A blonde man groaned as he pushed himself off the bed, yawning before stepping into the bathroom. His baby-blue eyes stared at his reflection. He was quite handsome, at least according to the women who constantly hit on him. He was muscular, well-built, unlike his friend Ricardo or the legendary Super Soldier, Fang, but he was proud of his body.

  It showed scars and muscle from constant training. He swept his blonde hair back before wincing slightly, clutching his rib, which was wrapped in bandages. His face darkened. He remembered what had happened almost a month ago, when he and his team were deployed on that large battleship. Countless U.S., Russian, Japanese and other nations' soldiers wore high-tech equipment, some of them Super Soldiers like them.

  All of them faced off against the smaller army of the New World Order. There were only a thousand of them, but they had superior weapons, armour, and skill. Not to mention Arc, the greatest Super Soldier in America, along with other heavy hitters like the Silver Marksman and Droid, who were leading them and dispatching even a squad of Super Soldiers with little difficulty. When his squad landed, they faced the three of them. It was a difficult fight for both sides.

  His team outnumbered them by one; the New World Order's leaders were absolute beasts on the battlefield. He remembered one hit from Droid that shattered his ribs into tiny pieces. They may have gotten their licks in, but they were forced to retreat. Strike Squad Nova's very first failed mission. A tired sigh escaped his lips.

  It couldn't be helped; if they had stayed, they would have been killed. The blonde man left the bathroom after he had washed his face and combed his hair. He then retrieved his pink shirt, which showed Patrick Star with a devious face while rubbing his hands. He left his quarters, the automatic metal door sliding closed. He went to the living room, where he blinked again.

  He had lived in this mansion for nearly a year, but he still couldn't help being in awe of the place. Think of every nice, cozy, futuristic rich person's mansion — but better in every way. Clean marble floors, very comfy mats and rugs that felt heavenly underfoot. There was a large red sofa near the windows; facing it was a TV only a bit smaller than theatre screens. Everything just looked expensive; even the empty soda cans on the glass table looked incredibly costly.

  It felt bizarre to him, especially when he had been raised in a lower-middle-class family. He sighed before walking up to the slightly younger man whose eyes were glued to the screen, using the controller to move the character. It looked like he was playing something about arrows and shouting at people. He didn't play video games.

  "Would it kill you to at least clean up after yourself? Mom isn't exactly here, you know."

  He crossed his arms, trying his best to look stern, which people said always seemed to fail unless a mission was involved. The younger man had the same face, except his cheekbones were softer; his blonde hair was longer and uncombed, like he had just woken up and didn't bother combing it. Their eyes briefly met — his grey ones looking at his blue for a moment before returning to the screen.

  "That's why you're here, big bro!" Gabe Leopold said, grinning as he continued to mash buttons; he was currently fighting some kind of skeleton dragon creature.

  "Aren't you relaxed?" Michael Leopold crossed his arms with a raised brow. "Especially for someone who was the least injured in our previous mission."

  "Oh, don't be like that; you know I'm a long-range type of guy."

  "You..." Michael sighed. "Have a point."

  He was about to reach for the empty soda cans, but he heard someone clearing their throat. Michael turned to face a pretty Korean woman with jet-black hair in a bob cut. She also had grey eyes like Gabe's, but a darker shade, almost black. She pushed her glasses up and stepped in front of the screen.

  Because it was so big, she barely blocked anything, but the harsh look on her face made Gabe freeze.

  "Oh, come on. Can I just kick this dungeon's a—"

  The woman's eyes narrowed.

  "Okay, okay, sheesh." Gabe got up.

  "I swear, Arti, it's like it's always that time of the month for you," he muttered.

  "What was that, little boy?"

  "N-Nothing!"

  Gabe grabbed his empty soda cans and scurried out of there. Michael watched him go, shaking his head while chuckling. Arti walked over and lightly jabbed at his ribs, thankfully not the side that was still hurting.

  "You really have to learn to be more forward. I've been saying it."

  "Yeah, I know..." he grumbled.

  The three of them entered the dining room; nearby was the kitchen. Humming while placing eggs, rice, and ketchup on plates was the last member of their squad. He was big, nearly seven feet tall, with muscles that looked harder than diamonds. Even looking at his back made Michael feel like a twig. Gabe skipped forward and smacked the large man on the back.

  "What's for breakfast, big guy?"

  "Oh, just the standard eggs, bacon, and rice. The usual." The man turned to face his teammates, and a soft smile crept up.

  He had a black goatee and a thin mustache; he also bore a scar on the left side of his face that traveled to his forehead and cheek. From an outside perspective, Ricardo Garcias looked like a cold, menacing brute. The actual person was anything but.

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  "Good morning, you two. Are you recovering well?"

  His bright face briefly transformed into a concerned one. Michael waved him off, saying he was fine. Meanwhile, Arti brushed her hair, face full of annoyance.

  "Could be better. Arc's punch definitely felt like getting hit by a sledgehammer — or hearing this guy try to flirt with girls." Arti jabbed her thumb at Gabe, who was putting everyone's plates down.

  "Wha-!? Hey!"

  "Hey, no need to get worked up, you two." Ricardo brought the rice cooker and opened it to reveal hot, steamy rice.

  "Come on, eat; you'll feel better. I have to cook more for dessert."

  Michael grabbed him before he got to the kitchen.

  "Why don't you relax, big guy? After all, you're the one who got injured the most fighting the New World Order."

  Michael's memory returned to that large battleship. He had been fighting Arc while Arti tried to take Silver Marksman. From the shadows a distance away, Gabe used his powerful sniper to create openings or stun their opponents. That left Ricardo to fight Droid alone, the physically strongest of the New World Order.

  It was a close fight, but even then Ricardo suffered a concussion, eighty percent of his bones shattered or broken, and many other injuries that would have killed a man if not for his Super Soldier body. They all took grievous injuries, and Michael ordered them to retreat via chopper. That had been almost a month ago.

  He could only grit his teeth at the accursed memory, hating that they weren't strong enough to beat them. Ricardo placed one of his large hands on Michael's shoulder. A sad but knowing smile formed on the Filipino man's face.

  "Come on, let's eat, leader."

  The four of them sat at the table, talking about random stuff, movies, and other trivial things. Though Michael was distracted and wanted to avoid anything involving the mission or the military to focus on eating with his friends, he couldn't. So many questions bubbled in his head.

  After they had been beaten and then recovered, they were expected to be deployed again. Their injuries might not have healed, but honestly the Monarchs didn't give a damn, and they were desperate. Suddenly everyone was set to standby — incredibly sudden, like out of nowhere. They were set up in a boat a few thousand kilometres away, just chilling and waiting for their next orders.

  During that time they felt tremors from far away, powerful explosions, atomic-bomb levels of energy, and other noises that made them paranoid. In fact, Gabe and Arti were about to investigate if not for Ricardo and Michael convincing them otherwise. Then, after a couple more days, they were suddenly sent home. They were quiet even when fellow Super Soldiers demanded answers; there were none. It was utterly bizarre.

  Just what happened in Russia while they were nearby? Michael opened his mouth to chomp on some bacon when an electric buzzing sounded — akin to a bee but not nearly as bothersome.

  "Oh come on! Let me finish at least!" Gabe complained, throwing up his hand, but he stood with the rest of the squad.

  They followed the buzzing back to the living room. Ricardo pushed the couch aside to make room as they all stood professionally. Even Gabe's tired, annoyed face transformed into something expressionless and cold.

  "Accept the call," Michael said.

  The large TV screen flashed, turning into garble and static before resolving. A bald man with a mustache, wearing a sleek black suit and shades, stared at them through the screen.

  "Mr. Nine, good morning. What can we do for you today?"

  Nine didn't speak at once, instead analyzing them with narrowed eyes. After a few moments, he eased up.

  "Glad to see you're recovering well, Strike Squad Nova."

  "Yes. By my estimation our injuries have recovered by eighty percent; we're more than ready to be sent out to the field again to take on the New World Order."

  "I'm afraid... that won't be necessary anymore."

  Michael blinked. He craned his neck to watch his teammates' reactions. Like him, they were in disbelief and shock. After all, one of the best Super Soldier strike squads wasn't being called to a mission that would decide the fate of nations. His blue eyes met the bald man's, trying to find deception; there was none.

  "May I ask why that is?"

  Nine, for a split second, looked uncomfortable before straightening. "The New World Order, along with SURVIVOR Version 4, have been destroyed."

  Michael let out a sharp intake of air. In his periphery, he saw Gabe's jaw drop, Ricardo blink, and Arti grimace in worry. Nine proceeded to tell them the story about how one person dismantled the New World Order and defeated all of the SURVIVORs, not just the fourth one. Aside from Atlas, who had died from organ failure after overusing the Emperor Serum, Silver Marksman blew himself up in an attempt to stop the one behind it, and even Arc—

  The greatest Super Soldier, only rivalled by the legendary Gavin, had also passed away. His cybernetic body was too damaged, and the life support on his mechanical heart collapsed. Aside from them, nobody else died; many were captured and detained, including Droid. And there was only one person, a child no less, who had done this in a few days. Everyone in Nova knew about this new... thing. It was almost impossible; everyone was talking about him on the news.

  How he helped a grandma across the street, how he stopped a robbery, and — according to some reports — how all Super Soldiers reacted during Atlas's interrogation before he broke out and died. That this person was responsible for foiling his plan to nuke all of Toronto.

  "Red Justice," Michael whispered.

  "Yes..."

  "I didn't think the brat would be that strong," Gabe muttered under his breath.

  "Regardless, while thankfully the New World Order has been stopped, it's clear you're not just here to give us good news."

  "Indeed," Nine confirmed. "At the end of September, all of you will fight Red Justice."

  The Nova squad fell silent. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Gabe swallowed, his lips quivering.

  "Sorry, sir, I think I've been playing too many video games; it sounded like you wanted us to fight Red Justice?"

  "Yes, that is indeed my intention, Ranger," Nine said, his expression unchanging.

  Gabe became paler than a sheet of paper. Ricardo stepped forward, crossing his arms, his face polite but edged.

  "Sir, fight Red Justice? Why? He did the world a great service by stopping Arc and his organization's threat."

  "Regardless of his deeds..." Nine leaned back. "The Monarchs and many other officials, including myself, believe that Red Justice is a threat like no other — the fact that he won against humanity's greatest weapon."

  Ricardo looked like he wanted to say more, but bit his lip and stayed silent.

  "So... you think four Captain America rejects can take on dollar-store Superman?" Arti said.

  "...No. We do not expect you to be victorious; it would be foolish to think so. However, we want data on Red Justice — how he fights, his powers, and his abilities. Our droid cameras were either destroyed or hacked, so we don't know much about his abilities aside from physical might and flight."

  "So we're just cannon fodder?" Arti's voice went colder than the Arctic; even Nine seemed uncomfortable meeting her steely gaze.

  "Not necessarily. Red Justice doesn't aim to kill, and from the info gathered from interrogating Droid, he doesn't use maximum power right off the bat and has difficulty finding opponents with actual skill and experience. A team like yours may not win, but you can provide useful data," Nine explained. "Besides, we are upgrading your powersuits and have almost a month's worth of training."

  "But—" Gabe began, then paused.

  "This isn't optional. You will fight Red Justice regardless of your feelings. What do you say, Fighter?" His eyes trailed to Michael, who straightened.

  His blue eyes scanned his teammates. They wore a range of expressions, but none of them wanted to fight Red Justice. An order is an order. Despite their power, status, and skill, they were all puppets — and the one pulling the strings was the government. With a shaky sigh, Michael faced Nine and nodded.

  "We'll take on this assignment."