[Ten years before]
The scene was the heart of Manhattan—streets sealed off, sunlight bouncing off skyscrapers. An electric-quirk villain, a thin man with burning eyes and crackling arcs of energy coiling around his hands, was wreaking havoc. Power lines burst, traffic lights flickered like they'd lost their minds, and parked cars became intermittent torches whenever a live spark touched them. Civilians ran, shops slammed their doors shut, and sirens wailed from every direction.
Christopher wasn't yet the fully-formed icon he would later become on the news. He already had the pose and the hunger for spotlights, but his true power hadn't awakened—at that time he could fly and manipulate the aerodynamics around his body, creating micro air-shields that protected him and gave him tactical advantage.
Still, he launched himself into the sky with the confidence of someone who believed the cameras were always watching. He swooped between bolts, shouting down to fleeing civilians:
"Move behind the barricades! Go, go, go—this area's collapsing!"
A woman tripped near a sparking transformer, he dove, pulled her away seconds before it burst, then straightened up just enough to look heroic while dusting off his cape. Even mid-battle, presentation mattered to him.
The villain, frustrated at being unable to land a hit, began firing stronger and stronger bolts. Christopher dodged them, blocking damage to buildings, using his movement to whip up walls of wind and push the crowd toward safety. He managed to stay in the fight, but was close to hitting his limit. That was when a green beam suddenly cut through the air—too fast for anyone to react.
The laser hit the villain square in the chest.
He stopped, confused, glancing down. A scorched hole opened in the middle of his torso before he even understood what had happened. He managed only to ask:
"W-why… a-are you here…?"
Jack looked at him with disdain and an easy smile, as if answering an obvious question.
"Because I can."
The villain collapsed.
Christopher landed a few meters away, face tense, cape fluttering like a final breath. He looked from the fallen man to Jack—shocked and, for other reasons, fascinated. There was danger in how effortlessly Jack had solved the threat—and worse, there was a glimmer of glory in the eyes of the bystanders when they realized who had ended the problem.
The street filled with confused applause. Cameras flashed, phones captured his radioactive glow, and headlines were practically born on the spot. Christopher stepped closer, slow and measured. Jack didn't bother with ceremony.
"You're that Celebrity guy, right?" Jack said, voice low and sarcastic. "You've been getting pretty popular these days."
"Christopher Skyline," the blond replied, almost breathless. "It's an honor to finally meet you! I thought you were busy with the corporate show the NSA planned. Didn't expect to see you operating out here."
Jack smiled—half compliment, half provocation.
"I go wherever I'm needed," he said. "And I heard there were a lot of pretty girls around here."
That was how their predatory friendship began. Christopher—young, hungry for applause, and desperate for a model of power that basked in admiration—found in Crimson Jack a mentor figure and a reflection of what he wished to be: charismatic, relentless, indulgent.
Jack, in turn, saw in the rookie a useful tool—someone who would amplify his image and, when needed, soften the public fallout of his excesses.
With time, Jack drifted through NSA events with the nonchalance of a god in his temple. At official dinners, between camera flashes and cocktails, he casually chose the women he wanted, greeting, whispering, mesmerizing—and often abusing the boldness with which he treated sexual power as an extension of his authority.
Christopher watched from the sidelines at first.
"I'm married," he told Jack awkwardly during one event, after seeing him flirt with three women in ten minutes. "I can't just… do that like you."
Jack snorted and rested an elbow on the bar.
"You see Chris... Being a hero is a social function. People need to believe in you and revere you." He tapped Christopher lightly on the forehead. "We give them hope—and in return? We deserve the pleasures that come with it. If they treat us like gods, why should we act like monks?"
"That's not—" Christopher hesitated. "That's not how it works for everyone."
"But it work for winners like me and you..." Jack replied, smirking as he walked off with a woman on each arm.
The words felt like permission. Little by little, the line between limits and ethics broke.
Christopher began giving in at parties, meetings, promotional trips: kisses that should've been harmless charm turned into habit, compliments behind closed doors became encounters that shredded propriety.
When his wife confronted him—shaking, hurt, begging him to stop—he only said:
"You don't understand my worth.. I don't have a normal life. I can't be boxed in."
Jack laughed when Christopher retold that argument.
"See? She's jealous because she knows you're rising, and she's trying to stop you from growing more by trapping you in a box she calls marriage. Happens to all of us."
And when the truth came out, the once-perfect marriage collapsed—not because of a single cause, but because in a hero's exposed life there was no room for someone who tried to restrict his actions from the midia.
Professionally, Jack never liked admitting mistakes. If he destroyed cars, shops, or caused accidental injuries, he always found an excuse. He'd laugh, say it was "jealousy" or that "the media always needs a villain."
Christopher, now accustomed to speaking to cameras, began shaping his own responses defensively. When Jack was involved in accidents—buildings with shattered windows, civilians injured by poorly calculated attacks—Christopher was the one giving the statements, softening headlines, rewriting events as "necessary measures" or "technical mishaps."
Some incidents left deeper scars. On a mission in Japan, rumors—later confirmed by internal sources—described a forced encounter between Jack and a local pro hero. A case of violence that shook the Japanese community.
NSA officials treated it as a diplomatic mishap; Jack left ahead of schedule, claimed it was "a cultural misunderstanding," and returned to the U.S. without ever admitting fault.
Christopher echoed the stance with speeches about privacy and "personal matters," feeding the myth that heroes, despite their grandeur, deserved to be treated like ordinary people.
But by then, Jack had already corrupted him completely. The old Christopher—the young hero who just wanted to be loved and do good—had become a smaller version of Jack: arrogant, promiscuous, obsessed with attention, and willing to cover up anything for his mentor.
Then Jack disappeared.
The official search was intense in the first days. Helicopters and field teams scoured remote areas, NSA agents and sources mobilized. But the more they searched, the fewer leads appeared.
And when, after five years of unanswered searching, a small funeral was finally held, it wasn't a spectacle. There were no crowds, no global broadcasts. Only a handful of faces: some NSA agents, the security staff who had always shadowed Jack, and Christopher—clean-shaven, suit immaculate, tears unstained by camera flashes because there were barely any cameras at all. He cried, alone in public, for someone who had, in a way, given him a map of what he could become forever—and also a map of what he should never be up to a certain point.
In that small circle of stone, amid murmurs and doubtful intentions, Christopher made himself a clear promise: he would find who had done this. Not just to soothe the pain with revenge, but because inside him lived a blend of regret, guilt, and a sick vanity that couldn't tolerate Jack's last image being one of defeat. He swore he would give whoever ended Jack the worst death possible.
He left the funeral with a hardened face—quietly grateful for everything he had learned at the side of the friend he admired.
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[Location: Manhattan, New York]
5 minutes before.
The air was hot, dense, and heavy, smelling of smoke and gunpowder. Christopher panted in the middle of the chaos, his chest rising and falling in quick spasms as he tried to catch his breath. His visor was cracked, his cape scorched, and his lungs begged for the oxygen that seemed scarce in that place.
"W-What the... hell... is that thing…?" he managed to say, his voice breaking.
In front of him, the flaming silhouette walked slowly through the fire. The humanoid — a metallic, slender figure, its entire thin body wrapped in heat so intense that the air around it wavered — advanced as if nothing else existed.
Christopher swallowed dryly, taking a stumbling step back.
"That… that thing… came out of that big robot after I destroyed it…" he murmured, incredulous, trying to maintain his stance despite the terror clawing at his instincts.
The creature stopped a few meters from him. Its "eyes" — two glowing red semicircles — locked onto the hero like a predator watching its prey. (A/N: I change his apparence.)
Christopher raised his arm, trying to form an air barrier… but the emptiness around him revealed the problem: nothing to manipulate, nothing to compress. He could only create a thin, fragile film that shivered like glass before even forming.
"Come on… come on… breathe…" he urged himself, but it was useless.
The machine moved in a single motion. Too fast. Too precise.
The incandescent arm pierced through the barrier, which caught fire, pierced through the suit… and through the abdomen.
Christopher let out a muffled grunt, blood spilling from his mouth instantly.
The robot tilted its head, almost as if studying the human reaction. Then, without hesitation, it slid its second arm into the wound — and in a wide motion, opened both arms to the sides.
The hero's body split apart.
The upper half hit the ground first, heavily, with a wet thud. The lower half remained standing for two agonizing seconds before collapsing to the side.
Blood spread across the hot pavement.
Christopher was still breathing, very weakly, his gaze already pale. His fingers trembled as he tried to lift his hand, as if reaching for something that wasn't there.
"Celebrity never loses his shine…"
The catchphrase his friend had created for him echoed in his mind, bitter, almost mocking his current situation.
He coughed, more blood dripping from the corner of his lips.
"S… sorry… Jack…" he whispered, his voice as faint as the light in his eyes.
"I… couldn't… shine… in the end…"
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The first explosion came like thunder splitting the air in two.
The machine, covered in embers, raised its arm, and fire poured out in a continuous torrent, sweeping through the line of defense of the American heroes. The asphalt melted into glowing trails, parked cars ignited instantly, and the surrounding poles bent under the heat.
"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!"
A hero with granite-like skin shouted, pulling two civilians who had been left behind.
The asphalt melted as the machine advanced toward the remaining heroes.
"Attack together!""Let's take it down!""Don't let it get near the civilians!"
A heroine with seismic powers slammed her fist into the ground, creating a shockwave that made the robot lose its balance. A strong hero with metallic hands ran forward and punched its side, leaving a deep mark before quickly retreating due to the intense heat.
For a second, it seemed to work…
But the machine scanned them both.
NEW VARIABLES DETECTED.BUILDING COUNTERMEASURES.
The chest plates opened—revealing a glowing orange core.
"EVERYONE, BEHIND ME!"
Frozone raised his hands and erected a gigantic ice wall with the help of a few other heroes with aquatic quirks who provided moisture.
The robot released a thermal pulse that didn't look like fire—but like the entire sun compressed into a single breath.
The wall was destroyed in an instant.
Heroes were thrown into the air like ragdolls, some suffering severe burns, others, more unlucky, completely incinerated.
"Damn, damn…"
Frozone slid backward, creating an ice column behind him to slow his retreat.
The robot advanced, spinning its arm like a flaming blade.
Frozone ducked at the last moment—the arm sliced a bus in half—and with his hand on the ground, he created ice so thick it trapped the machine's legs.
But it lasted only a few seconds before completely evaporating.
And the robot walked out, intact.
Frozone took two steps back.
"…shit."
The machine raised its arm—the palm pointed directly at him.
A plasma sphere formed, bright, growing, ready for the final shot.
Frozone tried to freeze it, but there was no moisture in the air.
"Sorry, George… Daddy won't be coming home today…"
The robot stabilized its aim.
The sphere glowed.
And then—
An invisible, brutal, overwhelming force, like a divine hand, descended upon the machine.
The robot was slammed to the ground so fast it didn't even have time to adjust its plates.
NEW— VARIABL—
The word didn't even finish. The weight of the entire atmosphere pressed the robot against the ground, breaking its joints, bending its metallic spine.
A figure descended through the clouds of smoke as if tomorrow didn't exist.
Star and Stripe.
She had just flown from one state to another after hearing what was happening in Manhattan. Her face was serious, her gaze deadly, and her cape fluttering in the hot wind.
She pointed at the robot and shouted her order:
"THE AIR AROUND WILL CRUSH YOU INTO A SPHERE!"
The effect was instantaneous.
The air around the robot condensed into impossible pressure, bending, twisting, and crushing every technological component.
The machine tried to counterattack.
It tried to activate countermeasures.
But nothing worked.
The metal imploded like trash being compressed by a garbage truck. And in less than five seconds, the entire robot had turned into a single, smoking, screeching scrap ball—until it became completely still.
Frozone collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily, staring at the compressed metal sphere.
"…I owe you one, Star."
Star and Stripe kept her gaze fixed on the wreckage, her expression hard as she stared at the metal ball.
The hell had finally ended; Christopher's memory was there, etched into the asphalt. Victory had come at the cost of dozens of injured and dead, and the life of Pro Hero Number 2. No matter that the day had brought a new hero to save the day, the USA would still bear the scars of that attack—a warning of something far greater to come.
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The room was dark, illuminated only by the cold glow of the massive monitor that occupied almost the entire wall ahead. In the center, sitting on a single leather chair, was a man with an intense expression, his eyes fixed on the images playing before him: the arrival of Star Stripes, the compression of the humanoid robot, the defeat that carefully dismantled every plan he had orchestrated.
"Damn it! STAR RUINED THE PARTY!" he shouted, throwing a bucket of popcorn to the side, which flew through the air, scattering kernels across the floor. "The show that the Sentinel was putting on was going perfectly!"
The man leaned back, crossing his arms, taking a deep breath.
"Well… at least he completed his missions. The test, and… killing the Celebrity…"
A shadow moved behind him. He didn't turn immediately. Mirage had been there all along, silent, observing his every reaction.
"Report, Mirage," Syndrome said, finally turning to face her, his face still marked by frustration but his mind focused on controlling the situation.
Mirage extended her hands, and with an elegant gesture activated the holograms that appeared from her watch.
"The Sentinel adapted at a speed beyond any initial predictions," Mirage began, her voice carrying a clinical tone. "His efficiency level exceeded average resistance parameters, and his combat effectiveness in open-field engagements against multiple targets was exceptional. Frozone and the auxiliary heroes had no chance of maintaining perimeter control after the second phase of the attack."
She made a hand gesture, and the holographic images began to shift. Parts of the urban structures were altered, showing destruction and flames.
"As for the arrival of Star Stripes…" Mirage continued, the hologram highlighting the hero's figure and the air wave manipulated by the New Order quirk. "The Sentinel's defeat by her was expected, although it happened faster than planned."
The man snorted, suddenly standing up. His silhouette against the monitor looked more threatening than anyone could imagine.
"Shit…" he murmured, rubbing his face. "She's going to be a pain with that quirk! But fine, fine…"
He stepped forward, crossing his arms and staring at the monitor, analyzing the Sentinel now offline.
"This, so far, has only been a practical test to see how my new baby performs against our beloved heroes… And he did better than I expected, even if he was broken so soon."
A cold smile escaped him.
"But that doesn't really matter when I have hundreds of copies ready to deploy at any moment."
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(A/N: I kind of changed the robot's appearance after seeing a bunch of comments saying it looked like the X-Men Sentinel. I was like, "Damn, it really does, doesn't it?" so I altered its look. It will have the appearance of the Sentinels from X-Men: Days of Future Past, but it won't be as overpowered as the ones in the movie… Not yet…)