Slumdog Hero

Plop, plop, plop—raindrops beat rhythmically against the window, blurring the panoramic view of the cityscape into a watercolor painting of a dreary metropolis. Everything outside was shrouded in a ceaseless gray downpour, with each raindrop further dulling the vibrant neon lights of the city below. From this vantage point in her corporate-sponsored luxury apartment, the world seemed draped in melancholy.

Serena Holt, or Glimmerstrike, as the world knew her, sat cross-legged on the plush sofa, her back rigid against the soft cushions. One hand absentmindedly twirled a lock of her platinum blonde hair, the other scrolling through the newsfeed on her tablet, her green eyes scanning the myriad of headlines, captions, and hashtags.

All were variations of the same old tune, "Hero-killer Axion still at large!" or "Prime: Martyr or Misstep?" or her personal least favorite, "Fallen Prime: Casualty in Metropolis' long history of ignoring the plight of the slums."

As her frustration mounted, a shimmer of golden hard-light constructs materialized and flickered around her, responding to her power's entanglement with her emotions.

"You'd think they'd give me a break," she grumbled to herself.

With an irritated gesture, she minimized her feed and tossed the tablet aside, watching as it bounced softly on the couch. The clatter would've been more satisfying on a hard surface, echoing the simmering annoyance in her mind.

Just like the rain, it seemed endless, beating down on her every chance they got, chipping away at her spirit. Not only did she fail to capture Axion, but she also made a fool of herself. Again.

Her cheeks burned as she thought back to that moment. Had she really been that embarrassed?

To add insult to injury, one of her drones had captured the scene from a particular angle, making it look... provocative. The viral #GlimmAxion hashtag that was currently trending wasn't helping matters.

Apparently, a segment of her fans—and even her detractors, it seemed—enjoyed the thought of their rivalry turning into something more. Her social media strategist thought the newfound attention and engagement was the best thing that could have happened to her.

Serena was still on the fence about that.

"Oh, just perfect," she said, drawing a leg up to her chest and resting her chin on her knee. Her golden constructs buzzed around her in a comforting cacophony, offering a small respite from her growing anxieties. She'd be content to wallow here forever, never leaving the comfort of her penthouse.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

Public relations nightmares were one thing; a live-streamed blunder was another. She had a reputation to uphold, an image to maintain. This wasn't the way a rising star behaved. She needed to salvage the situation, not just for the sake of her pride, but also for the anxious executives at Paragon Entertainment, who saw every stumble or setback as a potential career-ender.

Serena clenched her fist, causing a sphere of hard light to form, casting an eerie golden glow across her face. A bitter laugh escaped her lips as she recalled the initial promises.

They were supposed to launch her into the stratosphere, make her a star that shone brighter than all the rest combined. Her world was supposed to become a whirlwind of high-profile appearances, magazine covers, and maybe even a movie deal.

The sphere's surface rippled in response to her anger.

Instead, she found herself caught in a spiral of misfortune, her career on the brink of collapse after a series of blunders, her stream's viewer count in a nosedive, and a myriad of fresh bruises to show for her troubles.

Sure, that viral scene had momentarily boosted her views. But that was days ago, and the effect was already beginning to wane. Plus, a part of her detested the idea of her viewership being dependent on those kinds of antics. It felt cheap, dishonest. As a superhero, she should be known for her deeds, for protecting and saving others, not for her on-camera theatrics, or what the #GlimmAxion fans deemed 'sexual tension,' or whatever other absurd narrative that lived rent-free in their heads.

But life had a way of subverting expectations.

Her thoughts returned to Axion, the root of her current state of mind, that annoying white-haired slumrat that had made a mockery of her every attempt to apprehend her. Serena wasn't used to losing, let alone suffering defeat so many times in a row. Yet, with every chase, it seemed Axion was toying with her, always a step ahead, always out of reach.

Sure, Serena wasn't really giving her all—the last thing she wanted was to be responsible for a casualty. But neither was Axion, really. She seemed more intent on getting away unscathed than anything else.

"It's like she's messing with me," she muttered, a hint of frustration seeping into her voice.

A few months ago, the major news outlets were all abuzz about the death of the Metropolis's most powerful Superhero, Prime, at the hands of the so-called Hero-Killer Axion. Prime had been a beacon of justice and a paragon of virtue, someone who'd inspired countless souls, including Serena, to follow in his footsteps and become a superhero.

Then, suddenly, he was dead. Gone.

Even the #GlimmAxion hashtag felt like a slap in the face to Prime's memory. His killer, who continued to roam free, was now somehow also a part of a joke of a ship?

Serena was partially responsible for perpetuating that, granted, but she thought that broadcasting her chases through the slums was helping raise awareness. A campaign to finally bring justice to the infamous murderer and do right by the city's fallen hero. Her agency agreed it was a brilliant idea, too.

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Yet, here she was, sitting in her luxury apartment, nursing her wounds and her ego while Axion was probably lounging in her slum hideout, enjoying her notoriety, laughing at Serena's relentless failures.

With a dismissive flick of her wrist, the construct dissolved into nothingness. "What's her power anyway? Control over objects? Levitation? Or... telekinesis? No, can't be. Only Prime had that power."

That's what the conspiracy theories had said anyway. She'd been in contact with some of her fans on the internet—the deep divers who kept up with all the rumor mills.

Serena sighed. "If it's telekinesis, no wonder I can't beat her. No one could."

She rolled her shoulders and exhaled, trying to expel the lingering tension.

Then, a soft beep and a cool, synthetic voice cut through her musings, "Miss Holt, Paragon Entertainment has requested a debrief."

An electronic device, embedded in the wall, displayed the time: 8:00 PM in large, luminescent digits.

"Oh joy, here we go again," Serena murmured, pushing herself up from the couch.

She paused briefly by the ornate mirror hanging near the wall, straightening her track jacket and tucking a stray strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. Her reflection stared back at her, the Glimmerstrike logo emblazoned on her jacket. It was her fifteen minutes of fame, after all.

"Makeup could do with a touch-up." She knew they'd scrutinize her appearance—the public, her fans, her haters. They all would. That's what being a media-friendly, corporate-sponsored Super was all about.

But a sense of fatigue kept her from walking the extra distance to her vanity. This apartment, this life—it wasn't hers. The soft hum of the electric clock suddenly seemed to be too loud.

With a swipe of her hand, the front door slid open, revealing the two burly security guards stationed just outside. Their presence had been mandated ever since the incident in the slums had soured her public image. Safety first, public relations a close second. But their grim faces and muscular stances did nothing to make her feel safer.

"Officer Flynn, Officer Bailey," Serena greeted them with a polite nod.

Flynn returned the gesture, while Bailey offered a gruff "ma'am," his expression unchanging. If looks could kill, Serena's fanbase would've been decimated a long time ago. These two weren't the type you'd invite to afternoon tea.

They escorted her to the elevator, and the chrome doors opened with a soft whoosh. Stepping inside, she leaned against the back mirror, watching her guards turn to face the closing doors. Soon, the descent began, each passing floor whispering a promise of what was to come: a tedious debrief, an overbearing supervisor, and the endless cycle of proving her worth to an audience she didn't entirely care for.

With a subtle movement, her fingertips brushed against the back of her neck, where the biometric implant lay beneath the skin. Her free ticket to the metropolis' finest establishment. That tiny chip held the essence of her being, her identity, and her prowess. It was her skeleton key to her surreal lifestyle, one that now felt increasingly like a golden cage.

"Each scan confirms your identity and compares it against the registered information in our database, which includes everything from fingerprints to genetic profile."

That's what they had told her, a recollection of her enrollment in the registration program surfacing from the back of her mind. Ever since, access to restricted areas in the metropolis had been as simple as a nod to a nearby biometric scanner.

Even with her rising fame, Serena felt out of place, a square peg in a round hole. The night outside seemed to reflect her mood—lonely, desolate, with only the raindrops offering any sort of comfort or reassurance that things could be different.

As they reached the lobby floor, the doors slid open once more, and Serena's gaze found Officer Bailey's broad back. He was leading the way across the vast hall, where the city's elite and business magnates hustled and bustled about. Ignoring the imposing statue in the center, Flynn escorted them to a sleek, black Paragon vehicle waiting outside.

One last glance at the hotel's modern architecture, and Serena felt that perhaps a moment of tranquility in her penthouse would have better suited her growing malaise than another lengthy meeting.

Once settled in the car, Bailey tapped at the control panel, programming in the route and destination. They then pulled away into the rain-soaked streets, and for the rest of the journey, Serena sought solace by watching the city lights blur past in smudges of neon through the droplet-laden window.

As they neared their destination, the cityscape around them slowly transitioned. Bright neon and holographic advertisements gave way to more reserved, authoritative structures, with high-tech defenses visible for all to see.

This part of the city always made Serena feel insignificant, an ant scurrying among the towering monuments of humanity's achievements.

She couldn't help but marvel at the ever-present police drones, and the few mechs—large bipedal robots used for policing and national defense—standing guard in strategic locations. As they passed, their scanners briefly turned to eye her vehicle. The area was brimming with government facilities and security hubs, and to her, it seemed a tad too cold and humorless for her taste.

Above, she could spot a few police craft and autonomous taxis zipping past, effortlessly navigating the sky lanes. It was a clear display of power and technological prowess. Citizens didn't get to own mechs or hovercrafts without special permits.

A nearby billboard showcased the latest and tech: a sleek, silver drone. The narration accompanying the ad wasn't lost on her: "Never fly alone. Get yourself a drone companion. Live, work, and protect with our smart, reliable AI."

Inwardly, Serena chuckled. Why bother having a baby if you could just buy a fancy flying robot to raise instead?

She supposed that's what it came down to in the end. Could artificial intelligence do this superhero gig better than her? With the way things were going, maybe someone upstairs would decide to test that theory.

Soon enough, the car slowed before a gatehouse guarding the entrance to a spacious compound. As the automated sequence played out, their vehicle was scanned. Officer Bailey retrieved a small card from his pocket, feeding it into a slot in the car's interface. The gate opened, and they drove into an expansive parking lot designated for VIP visitors and law enforcement personnel.

In front of them stood the formidable Institute, the architectural marvel of the compound. The structure was a multistory complex, housing one of the largest database centers in the metropolis. Serena always found the building eerily monolithic, especially with its sweeping arches and dominant facade. The constant presence of high-tech security only reinforced its intimidating aura.

"It's not too late to fake a stomachache," Serena said, mostly to herself, as she gazed out of the window.

Neither of her guards laughed.

Soon, the car slowed to a halt in front of the Institute, and the trio stepped out into the misty evening, the rain having eased into a gentle drizzle.

Serena inhaled the humid air, hoping it might calm her nerves. It didn't.

They made their way to the imposing entrance of the Institute, where the biometric scanner was ready and waiting. She made eye contact with the device, its blue light scanning her face and then turning green.

"Access Granted," a voice chimed. "Welcome, Miss Holt."