Chapter 12: "If His Legs Are Broken, Then the Disability Check's Legit"
While William was still pondering what use the skill [Disease Transference] could possibly have,
Frank was staring down at the pile of cash on the counter, frowning.
"The hell is this supposed to be?" he muttered, thumbing through the bills.
Something wasn't adding up.
"That," Kevin said flatly, leaning against the bar, "is what's left after I deducted your tab from last month."
It took Frank a few seconds, but then the realization hit.
"Oh… right. Guess it's time to update my accounting."
He gave a sheepish smile — awkward, but shamelessly polite.
Then, desperate to save face, he raised his beer and turned toward the group of freshly laid-off factory workers sitting nearby.
"Hey! My fellow unemployed brothers! Drinks are on me tonight!"
A round of cheers erupted.
Kevin blinked.
"Wait— you serious?"
"Fuck no!" Frank shot back, giving him a look like he was the dumbest man alive.
William almost laughed.
Calling Kevin slow wasn't exactly wrong — the man was from Huntsville, a community famous for inbreeding.
So, yeah.
The math checked out.
---
An hour passed in a blur.
Frank finished his "breakfast beer," stumbled to his feet, and staggered out of The Alibi Room — drunk, loud, and as satisfied with life as a man living off fake disability benefits could be.
William downed the rest of his drink in one go, tossed some bills onto the counter, and quietly followed him out.
---
Later That Night
Frank wandered the streets of the South Side, muttering nonsense under his breath.
Nobody knew what went on in that alcohol-soaked brain of his —
not even Frank himself.
He fished around in his pockets, pulled out a crumpled empty pack of Marlboro, and stared at it like it had betrayed him.
"Fuck! Hell!" he shouted, hurling it into the gutter.
At that very moment, from the shadowy corner of the street, a figure emerged.
All in black.
Hood pulled tight.
Gloved hands.
And in his grip — a metal baseball bat.
William exhaled slowly through the mask.
---
"Wow! Bro!" Frank called out, completely unfazed.
"Not cool, man — sneaking around in the middle of the night scaring people!"
The words had barely left his mouth when the bat came swinging.
CRACK!
The sound of bone shattering echoed through the empty street.
"AAAAAAGHHHHH!"
Frank collapsed, clutching his knee in agony.
William, however, wasn't done.
Without hesitation, he brought the bat down again.
And again.
And again.
By the time he stopped, he'd hit him a dozen times — enough to warp the metal.
Only when the bat bent in his hands did William finally step back, breathing hard.
He stared down at the whimpering, barely conscious man on the ground.
"Compound fracture. Yeah… that should do it."
"Now his disability claim's actually legitimate."
He looked up at the dark sky, expression deadpan.
"System," he said quietly,
"does this count as me 'correcting Frank Gallagher's fraudulent behavior'?"
The system seemed to hesitate —
as if even it was stunned.
[...]
[Ding! Mission Complete: Frank Gallagher's fraudulent use of social security funds must be corrected]
[Reward Acquired: Disease Transference.]
---
As before, a flood of foreign knowledge poured into William's mind.
How to activate the skill.
What it did.
What it could do.
He blinked, processing the data.
---
[Host: William Blake]
Skills:
Freestyle Combat (Mastery)
Firearms (Mastery)
Regeneration Factor (Level 3)
Disease Transference
---
Without realizing it, his ability list had grown impressive.
Two blocks later, he tossed the mask, gloves, and bent baseball bat into a trash bin.
No one in this neighborhood would care enough to investigate.
Even if the cops got involved, Tony sure as hell wouldn't go out of his way for Frank Gallagher.
He might love Fiona, but Frank? Not a chance.
And even if the trail somehow led back to him —
so what?
Worst-case scenario, he'd pay a fine.
A small price for moral correction.
Knowing Frank's money-hungry cockroach instincts, William figured there was a 100% chance the man would settle out of court if things ever escalated.
But realistically, William doubted the police would waste a single dollar of taxpayer money trying to find out who broke Frank Gallagher's legs.
"DNA analysis for this piece of trash? Yeah, right."
Even if they did recover traces from the discarded gloves and mask, it wouldn't matter — his DNA wasn't in any criminal database.
The only time he'd ever given a DNA sample was during his private high school years,
and that data was stored by some private bio-company, not the police.
No way would the Chicago PD go through the legal nightmare of applying for access to a private genetic database,
just to find the guy who crippled a known welfare leech.
"Yeah," William smirked to himself, "safe as houses."
---
Illinois Institute of Technology – Chicago Campus
At the university gate, William's gaze locked onto a young Asian woman in the distance.
Amanda.
The same Amanda who, in the not-so-distant future, would become obsessively infatuated with Lip Gallagher —
the South Side's golden boy of wasted potential.
"I'll never understand what women see in that guy," William muttered.
"But I guess when the writer's also the actor, the script gets… generous."
He shook his head.
To be fair, if he were writing his own life story, he'd probably give himself a few bonus points too.
At this point in time, Amanda wasn't yet dating Ron, Lip's future college roommate —
a walking embodiment of awkward white-boy energy.
Honestly, the fact that Amanda even dated someone like Ron said a lot.
Despite her wealthy background, she clearly wasn't at the top of the social food chain.
In an American context, Ron wasn't exactly what you'd call "desirable."
Plain, awkward, probably smelled faintly of Axe body spray and stale textbooks.
"Perfect," William thought.
"If I intercept Ron early, Amanda never meets Lip.
No Ron, no Lip. Problem solved."
---
A few yards away, Amanda was chatting with a small group of girls.
They'd already noticed William standing there.
It was hard not to — tall, clean-cut, with the kind of quiet confidence that didn't belong to a broke student.
"Hey, Amanda," whispered the blonde cheerleader next to her, nudging her with an elbow.
"William Blake's totally checking me out."
Amanda glanced at her — the blonde's perfect hair, the heavy mascara, the smug smile.
By comparison, Amanda still looked… young.
She carried a bright, cartoonish backpack — the kind middle schoolers used —
and her plain hoodie and jeans screamed "practical," not "popular."
Her Asian features only made her stand out more among her white peers.
And, as always, that meant she was the quiet one.
She forced a small smile.
"I saw him. Honestly, who wouldn't look at the cheer captain?"
Her voice was light, casual, but inside, she felt a twinge of jealousy.
She didn't even dare imagine William was actually looking at her.
Then, panic.
"Holy crap," the cheerleader hissed. "He's coming this way!
Ladies, how's my makeup? Lip gloss okay? Do I look approachable or desperate?"
The group erupted into nervous giggles.
And then —
"Hey," William said, smiling just enough to be disarming,
"mind if I get to know you all?"