A-grade titan, or perhaps even an S-grade legend. To hear that he was "only" a C-grade made the ladder of power seem impossibly tall.
The man let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, clearly reading the shift in Thomas's expression. "Don't look down at me, cub. You have no idea how rare a C-grade actually is. Most people would kill to stand where I stand. Besides, I'm on the cusp of the B-grade world. I just need to absorb a few more Qi stones to stabilise the transition."
"You can absorb stones to get stronger?" Thomas's detective brain latched onto the mechanic. "It's not just innate?"
"Of course not," the man sneered. "Why do you think there are endless wars over the Isolation Zones? Whoever controls the Qi mines controls the future. If you have the stones, you have the power to force your body to evolve."
"I see..." Thomas muttered. It was a brutal meritocracy fueled by literal mining.
"Just pray you don't end up being one of the 'Fuckers,'" the man laughed, though there was no humour in it. "Statistically, out of a thousand people detected with superpowers, nine hundred will never climb out of the F-grade. They stay smooth-skinned and weak forever."
Thomas fell silent, the weight of the statistics settling in his chest. He looked down at his own hands—clean, unscarred, and youthful. He wondered if he was destined to be one of the nine hundred, a mere battery for the machines of the Great Monarch. But then he realised something: if the man before him was a C-grade and was already this formidable, then the gap between the grades must be astronomical.
"And just so we're clear," the stranger added, tapping the metal casing around his eye, "I'm not hiding my scar because I'm ashamed. This is Gear. Specifically forged to augment what I already have."
"Augment? How?"
The man immediately raised a finger, cutting Thomas off. "Rule number one, cub: as long as you aren't part of my inner circle, you don't get to know the specifics of my power. To reveal your gift is to reveal your throat."
Thomas nodded, absorbing the lesson. Information was the only currency more valuable than Dems.
"Gears are rare," the man continued, pride seeping into his voice as he stroked the leather and brass frame. "They are forged from rare ores found only in the deepest parts of the Isolation Zones. They are prohibitively expensive. Finding an artisan with the skill to forge a piece that doesn't explode when you channel Qi through it is even harder."