Jackson
International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology
2/01/2020
Jackson was ascending.
The battlefield pulsed with the raw energy of destiny. Smoke curled around him like a dramatic stage effect, flames flickering at the edges of his vision. The wreckage of civilization lay in ruins before him, but Jackson stood tall—his noble steed (a wrecked Humvee) beneath him, his shirt clinging to his frame in some places and flapping heroically in others. The burn marks on his jeans? Battle scars. His aura? Radiating power.
And possibly whiskey. Maybe meth. Probably both.
His senses crackled with hyper-awareness, everything sharpened to an otherworldly clarity. He could feel the universe, taste the very essence of reality bending to his will.
Which was why he knew, with absolute certainty, that the massive, acid-dripping, dinosaur-lookin' motherfucker glaring at him was his greatest nemesis.
"By the power of Greyskull!" he bellowed, striking a pose that would've made an anime protagonist weep. He pointed a decisive, unwavering finger at the lizard. "I—am—Invincible!"
The lizard hesitated. Smart move. A lesser being would have fled already. Instead, it just… stared at him. The kind of stare old people give when teenagers play music too loud in public. Ancient. Tired. Done with this shit.
Jackson grinned.
It was time.
"TASTE THE WRATH OF LOONEY TUNES, YOU OVERGROWN HANDBAG!"
He flicked his wrist, willing the world to obey. A shadow loomed overhead. Yes. The classic move. Reality itself twisted in reverence to his genius.
Then—WHANG!
A colossal ACME-brand hammer—because obviously—slammed down onto the dinosaur thing with the force of divine retribution. A dust cloud erupted, billowing into the air like an old-timey Western shootout.
Jackson crossed his arms, nodding solemnly.
Victory.
The smoke cleared.
The lizard stood there.
Unfazed.
Jackson frowned. That was weird. That always worked. He had a 100% success rate with anvils and giant hammers. Hell, he was pretty sure that's how Bugs Bunny took down God one time.
The lizard slowly lifted its head, rolling its shoulders, its entire aura radiating long-suffering annoyance.
Okay. Fine. He'd just have to kick it up a notch.
"Oh shit, okay, okay—second plan!"
He clapped his hands together, channeling his infinite cosmic wisdom. With a dramatic flourish, he dragged one hand through the air, painting a perfect, black, gaping tunnel entrance onto a nearby building.
A portal. A shortcut. A trap.
"C'mon, big guy, let's see if you're dumb enough to—"
The lizard stopped. Looked at the tunnel. Then looked at him.
And then—without so much as a single brain cell wasted—walked around it.
Jackson felt something deep inside him break.
"Uh," he managed.
The lizard just stared.
Okay. Okay. It was a battle of wits, then.
"Plan C!" He snapped his fingers. A giant, glowing EXIT sign materialized above a newly formed doorway, the frame rippling with ominous, ethereal light.
Jackson smirked. "Betcha wanna know what's inside. Could be treasure. Could be a puppy. Could be an alternate timeline where you're hot."
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes. A worthy opponent.
The dinosaur lashed its tail with absolutely zero hesitation, punting Jackson through several walls.
Wind roared in his ears. Time stretched. He was flying, soaring through the air like a goddamn majestic eagle.
Wait. No. Eagles didn't spin uncontrollably.
He crashed. Hard.
The windshield of a ruined truck shattered beneath him, leaving a perfect Jackson-shaped imprint in the glass. He groaned, blinking blearily at the sky.
His entire body buzzed. Not pain, exactly—more like wavy. Like his molecules were vibing.
"Okay. Think." His lips felt slow, like they weren't entirely attached to his face. "How do I—"
Metal crunched.
A shadow loomed.
The lizard was there, looking increasingly tired of his bullshit.
Jackson yelped, scrambling back—and somehow, somehow, ran up the wall.
He paused.
The lizard paused.
Jackson's brain rebooted at mach speed.
He reached into his pocket, grasping the bag of blue meth Jesse had given him, his fingers shaping it into something new, something divine.
A star.
Power hummed in his veins, an electric thrill racing through him. He shot upright, pointing a dramatic finger at his own chest.
"BECAUSE—I AM THE CHOSEN ONE!"
He could feel it. Power. Destiny. The universe itself holding its breath.
He thrust his arms outward, commanding reality to obey.
"BEHOLD!"
A loud pop echoed through the ruined campus as he stuffed the star into his mouth.
Everything glowed.
Jackson blinked.
Somewhere, distant but impossibly close, a song started playing in his head.
A fast beat. Upbeat. Chaotic.
He recognized it.
Mario Kart. The invincibility star theme.
He grinned.
682 stared.
Jackson stared.
He took a step forward.
The lizard watched in visible confusion as he kept walking.
Up.
Jackson took a deep breath.
Then he screamed.
"REEEEEEEEE!"
And then he ran.
Full speed. Directly into the dinosaur.
A tail slammed into his torso.
It did nothing.
Fire, wreckage, wind screaming in his ears—his body stood, unshaken.
And then he pushed.
Everything spun.
"REEEEEEEEEEEE!"
---
Professor Emeritus Issac Davenport
International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology
2/01/2020
Professor Issac Davenport had seen many strange things in his tenure at the ICSUT. Gods made of raw mathematics. Language that rewrote the universe. A man who turned into a sentient pile of coat hangers.
This, however, was pushing it.
He materialized mid-teleport, his boot clicking against cracked pavement. The scene before him should have been a chaotic military battlefield—should have been—but what he saw instead was pure lunacy.
The battlefield was a mess of collapsed buildings, overturned vehicles, and scorched earth, but interspersed with the usual carnage were… cakes. Stacks of them, some neatly arranged, others mid-flight, flung through the air in chaotic, gravity-defying arcs.
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And then, of course, there was 682. The nigh-unkillable reptilian abomination, the reason they had mobilized in the first place. A nightmare carved from evolution's worst impulses.
Currently locked in combat with a man.
A maniac the best he could tell.
Who, for some godforsaken reason, was dressed like a cross between a superhero and a chef and was wielding an oversized baguette like a greatsword.
Issac's brain stalled for a full three seconds before words caught up with him. "What in the great spiraling fuck," he muttered.
A figure stumbled toward him—one of the field thaumaturges, a wiry young woman with exhaustion etched into her face. Her dark circles had dark circles, and she clutched her satchel like a lifeline. "Sir! Finally, some goddamn backup. We have a situation."
Issac swept a hand over the carnival of insanity before them. "You seem to have it under control."
The mage groaned, rubbing at her temples.
Issac pinched the bridge of his nose. "What's the situation?"
"We've eliminated most of the other parathreats. Anything that wasn't wiped out in the initial crossfire either fled or got put down," she said, still catching her breath.
"And casualties?"
"Not too bad. After the first wave, we managed to get most personnel and non-combatants out in time. The fight over there gave us a lot of time." She exhaled, nodding toward whatever the hell was happening in front of them.
Issac followed her gaze.
The reality bender—because that had to be what he was—was currently pelting 682 with Nerf guns.
And somehow, somehow, they actually had enough force to send the creature reeling.
Issac watched for just long enough for his brain to attempt to process the situation before promptly rejecting the notion.
He cleared his throat. "Any insight into our friend's abilities?"
The mage hesitated. "He's a Type Green. We got a reading on his Hume levels, but… they're strange. His mass ontokinesis is seemingly limitless. No discernible restrictions on range, material, or scale."
Issac frowned. That was absurd. Even the most powerful reality benders had some kind of limitation—cognitive strain, conceptual boundaries, or at the very least, an energy cost.
"And the conditions for his power?"
"We don't see any, but he's—" she gestured at the unholy landmass of cakes covering the campus "—chaotic. Or inebriated. We're not sure which. We don't think he's a fully conscious ontokinetic. As long as we don't get too close, his abilities don't seem to affect us."
Issac sighed, rubbing his temple. This was bad. The worst kind of bad. A reality bender that powerful was already a problem, but one that was barely aware of what he was doing? That was a global security risk.
And they had no way to mobilize a full GOC response.
682 let out a deep, grating screech, snapping Issac's attention back to the fight.
The reality bender had somehow conjured a massive frying pan.
And had placed 682 directly onto a comically oversized stove.
The lizard did not appreciate this.
"Alright," Issac said briskly, flipping open his spellbook. "We're going to use this bastard's idiocy to get the job done."
"You have a plan?"
"Naturally. We set up a teleportation snare. Lure 682 into stepping on it while he's too busy being deeply, profoundly pissed."
The thaumaturges immediately got to work, inscribing sigils into the fractured pavement. They carved the necessary runes with precise, practiced efficiency, weaving their magic into the battlefield's broken surface. Lines of burning glyphs spread outward like veins of molten gold, interlocking in intricate, reality-warping configurations.
"Anchor it along the leyline fractures," Issac instructed. "If he resists the snare, we need enough feedback to at least destabilize him long enough for the secondary trigger."
The team worked fast. Energy thrummed in the air. The ground beneath them pulsed as the spellwork embedded itself into the foundation of the ruined campus.
Meanwhile, the reality bender—still convinced he was some kind of superhero—had climbed onto the hood of a ruined car and was now beating his chest like a gorilla.
"HEY, YOU BIG DINO BITCH! BET YOU CAN'T CATCH ME, 'CAUSE I'M SPEEDY!"
Then, with the grace of a drunken lunatic, he bolted toward the trap.
Issac was momentarily stunned by the sheer, inexplicable timing of it all but decided against questioning it.
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he muttered.
682, finally at the end of its patience, let out a ground-shaking roar and charged after him with seemingly little.
The moment the monster's massive, clawed foot crossed the threshold, Issac snapped his fingers.
The sigils ignited. Lightning arced. Space twisted.
And in a single, blinding flash—682 was gone.
Silence.
The reality bender blinked.
"Whoa." He swayed slightly, squinting at the space where 682 had been. "That was metal as hell."
Issac exhaled, shutting his spellbook with a crisp thump. "Yes. It was."
The man turned toward him, a lopsided grin plastered across his face, swaying as though the concept of gravity was still negotiable.
"So, uh… I won, right?"
Issac stared. He felt something shift, a compulsion tugging at the edges of his mind.
His hand moved before he could stop himself.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a lollipop and handed it to the man.
"Congratulations," Issac said, almost mechanically. "You are victorious."
The reality bender accepted it with the reverence of a knight receiving his sword. "Fuck yeah."
Then he promptly exploded into the air in a shower of sprinkles.
Issac let out a long-suffering sigh, brushing the tiny sugar confetti off his coat.
"Goddamn it," he muttered. "Those are going to get everywhere."
He turned to the thaumaturges. "Someone send a message to HQ. 682 has been teleported to the Mediterranean Sea. Also, get me another coat and a very strong drink."
