[Ding! Eliminated two criminals. Gained 200 Villain Points. Current Progress: 11,470/15,000]
[Ding! Allies David, John Wick, and others eliminated 11 criminals. Gained 1,100 Villain Points. Current Progress: 12,570/15,000]
The system's cold chime rang in Jason's head, a grim tally of the bloodbath that had just unfolded. The ranch was quiet now, the screams of the rebellious prisoners silenced, their bodies reduced to lifeless heaps staining the manicured grass. The air hung heavy with the stench of gunpowder and blood, a brutal reminder of the price of defiance.
*
Around seven that evening, Stan peeled off his DEA uniform, trading it for a nondescript hoodie and jeans. He slid into a beat-up sedan, the kind of car that blended into the urban sprawl, and gunned it from the agency's headquarters toward Manhattan Valley. As he pulled up to the revamped villa, its gaudy gold-trimmed facade gleaming under the floodlights, he spotted a grim scene unfolding out front. A dozen or so of Jason's crew were hauling corpses, two to a body, dragging them toward a ditch at the edge of the property for burial. The grass was slick with blood, the air thick with the acrid reek of death andавис
Stan didn't flinch, his expression unreadable as he stepped out of the car, two bottles of aged Scotch whisky tucked under his arm. He'd seen enough shit in his line of work to know what was going down—Jason was cleaning house, purging the disloyal like a fucking warlord. 'Good riddance to the trash', Stan thought, his lips twitching into a smirk. Fewer mouths to feed meant more room for the loyal.
He grabbed the bottles and strode into the villa, his boots echoing on the polished marble floor. The dining room was a spectacle of excess, a massive oval mahogany table dominating the space, piled high with roasted turkey, pizzas dripping with cheese, sizzling steaks, and crisp salads—a feast fit for a king, courtesy of Robert and his wife's obsessive cookbook studying. Six of Jason's inner circle were already seated, their faces lit by the golden glow of the ostentatious chandelier overhead.
Jason lounged at the head of the table, his grin sharp as a blade. "Stan, getting that shiny Presidential Medal of Honor's gone to your head, huh? Too big to show up on time for my welcome-back bash?"
Stan chuckled, holding up the whisky bottles like a peace offering. "DEA's been a shitshow, boss. Hope these bad boys make up for it."
Jason's eyes glinted with amusement. "Alright, for the Scotch, you get a pass. Sit your ass down before the steak gets cold."
Stan glanced around the table. To Jason's left were Harley, Franklin, and John—familiar faces, all grinning like they owned the place. To his right sat Christine, the Hollywood starlet with a rap sheet longer than her IMDb page, and some Asian guys Stan didn't know, his vibe cold and lethal. His plate was set at the third spot on the right, so he slid into the chair, the aroma of grilled meat hitting him like a punch.
Harley's hand shot out, her grin mischievous. "Lemme see that fancy medal, Stan."
Stan raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, pulling the polished wooden box from his pocket. The Presidential Medal of Honor gleamed inside, the highest honor the country could bestow. Harley snatched it, pinning it to her chest with a cackle. "How's it look with my skirt, huh?"
The table erupted in nods and half-assed compliments, everyone playing along with her antics. Stan's right eyelid twitched. 'She's not keeping that shit, is she?'
Jason grabbed a soup spoon, tapping it against his glass with a sharp ding ding ding. The chatter died, all eyes on him. "Alright, listen up," He said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who'd just turned a dozen rebels into fertilizer. "You're the core of the Joker Organization. Some of you know each other, some don't. Let's do intros."
Harley's hand shot up first. "Me! I'm first!" She launched into her spiel, followed by John Wick's clipped rundown, Franklin's cocky drawl, Stan's matter-of-fact recap, David's curt nod, and Christine—aka Christine—capping it off. When it came out that Hollywood's golden girl was Jason's ex and a former crime lord, Stan and the others who hadn't known nearly choked on their drinks. 'Fucking hell, boss', Stan thought, 'You don't mess around.'
The meal kicked off, glasses clinking, booze flowing, and conversation jumping from New York's underbelly to the best dive bars in LA. Under the chandelier's glow, it felt like a twisted family reunion, everyone loosening up as the whisky worked its magic.
Three rounds in, plates half-empty, Harley piped up, her eyes gleaming. "So, Jay, what's the deal with those badass superpowers of yours?"
The table went quiet, all eyes on Jason, hungry for details. Christine leaned forward, flipping her hair back, her flushed cheeks and hazy eyes locked on him. "That five hundred mil I wired you hit the account, right? Spill it—what powers can I buy?"
Everyone leaned in, practically drooling. Jason smirked, unfazed. Who the hell could resist the lure of superpowers? "Alright, since you're all so damn curious, I'll lay it out. Everyone here can get a power—maybe more than one. But nothing's free. Level-one powers cost five hundred million a pop."
The table buzzed with excitement, everyone picturing themselves as gods. "Here's the menu," Jason said, pulling up the system's glowing interface, reading off the powers like a demonic shopping list. "Telepathy, telekinesis, healing, ice, fire, lightning, weather control, laser eyes, shapeshifting, steel skin, phasing, teleportation, angel wings, earth manipulation, sonic screams, x-ray vision, invisibility, diamond form, shockwaves, rubber body, magnetism, tech control…" He rattled off over a hundred abilities, his throat dry by the end. He chugged some ice water, eyeing Christine. "That's the lineup. Pick one and get back to me."
Christine didn't hesitate, her decision locked in. "No need. I'm set."
All eyes swung to her. Jason raised an eyebrow. "What's it gonna be?"
"Healing," She said, her voice steady.
Jason blinked, thrown off. With her ruthless streak, he'd pegged her for something vicious—fire, lightning, maybe shapeshifting. Healing? That was soft. "You sure? Healing's got zero offensive juice."
Christine nodded, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not here for brawls. High-level healing means eternal youth, maybe immortality. That's my game."
Jason got it. 'Forever young? Yeah, that tracks for her.' "Fair enough. It's your call. And hey, you can always buy more later—five hundred mil, no haggling."
Christine smirked. "Got it, you greedy bastard."
Jason snorted, stung by the jab. 'Greedy? I'm not making a dime off this shit.' He was just the middleman, passing powers to his crew at cost. If he was a crook, what the hell did that make the real sharks like old man Morgan?
[Ding! Spend 50,000 points to purchase 'Healing Level 1' for ally 'Christine Vineyard'? Current Points: 109,850]
'Yes.'
[Ding! Purchase successful! Remaining Points: 59,850]
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500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.