Chapter 1: A Hero Awakens
In the heart of Gotham City, where shadows clung to the stone walls like spectres, a solitary figure trudged through the downpour.
Maro Dumont , a boy of unassuming countenance, clutched his schoolbooks close to his chest, a hapless wanderer in the gloom of a darkened metropolis.
He frowned as rain fell from the skies, causing the floor to mirror the grim skies of Gotham.
Maro's footsteps echoed through the alleyways, the splashing of water the only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence.
The flickering streetlights cast long, distorted shadows as Maro walked the maze-like city. Unbeknownst to him, malicious eyes lurked in the inky darkness, watching his every move.
"I should have just asked Anderson to drop me off...", he thought, the regret seeping into his bones.
Yet, obligations lingered—his unfinished assignments and responsibilities at the part-time job he'd taken to support his family after his father's illness, superseded his discomfort.
Besides, he had lived in Gotham his whole life and there had yet to be an issue.
Admittedly, Maro normally did avoid situations like this - yet today was different. He had to stay behind at school, and Anderson had forced a late shift onto him.
The rain intensified, as if the heavens wept in sympathy for Maro's plight. He trudged on, the weight of his soaked clothes matching the burden on his shoulders.
Suddenly, as Maro turned a corner, he was ambushed by a group of hooded figures, emerging from the shadows like wraiths.
Their faces obscured by soaked hoods, they surrounded the unsuspecting boy with predatory intent. The atmosphere deepened with malice, the air heavy with the scent of danger.
"Empty your pockets, kid," one of the figures hissed, a voice dripping with malevolence.
Maro's eyes widened in terror as he saw the metallic glint of knives and guns. Fear rushed through his veins, but a defiant spark glowed in his eyes.
With desperation, he bolted, racing through the slick cobblestone streets, the rain-soaked fabric of his school uniform clinging to his trembling form.
One of the hooded thugs pursued him with the tenacity of a shadow.
Maro sprinted through Gotham's darkened alleyways, heart pounding, rain streaming down his face like the tears of his forsaken city. His breath came in ragged gasps as he sought refuge, the world a blurred diorama of fear and adrenaline.
In a moment of cruel irony, Maro's escape was abruptly halted as he slipped.
A gunshot pierced the air, a sharp crack that echoed through the alley.
Pain exploded in his chest as he stumbled and fell.
Rain mingled with crimson red as he lay sprawled on the unforgiving pavement. His white school shirt marred by blood and regret — he could only thank the rain for masking the tears that were undoubtedly seeping down his face.
Gasping for air, Maro clung to the remnants of his life, the world fading to grey around him. With his dying breath, he felt an inexplicable rush of energy, a pulsating force that seemed to emanate inside him.
It was as if the universe itself were acknowledging his struggle.
In the final throes of consciousness, Maro's gaze fell upon an ethereal display materializing before him.
A digital status screen unfolded, casting a bright blue glow upon his fading form.
-
Maro Dumont
Strength: 2
Agility: 2
Endurance: 1
Vitality: 4
Intelligence: 9
Luck: 1
-
It showed an assessment of his current self, a cruel reminder of his limitations.
[Welcome, User.]
A disembodied voice intoned, echoing throughout Maro's fading consciousness. He couldn't help but equate it with the voice of Death.
[You have been chosen.]
As Maro grappled to hold onto his fleeting life, the status screen held his attention. Confusion and desperation swirled within him, and with a flicker of defiance, he mustered the strength to confront the voice that had birthed in the wake of his demise.
"What is this?" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the pattering rain.
[The Hero System welcomes you.]
The voice replied cryptically.
[Do you accept?]
With faltering strength, he probed the system, "If I do, will I live?"
[Yes.]
With grim determination, Maro nodded his head. "I accept."
And then, like a fleeting dream dissolving with the dawn, Maro's consciousness flickered, fading into void.
Rain and shadows melted away, replaced by the antiseptic scent of a hospital room.
Soft light spilt through half-closed curtains, and Maro lay upon crisp white sheets, his body bearing no trace of the gunshot wounds that had called for his end.
The murmur of distant conversations and the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment filled the air.
Maro's eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding his gaze as he sought to reconcile the tangible world with the events of last night. The status screen, now a distant memory, lingered only in the back of his mind.
A figure approached – a nurse with kind eyes and gentle words. She spoke of a miraculous recovery, a second chance gifted by the hands of whatever mystical force had saved him.
He listened, grappling with the news of his survival. Yet, as he did so, a lingering awareness remained – The Hero System. It was an invitation to a destiny Maro had no business claiming, and it had saved his life. But he was no Hero.
"System?", he called out, hoping it had been a figment of his imagination. A fleeting whisper in the corridors of his fading consciousness, or cold delirium seeping in as he died at the feet of Gotham's negligence.
Unfortunately, the system's monotone voice echoed in the chambers of his mind once more, reinforcing his worry.
[The Hero System welcomes you.]
"Yes, I was afraid you would...", he scowled — his stomach dropping as he contemplated just what that entailed.
It was at that moment his sickly father walked in, a frail yet determined figure — his eyes reflecting both concern and a flicker of something Maro struggled to define.
"Maro, my boy," his father's voice, though weak, carried an undeniable warmth. "It should be me lying in that bed, yet here we are."
"I'm sorry," Maro felt anguish at the reminder of his father's health. "You should have stayed home, I'm fine."
His father's cane clicked against the hospital floors as he drew closer towards the chair beside him. With a groan, he sat down before resting his cane and responding.
"I had to see for myself." He hummed tiredly. "You can't have expected me to stay at home. Not when I received a call letting me know my son had been shot."
"Like I said, I'm fine." Maro insisted.
A gentle smile played on his father's lips, and he reached out to place a frail hand on Maro's.
"You're a tough one, just like your mother," he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and sadness. "But you don't need to be invincible, my boy. It's okay to admit when you're hurting."
"I appreciate your concern, Dad," Maro admitted, "but it's just a scratch. You shouldn't burden yourself with unnecessary worry."
His father's expression softened, lines etched by time deepening as he sighed, "A father's worry knows no bounds, my son. Each bruise you bear, I feel as my own."
The hospital room, with its sickeningly clean scent and hum of medical equipment, became the backdrop for their shared strength. Yet what ought to be a touching moment was ruined by the intrusive thoughts popping up in Maro's mind. Mostly about the System he had been bestowed with.
A cruel herald for what could only be danger to come. And as he lay there, in the blinding hospital room - he couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps death was a mercy.
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