How it all started...

Dr. Oblivious walks away from the scene and recalls on the day he first received these powers. He was not born with them, but got them through freak accident ending up giving him the greatest gift he had ever received on that fateful day.

Simon Timmons, his real name, chuckled to himself as he adjusted the ridiculous blue costume he'd stolen from a Halloween store. Two weeks. That's all it took to go from being an invisible nobody to making the entire Six dance like puppets. He leaned against the elevator wall of the Six complex, he entered into, letting the memory of his transformation play out again.

Two weeks ago.

A man named Simon Timmons leaves his sercurity post switching with the next person, as he is off from his job.

"Yuck you left the booth a mess again you fat slob." His cowworking said.

"Suck it." Simon says walking home to his over priced apartement with almost any room to move around. He was lucky to live five blocks away, because otherwise he couldn't afford a car. Slowely the sky started to turn darker, as driplets of rain started to fall from the sky.

"Just my luck." Simon though.

Simon Timmons hunched his shoulders against the rain, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The shortcut through the alleywayseemed like a good idea at the time—until the screaming started. A man in a lab coat, wearing a plastic mask of some sort, and holding a briefcase sprinted around the corner, wild-eyed and wheezing. "They'll kill me!" the scientist rasped, shoving past Simon hard enough to make him stumble.

The briefcase flew open. Vials shattered against wet pavement. A neon-green mist coiled upward, stinging Simon's nostrils. His vision swam. Behind him, boots splashed through puddles—someone shouting "FREEZE!" in that particular tone only cops and superheroes mastered.

Simon barely had time to register the broken glass before his lungs burned like he'd inhaled battery acid. He doubled over, coughing violently—which was why the flying knee hit his face instead of his gut.

"Stay down, criminal scum!" The woman's voice rang with that particular pitch of self-righteousness unique to third-tier superheroes. Simon's head snapped back from the impact, his body folding like a lawn chair as he crashed into a puddle. Through the rain and the neon-green haze still curling from the broken vials, he saw knee-high red boots planted inches from his face.

Simon's cheek pressed against the cold pavement, rainwater mixing with blood from his split lip. The red boots shifted, and a gloved hand grabbed his collar, yanking him upright. His vision swam—green mist, rain, and pain blending into a nauseating swirl.

"Got you now, Dr. Malware," the woman snarled. Up close, her costume was cheap—stretched seams, frayed hemline. A D-list hero if he'd ever seen one. Her mask lenses reflected his dazed expression as she slapped cuffs on his wrists. "Resisting arrest just adds to your sentence."

"N-not Dr. Malware," Simon coughed, tasting blood as the D-lister hauled him upright by his collar. His wrists twisted uselessly in the cuffs—actual police-issue ones, not the plastic junk they sold at costume shops. "You've got the wrong—"

"Wait—stop! You've got the wrong guy!" Simon wheezed, thrashing against the cuffs as the D-lister pulled out her phone with her free hand. His pulse hammered in his throat. The neon mist still clung to his clothes, itching against his skin like static.

"Wait—seriously, lady!" Simon wheezed as the superheroine pulled her phone from a belt pouch. The neon mist from the shattered vials clung to his skin, making his sweat glow faintly under the flickering streetlights. "I'm just a fucking security guard! Check my ID!" He twisted his hips, making his wallet chain jingle—an action that made the D-lister tighten her grip on his collar.

Her phone's screen lit up, illuminating the peeling decal on her chest—some knockoff hero name like "Lady Justice" or "The Crimson Whatever." Simon's pulse pounded in his ears louder than the rain. "Listen, you bargain-bin Batgirl—" he started, then gasped when she abruptly shoved his face against the wet brick wall.

The handcuffs bit into his wrists as she pinned him with one knee between his shoulder blades. He could smell the dollar-store leather of her gloves as she thumbed open her contacts. "Dispatch, this is Vigilante Vixen," she announced with theatrical gravity. "I've got Dr. Malware in custody at the—"

Simon's laugh came out half-hysterical. "Oh my god, you're serious." He wheezed when she dug her knee deeper. "Lady, Malware wears a fucking gas mask and trenchcoat! I'm in sweatpants!" He jerked his chin toward the real criminal—now just a silhouette sprinting into the storm drains. "He's getting away while you LARP the fucking police!"

The phone hesitated at his ear. For a glorious second, Simon thought she might actually look at his security badge. Then her grip tightened. "Nice try," she sneered. "That's what they all say"

Simon's breath hitched as the so-called Vigilante Vixen pressed her phone against her ear, her knee still grinding between his shoulder blades. The neon mist from the shattered vials clung to his skin like a second layer, prickling with an unnatural warmth. "Dispatch, I need a—" she began, but Simon twisted violently, desperation lending him strength breaking away.

Simon's back hit the wet pavement as he scrambled away from Vigilante Vixen's grasp. His wrists burned where the cuffs had torn skin—still locked tight, but no longer pinning him. The D-lister's face twisted in outrage beneath her cheap mask as she takes out her baton, lunged forward, baton raised high to bash his face in.

"Stop," Simon gasped—not a plea, but a command.

The word left his lips coated in neon-green vapor, shimmering faintly in the rain, until the vapor fades away from your body and dissapers completely. Vigilante Vixen froze mid-swing. Her baton hovered inches from Simon's temple, rainwater dripping from its tip onto his cheek.

Simon blinked. "Drop it."

Her fingers uncurled. The baton clattered to the pavement. Confused Simon starts to run away, stumbling as the handcuffs iinhibit your movement, but then looks back and sees Vigilante Vixen just standing there dazed and confused. Going agaisnt your better judgement, you go back and check on her.

"What the hell was that?" Simon demanded, Her cheap mask lenses reflected his own bewildered expression back at him—two distorted faces in rain-streaked plastic.

"I—I chose to stop," Vigilante Vixen mumbled, blinking rapidly behind her rain-fogged mask. Her fingers twitched at her sides as if trying to remember how to form fists. "Because you... weren't worth it." The lie tasted stale even to Simon, watching her lips form the words with mechanical precision while her eyes remained glazed.

Simon stared at Vigilante Vixen's slack fingers, then at the baton lying in a puddle. "Then how about you take these off bitch, have me like a hogged tied in a dirty ass pin around here," he ordered, twisting his cuffed wrists toward her.

To Simon's disbelief, Vigilante Vixen's fingers twitched toward her belt. She unclipped the keyring with the same mechanical precision of a sleepwalker, her movements smooth despite the rain plastering her cheap costume to her body. "You're... not worth the paperwork," she murmured, repeating Simon's earlier insult back at him like a poorly dubbed recording. The handcuffs clicked open and slid from his raw wrists, landing in the puddle with a splash that echoed louder than it should have.

Simon massaged his freed wrists, watching the neon-green residue flake off his skin like dried glitter. Prasing his luck, he decides to run away. However before he moves, he hears the sound of sirens pulling in fast.

Simon had barely taken three staggering steps when the wail of sirens cut through the rain. Tires screeched—two police cruisers fishtailing into the alley mouth, headlights blinding him as their doors flew open. Blue and red strobes painted the wet brick walls, trapping him like a rat in a maze.

"Hands where we can see 'em, shitbird!" The first cop already had his Glock drawn, rainwater dripping from the barrel as he advanced.

Simon's heart hammered against his ribs. Not really the most healthy, he imeediely started to get tired, and out of breath. "Hands out or we will shoot!"

"This can't be happening, this cant't be happening?" you think to yourself. "You have the wrong guy!", you call out to them. Its that shit hero's fault!" You think to yourself this is a bad dream as the cops come rusuhing toward you guns drawn, and you tink this is the end when you say, first softely "This is a dream, Im in my bed", then say more audibly for all to hear, "I am not here!"

The cops' boots skidded to a halt in the wet asphalt. Their guns wavered, then lowered. The lead officer scratched his head, blinking at the empty alleyway where Simon had just been standing. "The hell...?" he muttered, holstering his weapon.

Vigilante Vixen turned in a slow circle, her cheap cape slapping against her thighs. "I was... looking for something," she murmured, rainwater dripping from her chin.

Simon pressed his back against the wet brick wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the cops holstered their weapons with mechanical indifference. One officer yawned, scratching his stubble. "What were we doing here again?"

"Beats me," the other muttered, turning toward his squad car. "Must've been a false alarm."

Vigilante Vixen stood frozen in the rain picking up her weapon, her baton dangling limply from her fingers like a forgotten grocery bag. The cops scratched their heads, holstered their weapons, and wandered back to their cars with the confused shuffle of men who'd just woken up mid-stride.