Operation: OnlyHeroes

A week after OptikMaster's death.

I wake up and... the phone rings.

"Shit," I say to myself. "Here we go again."

I pick it up, answering before my brain has fully loaded into my body. Too tired to even read who the hell it is.

"Hello...?"

"Tobias Jeffery Williams, where the hell are you!? You just poofed and ghosted for a week!"

I pull the phone away from my ear. Mike. Either worried or pissed off at me. Couldn't tell which. Probably both.

"Oh. Mike. Yeah."

"Yeah? That's all you have to say?"

"Yeah, I had to lay low for a while. Boss's orders."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was." I rub my eyes. The ceiling above me has a water stain that looks like South America. "Are the memes still up?"

"Dude, it's the internet. It's practically everywhere. You can't escape them."

"Shit."

"Where even are you, man?"

I glance around the room. Mop bucket. Industrial cleaner that smells like regret. A stack of toilet paper that's become my pillow.

"Work. Been sleeping in the janitor's closet ever since OptikMaster got sat on by that frog kaiju."

A pause.

"The hell?"

"Frog kaiju," I repeat, staring at the stained ceiling tile. The brown circle is directly above a mop bucket that's caught approximately zero drips. "You know? Big, green frog? Had horns and warts? Looked like it ate a nuclear reactor and then went through a goth phase?"

In the background, I hear it. The unmistakable wheeze of Jaden laughing so hard he's forgotten how to breathe.

"Yeah, I heard you!" Mike yells—not at me, at Jaden. "You're not even on the call, how are you this loud?"

"Is that Jaden laughing his ass off again?" I ask.

"Yeah... How did you—"

"He's always been the one to never take me seriously. It's been like that since high school!"

"Come on, man. That's not—"

My phone buzzes. I check it. URGENT: Ms. Bishop. Subject line: Bullpen. Now. Don't make me come find you.

"Look, I gotta go. My boss is calling. Something about a meeting at the bullpen."

"Wait, Toby—"

I hang up.

The janitor's closet is on sub-level 3.

No one comes down here except the cleaning staff, and they work nights. Which means I've had seven days of blessed, blessed silence. No memes. No DMs from dead villains. No shapeshifters pretending to be my boss.

Just me, a mop bucket, and an existential crisis that's starting to smell like bleach.

I check my reflection in the back of a spoon. Not great. Dark circles. Stubble that's technically a beard if you're being generous and legally blind. My Ascendants hoodie—snagged from the lost and found—is three sizes too big and smells like whoever donated it had a complicated relationship with deodorant.

I look like a disaster.

Good. That's the look I'm going for.

The elevator ride up is torture.

Not because of the speed. Because of the music. Someone programmed the elevator to play a looping orchestral cover of "Holding Out for a Hero" and I've now heard it approximately four hundred times.

I step out into the bullpen.

It's chaos. But organized chaos. The kind where everyone is pretending to be calm while secretly vibrating with panic.

Kim spots me first. Her eyes go wide.

"Oh my God, you're alive."

"Debatable."

"You look like shit."

"Thank you. I've been cultivating this look for a week. It's called 'I watched a man die on live television and then hid in a closet.' Very avant-garde."

She grabs my arm and drags me toward Conference Room C. "Bishop's going to kill you."

"She can get in line."

Conference Room C is full. Not the nice one from last week. The other nice one—the one with the smaller table and the bigger windows and the single orchid on the credenza that probably costs more than my laptop.

Around the table:

- Ms. Bishop (standing, tablet in hand, expression suggesting she's mentally composing my obituary)

- Ms. Void (lounging, of course, in a black velvet dress that looks like it was designed by someone who's never seen a cloud)

- Mr. Enigma (sitting on the table itself, wearing my face—actually my face, like they're trying to make a point—before shifting back with a wink)

- Circuitrix (holographic, mid-bite of something that might be sushi, might be a battery)

- All-Star (actually him, looking like he hasn't slept either, which is weird because he's supposed to be immune to human frailty)

- Trailblazer (bouncing in his seat, phone in hand, clearly reading something he shouldn't be)

- Solaris (present, sunglasses on indoors, mug that says "Namaste in Bed")

- Aurelia (leaning against the wall... fully naked)

- Kim (next to me, gripping a notebook like a shield)

And me. Toby Williams. Janitor's closet connoisseur.

Bishop doesn't say hello.

"Williams. You've been hiding."

"Strategic repositioning," I say.

"That's one word for it."

Enigma grins. "I like him. He's learning."

Then Bishop looks at Aurelia. Say nothing, but the eyes say everything, even when it's tired. "Dare I ask?"

Aurelia doesn't flinch. Doesn't reach for a jacket. Doesn't acknowledge that she's standing in a high-security conference room wearing approximately zero fabric.

"The laundromat that had my entire closet exploded," she says.

Bishop sighs, turning to the screen on the wall. It flickers to life, showing two slides. Two announcements.

She taps her tablet.

"Let's begin."

The first slide shows a graph. It looks like a EKG of a heart attack—if the heart attack had been happening for seven days straight.

"OptikMaster has been dead for one week," Bishop says. "His engagement metrics should be dropping. They're not."

The graph spikes. Then spikes again.

"His final words in court—'Guess I'll be trending forever'—are now the most-quoted phrase on social media. Hashtags, memorial posts, conspiracy theories. He's more popular dead than he was alive."

Circuitrix's hologram flickers. "The algorithm loves tragedy. You know this. A villain who dies mid-sentence? That's not a defeat. That's a series finale cliffhanger."

"The public doesn't know whether to mourn him, celebrate his death, or debate his politics," Bishop continues. "So they're doing all three. Simultaneously. Which means his influence isn't fading. It's metastasizing."

She clicks to the next slide.

A quote. OptikMaster's face. His smirk.

"Guess I'll be trending forever."

Ms. Void sets down her coffee—definitely wine—and fixes her gaze on the screen.

"He staged this," she says softly. "The kidnapping. The defeat. The timing. The words."

"Of course he did," Enigma says, picking at their nails. "He was a performer. And performers know that the best time to leave the stage is when the audience is begging for an encore."

All-Star shifts in his seat. "So what do we do? Let him fade?"

"We can't," Bishop says. "Because he didn't leave a void. He had a network backing him."

The next slide. A web of usernames, servers, encrypted channels.

"Followers who believe his death was staged. Opportunists who want to continue his work for fame. And one person—unidentified—who seems to have access to his remaining assets."

"What assets?" Trailblazer asks, finally looking up from his phone.

"Cameras. Broadcast rigs. Deepfake software. His digital footprint. And"—Bishop's jaw tightens—"a prerecorded video. Set to release on the one-month anniversary of his death."

The room goes quiet.

"What's in the video?" Aurelia asks from the wall.

"We don't know. The encryption is beyond even Circuitrix's capabilities."

Circuitrix bristles. "For now."

"For now," Bishop concedes.

Ms. Void swirls her drink. "And the recipient?"

Bishop looks at me.

"The video is addressed to Williams."

The room turns.

"What?" My voice cracks.

"The metadata includes your name. Tobias Williams. The video isn't for the public. It's for you. The public release is just... the delivery method."

I feel the blood drain from my face.

"Congratulations," Enigma says, patting my shoulder with a hand that's briefly a claw, then a paw, then a human palm. "You're still the main character."

The room goes quiet.

Aurelia scratches her... bush.

Bishop clicks to the next slide.

"There's more."

The screen changes.

Gone are the OptikMaster graphs. Now it's a different kind of chaos: financial documents. Stock portfolios. Investment certificates. And splashed across the top, in bold red letters that seem designed to cause heart attacks:

"CIRCUITRIX INVESTMENT PORTFOLIO LEAKED"

Trailblazer stops bouncing. His phone clatters onto the table.

"Oh shit."

Solaris puts her sunglasses back on. Puts her mug down. Puts her head in her hands.

Aurelia actually stops scratching. She squints at the screen. "Is that... an adult film company?"

And Circuitrix—the holographic, always-in-control, never-surprised Circuitrix—freezes.

Her protein bar (or battery) hovers halfway to her mouth. Her organic eye goes wide. Her cybernetic one spins out of focus, then back in, then out again—like a camera struggling to find something to lock onto.

"Naomi," Bishop says carefully. "Would you like to explain?"

The hologram flickers. Static ripples across her form. For a moment, Circuitrix looks almost... human.

Vulnerable.

Scared.

Then glitches and the mask snaps back.

"It's a leak," she says, voice flat. Robotic. Deliberately so. "Someone got into my personal servers. Financial records. Nothing classified."

"Naomi," Bishop repeats.

A beat.

Circuitrix sighs. The hologram shimmers, and suddenly a new set of documents appears next to her face—projected from her own system, confirmation of everything on Bishop's screen.

"CIRCUITRIX HOLDINGS (LEAKED DOCUMENTS - VERIFIED)"

Below it, a list:

- Hermoney (women-only banking company) — 12% stake

- NewTron (AI startup) — 28% stake

- Sylvester Neill-Tate Pictures (100-year-old entertainment and media company) — 15% stake

- Afterdark Productions (adult film company) — 34% controlling stake

The room is silent.

Even Aurelia looks impressed.

Then Enigma starts laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, shape-shifting, can't-breathe laugh that makes their face cycle through a dozen different expressions—surprise, delight, mischief, hunger—before settling on pure, unfiltered glee.

"Oh, darling," they manage between gasps. "You've been busy."

"I diversify," Circuitrix says, but there's a crack in her voice. A glitch. A tiny wobble in the frequency.

"Diversify," Ms. Void repeats, tasting the word like wine she's about to spit back out. "You have a controlling stake in an adult film company."

"It's a profitable sector."

"And Hermoney? A women-only bank?"

"Financial inclusion is important."

"And NewTron?"

"They're doing advanced research on the implementation of AI in smart cities."

"And Sylvester Neill-Tate?"

Circuitrix's organic eye twitches. And then her robotic eye glitches. "M-m-m-my grandparents and I loved their movies. W-w-we... watch to used them every Sunday. So what? It's legacy a preserving o-o-of risky pus- risky creativity and innn-nooooo-fuck-vative storytelling."

Huh?

Bishop pinches the bridge of her nose. Hard. Like she's trying to physically block a headache from entering her skull.

"Your investments aren't the problem. It's the vague narrative. The public is already spinning this. Debates are brewing. And not in our favor."

The screen fills with headlines—live, updating in real time, each one worse than the last:

"CIRCUITRIX FUNDING ADULT FILMS WITH HER SUPERHERO MONEY?"

"THE CYBORG CAPITALIST: WHO IS NAOMI TAKAHASHI-MURPHY?"

"AFTERDARK PRODUCTIONS: CIRCUITRIX'S SECRET EMPIRE?"

"HERO BY DAY, PORN MOGUL BY NIGHT?"

"WE ALWAYS KNEW SHE WAS FILESHARING SOMETHING"

"Oh no," I mutter.

"Oh yes," Enigma says, delighted.

Trailblazer is already scrolling, his thumb moving at super-speed across the screen. "The memes are... wow. The memes are something."

"Don't read them aloud," Solaris warns.

"Too late." Trailblazer grins. "'Circuitrix really said diversify your assets and your ass-ets.'"

"Too late," Solaris repeats, burying her face in her hands. Her mug tips over. Tea spills across the table. No one moves to clean it up.

Aurelia snorts—a loud, unapologetic, full-body snort that echoes off the glass walls. "That's actually funny."

"It's not funny," Bishop snaps. "This leak was timed. Whoever clipped and release OptikMaster's court footage also released Naomi's portfolio. They're connected. Same encryption. Same backdoors. Same timing."

Circuitrix's hologram stabilizes. The static fades. Her voice hardens into something sharp and cold.

"Then we find them. We trace the leak. We burn the network to the ground."

"You go on offense," Ms. Void interrupts, setting down her coffee-wine. The ceramic clinks against the table. "You hold a press conference. You control the story before it controls you."

"A press conference?" Circuitrix's cybernetic eye spins wildly, flickering through data streams. "About my investments?"

"About your vision," Void corrects. She leans forward, elbows on the table, shadows curling around her fingers like they're listening. "You're not a cyborg who happens to own an adult film company. You're a futurist who understands that the future of entertainment is decentralized, democratized, and diverse. You invested in Afterdark because you believe in destigmatizing adult content and protecting performers. You invested in Hermoney because you believe in financial equity. You invested in NewTron because you believe in ethical AI. And Sylvester Neill-Tate?" She waves a hand. "That's legacy. That's history. That's a hundred years of storytelling that you're helping preserve."

Circuitrix stares at her.

"That's... actually not bad."

"I know," Ms. Void smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's a predator's smile. "I wrote it."

Bishop's jaw tightens. She looks at the ceiling. She looks at the orchid. She looks at Aurelia's naked body like she's searching for answers in the divine geometry.

Then she looks at me.

And my soul leaves my body.

"We'll workshop the messaging," Bishop says slowly, each word deliberate. "But the conference happens in three days. Naomi, you're on camera. Live."

Circuitrix nods. "I can do that."

"And Toby"—Bishop's eyes don't leave mine—"you're on PR training. Get Naomi prepared for the conference."

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"What." It's not a question. It's a noise. A sound of pure existential horror.

"You heard me," Bishop says. "You've been in the trenches. You've been the story. You understand how the media thinks better than anyone in this room right now—because you've been the product. You know what works and what doesn't. You know what questions hurt and how to deflect them."

"But I'm an intern."

"Exactly." Bishop's expression doesn't change. "You're disposable. If you fail, we can blame you. If you succeed, we can promote you. Either way, the brand survives."

Enigma claps their hands together. "Oh, this is delicious. The student becomes the teacher. The canvas becomes the painter."

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"You haven't disagreed either," Bishop notes.

I look at Circuitrix. Her holographic form is staring at me with an expression I can't read. Her organic eye is curious. Her cybernetic one is calculating.

"C-c-c-caan yooou-u-u-u... handle this-s-s?" Circuitrix asks.

I think about the janitor's closet. The mop bucket. The water stain that looks like South America.

I think about OptikMaster's DMs. The unknown account. The video that's coming.

But instead of answering, I just stormed out the room. Running. Getting away from everything. Trying to gasp for air.

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