Operation: OnlyHeroes

If you ever want to know what collective delusion looks like, imagine this:

A week after the biggest cyber meltdown in superhero history, the world's most dangerous media terrorist — OptikMaster — is standing trial.

Representing himself.

On live television.

Ascendants Tower is still half-cratered, downtown is still under reconstruction, and somehow the government thought it was a great idea to let independent news networks stream the trial of the century. Hashtags are already trending before the judge takes her seat:

#JusticeForOptik #CancelLatteLad #CourtCamLIVE

Me? I'm not trending this time — thank God — but I am sitting on the witness bench, clutching a paper cup of water and my cheeks like it's the last piece of sanity left in the universe.

OptikMaster sits across the room, chained but relaxed, dressed in a sharp black suit that probably cost more than my tuition. No mask. Just that same smug smirk that made the world fall apart. Cameras eat it up, lenses clicking like cicadas in heat.

Judge Alvarez bangs her gavel.

"Court is now in session. Case 23-741: The People versus Ezekiel 'OptikMaster' Cross."

Wait! That's his name?!?

Optik rises, hands still cuffed, and bows slightly. "Your Honor," he says, voice silk-wrapped dynamite, "it's such a pleasure to finally have an audience that doesn't need clickbait titles."

A ripple of laughter. From the jury.

I grip my cup harder. Oh my God, he's winning them over already with that.

The prosecutor, some exhausted government rep who looks like she's aged five years since the kaiju attack, stands and clears her throat. "The defendant is charged with cyberterrorism, conspiracy, kidnapping, destruction of property, and the deliberate manipulation of global media systems for personal gain."

Optik tilts his head. "You make it sound so... ambitious."

Judge Alvarez scowls. "Mr. Cross, if you intend to represent yourself, I suggest you begin by cooperating."

"Cooperation," he muses, pacing, "is such a malleable word, isn't it? Especially when one side controls the narrative."

The cameras zoom in. Of course they do. He's playing to them, not the court.

I glance toward the gallery — half the Ascendants are there, disguised under hoods and shades. Ms. Bishop looks ready to snap a pen in half. Enigma's grinning like this is a matinee performance. Ms. Void lounges in the back, twirling her sunglasses and sipping what's definitely not water.

Optik turns, eyes landing on me. "Ah. Mr. Williams."

The room stills. The way he says my name makes it sound like a secret.

He gestures at me with his cuffed hands. "The world's favorite intern. Our latte-bearing hero. The face of manufactured innocence. Tell me — do you still believe everything you read about yourself?"

"I—what?" My throat goes dry.

He takes a step closer. "You stood at the center of my little social experiment, Toby. You were the perfect test subject. Do you know why?"

Judge Alvarez bangs the gavel again. "Mr. Cross—"

He talks right over her. "Because you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't start wars, or leak secrets, or manipulate public opinion. You just... existed. And the world decided you were a hero. Because they needed one."

He leans on the witness stand, eyes locked on me. "Tell me, Toby. How does it feel to be a brand?"

The courtroom murmurs. The cameras zoom closer. My pulse hammers in my ears.

"I'm not a brand," I say quietly. "I'm a person."

He smiles. "No, you're not. Not anymore. You're content."

That lands like a bullet. Even Bishop flinches.

Judge Alvarez's voice cut through the uproar like a thunderclap.

"Bailiffs, remove the defendant from the witness!"

Two guards lunged for Optik. He didn't resist—he never resisted—but somehow still made it look like his idea. He even smiled as they grabbed his arms, cuffs biting his wrists again.

"Mr. Cross," Alvarez said, voice trembling with both fury and fear, "you will not use this courtroom as your personal broadcast studio. I will have this trial postponed and your privileges revoked if you continue this circus."

Optik tilted his head, all polite mockery. "Postponed? My dear Judge, justice delayed is justice den—"

"Enough!" The gavel cracked so hard it echoed. "One more word and I'll see you sent back to the Supermax in blackout confinement. No interviews. No cameras. No audience. You'll be alone, Ezekiel."

That finally shut him up. Almost.

As the guards dragged him backward, Optik managed to glance over his shoulder at me. His grin was quiet now, smaller but sharper—like a secret between us.

"Guess we'll have to pick this up later, Toby," he said, voice just loud enough for the mics. "Don't miss me too much."

The bailiffs hauled him through the security doors. The metal slammed shut behind him, sealing the moment like the end of a broadcast.

Judge Alvarez exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Court is adjourned until further notice. Witness and counsel will be dismissed. The defendant's custody is remanded to federal containment until I say otherwise."

The crowd didn't move at first—just murmurs, the static hum of hundreds of devices reconnecting to the livestream feed.

Then I realized every single one of them was staring at me.

Because of course they were. I was the intern, the "human side" of the Ascendants, the one who just got personally targeted by the most notorious media hacker alive.

I could already see the headlines forming before they were even written.

"LATTE LAD THREATENED ON LIVE TELEVISION."

"IS OPTIKMASTER OBSESSED WITH HIS FORMER INTERN?"

"ASCENDANTS' IMAGE CRISIS DEEPENS."

Instead...

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