Ethan Cain was not a superhero.
He didn't swing through skylines. He didn't have a cape. And he definitely didn't have an origin story that came with great responsibility. What he did have, however, was a high school genius with a sadistic sense of style, unlimited R&D funding, and no respect for OSHA regulations.
Which is how he found himself in a garage he technically owned, but would deny if anyone saw the amount of highly dangerous, dubiously legal, most definitely awesome equipment that the daughter of a Police Captain forced him to buy through compelling arguments, kindly expressed regard for his safety and utter cuteness overload.
"You told me 'whatever it takes,'" Gwen said sweetly, pulling off her welding visor.
Ethan blinked at the monstrosity on the table.
"That's a flamethrower," he deadpanned.
"Technically, it's a miniaturized compressed-gel incendiary unit." She patted it proudly. "I call it the Dragon's Breath."
"You put it in my forearm gauntlet."
"Well, yeah. You said 'hideable.'"
"You didn't think I meant, like, pepper spray or a taser?"
"Those are for cops. You're not a cop. You're a walking disaster magnet who nearly got folded in half by Abomination if not for your nutty telekinetic powers–and you still haven't explained how those work, which you will. Anyway, I'm not letting you go out there with anything less than total war crimes strapped to your wrists."
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.
"…Fair."
The new setup was a Frankenstein blend of military-grade materials, Gwen's wild engineering, and Ethan's not-so-dirty money. Every inch of it was tailored to his powers, his paranoia, and his tendency to fight like a telekinetic brawler who'd watched too many Batman movies.
High-flex carbon-ceramic weave. Graphene panels reinforced across the spine, chest, and joints. Matte black, low-reflection. Soft underarmor lined with impact-diffusing gel that stiffened on shock, and happened to cost more than his parents made in a year..before taxes.
The bulky arse biker helmet was replaced with lightweight composite. Breath filter. Thermal vision toggle. Built-in HUD that synced with Gwen's custom phone app—GPS, topographic overlays, real-time weather tracking, and enemy tagging via 'temporarily acquired' camera feed, which was just a fancy way to say hacked.
She had plans to incorporate some drones to enhance his scouting ability, but the most successful test nearly shredded his face.
Needless to say, the project was shelved for the foreseeable future.
Reinforced gauntlets with modular loadouts, extra-padded to stop him from busting his hands when trying to lift rusted-arse metal scraps if he ever decided to save someone again.
One carried Dragon's Breath, which he really didn't want to have and was definitely going to remove, as cool as it looked. Another had a retractable blade, not for stabbing, but for breaking through locks, glass, and egos…it could stab people though.
Boots with built-in shock absorbers, muffled-step soles, and micro-actuators for enhanced jumping. Still couldn't fly, even with his psionic power growing stronger everyday.
Then came the belt…a nightmare of pouches and compartments, packed with tools that ranged from ingenious to completely useless:
Smoke pellets (useful)
EMP spikes (very useful)
Zipline launcher (only worked once, nearly broke his shoulder)
Adhesive glue bombs, derived from one of Peter's old experiments that landed him both an A+ and two weeks of detention (sticky, messy, caused one panic at a bodega)
A collapsible crowbar (Gwen's idea, for "dramatic entrances")
A foldable umbrella (Ethan's idea, for rain)
And still, somehow, Gwen wasn't done.
"We haven't even touched the harness," she said one night, scribbling over a blueprint while Ethan pretended to understand her math.
"The what now?"
"For the telekinesis. To monitor your feedback loops, amplify output, direct field pulses. I'm thinking six-axis fiber mesh with shock rings."
He wasn't sure what the heck it meant, but it sounded positive…maybe.
"Right," Ethan said, blinking."Sounds expensive."
"You made five million dollars in a day."
"Still stingy."
"You literally told me to go wild."
"And you did."
Gwen beamed.
"You love it."
Ethan hated how much he did.
They spent more and more afternoons in the nearly-legal garage-turned-lab. Gwen with her sleeves rolled up, soldering something absurd. Ethan with his arms crossed, trying to act unimpressed while lowkey staring at her ponytail.
She pushed him harder than anyone had. Forced him to test gear under pressure. Simulated fights. Hooked him up to sensors.
Made him sprint in full suit through obstacle courses she set up with lawn chairs, old tires, and a bucket labeled "DOOM TRAP ZONE."
"You're weirdly good at this," he said one evening, peeling off his mask after nearly eating pavement on a turn.
She glanced up from her tablet.
"At what?"
"This. Engineering. Chaos. Tactical insanity."
She smiled faintly.
"My dad wants me to be a doctor." She joked…possibly.
"Explains the gadgets designed to stop hearts."
"I'm serious. He said science was safe. He didn't want me doing anything dangerous. Or stupid. Or fun. Though he really is fine with anything that doesn't involve Hollywood, politics or law enforcement "
Ethan tossed a prototype smoke pellet at her feet. It fizzled and filled the garage with a puff of purple mist.
She coughed and waved it away, glaring.
"Ethan!"
"That was the 'lavender scent' one. Relax."
She chucked a screwdriver at his head. He caught it midair with telekinesis and grinned.
"See? I am getting better."
She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless.
Later that night, while Gwen soldered something delicate and Ethan pretended to study schematics, he quietly asked, "You ever worry I'm dragging you into something bad?"
She didn't look up.
"You mean the part where you lie to everyone, sneak around at night, and pick fights with increasingly violent felons twice your size in order to 'get gud'?"
"Yeah, that."
She set her tool down and finally met his eyes.
"Of course I am, why do you think I'm trying so hard to keep you in one piece?" she said, shaking her head, "Though it would help if you told what exactly has you trying so hard."
He didn't have a reply.
How would he even start to tell her about genocidal tinkie-winkie, mind-raping Charlie and his magnetic best friend, or that one rather charismatic guy with an eyepatch who was the director of a spy agency that couldn't figure out that it was its own worst enemy.
Even outing Peter as the guy swinging around in his PJs more and more frequently was complicated.
But he would have to do it one day.
Just not today.
So instead, he handed her a fresh can of iced tea and said the most genuine thank you of his life.
She just smiled in a way that made him feel insanely good, and terribly bad all at the same time.
And he couldn't get enough of it.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.