The Non supers

corpse-grey dawns in her Kings jersey and duct-taped boots, pink petals snarled in her hair like whispers of a world before the fractures—her cracked phone buzzing with structural collapse coordinates as she ducks beneath the Mafia Franks’ meat-hook archways in the Butcher’s Block, tossing vials of stolen insulin to Frankie "The Salami" Russo’s scarred enforcers while their spray-painted sausage crowns leer from crumbling brick; she moves with the weight of Silas Reed’s trembling hands still warm in hers from their midnight meeting in the flooded subway, their Aegis BioTech tracer tattoo pulsing blue beneath the silver crown she sprayed over it, their time bleeding out as Phase 3 trials loom; Maria Hill waits in the oily gloom of Grit & Gear Garage, arc-welding shattered drone wings into signal jammers, her shaved head gleaming under work lights as she reroutes power grids around the latest battlefield—all while heroes like Voidbringer and Solar Flare tear the sky apart three blocks east, their energy blasts shearing skyscrapers into glass shrapnel that rains onto Chen’s fortified bodega where Mrs. Epson’s tremor-sensing cat yowls warnings no one heeds, the city surviving in the sulfur-stink of overloaded sewers and the Red/Gold/Black sirens scoring its citizens’ lives, Plasma-Prime’s speeches booming from billboards even as his shockwaves vaporize blockades, Goldstar posing for cameras atop rubble-choked clinics where Silas’ smuggled counter-agents save choking children, the fragile network of texts whispering *avoid 7th Ave, bridge failing* while Voidbringer’s reality fractures blink neighborhoods out of existence and Solar Flare’s victories kill dialysis patients in blackouts—Harriet zips her jersey against the chemical wind, her priorities etching themselves in broken concrete: steal Frankie’s voltage stabilizer, deliver Mrs. G’s meds before the Gold Alert, burn Aegis Labs to the ground, silence the sirens, save Silas, no capes, just Kings.