[Life is Good] Chapter 67

"Standing all alone agaaain... Standing again, mama, again! And outside, Sataaan... is eating sixth-grader Vova!"

Yeah. I sing like shit—especially in this body—but I’m bored.

Up top, it was still evening about an hour ago. No real urge to crawl out into the light yet; a xenomorph-tyranid hybrid roaming Hell’s Kitchen is bound to cause a bit of a scene. Not that I’m super worried—nobody’s gonna recognize me, and slipping back into the sewers is as easy as flipping off a pigeon. But still, working at night is so much more convenient.

First thing on the to-do list: I need to find out what kind of buzz is surrounding my name. Sensei said the whole base-op was supposed to stay under wraps, but you always gotta account for the ol’ “oh shit” scenario. I need to know if anything about my little meltdown at the military complex leaked online. If it did, I’m screwed. Good-boy Tobi’s gonna need to vanish into the underground and kiss his normal life goodbye.

If not—if everything’s quiet—then step two is grabbing a disguise. A hoodie, maybe a raincoat with a nice deep hood. I’ve got about two hundred bucks stashed in my belt pouches, along with Valera in his holster. I’ve already spotted a couple of 24/7 bodega-style shops in the Kitchen. You know the type—tiny, but they sell everything from bread to condoms. Raincoats? Guaranteed. Maybe even something to cover the ol’ demon-dong, which, even in this form, is feeling way too exposed.

Thought about doing things the easy way—steal what I need—but nope. Hard pass. I can’t afford to let myself slip right now. I’m still not mentally stable, and the temptation of easy sin could pull me off-track. The less I indulge the demon part, the easier it is to keep it leashed.

Plus, there’s a difference between “scary monster who robs people” and “scary monster who buys his shit like a responsible adult.” The latter’s still sus, but hey—maybe they won’t shoot me on sight.

Next step: reach out to Sensei. See if she can calm everyone down. Maybe even set up a meeting. Knowing her, she won’t piss me off—even in my current, twitchy-as-fuck mental state.

As for going back to the School? Yeah, no. Sure, Charline or Beast could probably help me, but what if I lost control? What if I hurt them? Or worse—hurt the kids? A demon walking around a school full of children is a terrible idea. If I snapped in there? Total bloodbath. And they’d have every right to put me down.

I wanna live. I don’t wanna hurt anyone I care about. So until I’ve got a leash on this shit, I’m staying the hell away. The sewers are perfect for that. I’ll blow off steam on rats and gators—if this place has any.

As for Ghost Rider? Nope. Not calling her either. She’s not a mutant, we’ve got no personal bond beyond distant infernal kinship, and to be honest, I’m scared of her. I’m not gonna risk showing up in this shape, all jittery and potentially explosive. Blaze made one thing very clear—looks are one thing, but actions matter more.

When I do see her, I’ll have to be honest. Tell her what happened at the base, straight-up. If she’s anything like in the comics, she’s not squeamish about exterminating evil bastards, so hopefully she won’t judge me too hard. But hiding it? Nah. That’s just opening the door for someone else to “accidentally” leak it with the worst possible spin.

Actually, thinking about all this has been another anchor to my humanity. This is Marvel. There are too many godlike beings here for me to get comfy as some Venom-style monster sociopath. Sooner or later, some hero’s gonna punt me into orbit. And out there? No air, no food, no water. Even with all my powers, I’d just die.

I’m not some energy entity. Sure, there are villains out there, but unlike the hero crowd, they’re not gonna risk saving some scary demon dude with poor impulse control.

“All right, what’s up there, anyway?” I mutter, scaling the ladder and nudging the manhole cover.

Yes. It’s dark now. Goodbye, sewer stank. Hello, fresh air. Nobody in sight. I slip out, close the cover, and melt into the deepest shadow nearby.

“Time to stealth the fuck out of this mission,” I whisper, stifling the urge to click-laugh. There's always a chance I’ll run into Daredevil or some other patrolling hero, but I’m confident in my hundred-and-first karate move.

I feel a little spark of motivation—my usual anger even has a playful edge to it. No sign of a rage spiral. Nice.

Moving in quick bursts, I slink through the alleys, sticking to the shadows. Using my power, I ping for signs of life and electronics. I need a way into the internet.

Yeah, I considered doing a good ol’ mug-and-surf—steal a phone, make a call, browse the net—but then decided to up the difficulty. Gotta keep the lawbreaking to light trespassing.

So I hunted for sleeping folks with a running computer or laptop. Preferably unlocked.

Third try was the charm. Nobody home, but the energy signature of a powered-up PC was there.

I climbed to the third floor, slipped in through a cracked window with a flick of my tail, popped the latch—easy. The place? Belonged to someone cut from the same cloth as me: no password, desktop wide open. And guess what was actively downloading from torrents?

Yeah. “Super-Hero and the Punishment of Villainesses.” Twelve episodes. Twelve.

Rule 34 in full swing, baby. The description had me wheezing:

“The Goddess forgives. He… He punishes… anally.”

Focus, focus. No time for hentai. I hit a few forums and news sites.

First, surprise—according to the date, it’s only been two days since the base incident. That threw me for a second. Then I remembered the Magik arc—she spent ten years in Limbo, and it passed in a blink here. Multiverse time, baby. Honestly? Great.

And it’s even better I bumped into a mage. Without her, I don’t even wanna guess how long I’d have been stuck waiting for someone to save my scaly ass.

Okay, superhero news… Nothing.

Sure, there were a few scraps about hero dustups and, of course, dozens of dumbass threads about me. But all pure bullshit. The kind of crap that spawns like fungus online.

My eye twitched reading about my alleged romance with Iron Lady. Then there was a thread about me and Rhino, with a forbidden love angle between a young hero and an older villainess…

Nope. All garbage.

Nothing real’s leaked. At least, nothing public.

I clear the browser history—clunky as hell with these claws, but whatever. Minor inconvenience. Wipe everything clean, close the window behind me, and that's that.

“Technically, the only crime I’ve committed is illegal entry. Max penalty—fine and some community service. You know, if we don’t count the armed assault on a military facility as part of a terrorist group.” I think with a healthy dose of irony, heading toward the nearest corner store. The streets are still busy, so I plan to wait till later tonight before I go shopping. Still not entirely sure how I’m gonna pull it off, but I’ll figure it out.

I “pause” up on the roof of a building next to the shop run by that elderly Indian lady—helped her out once during a robbery back on patrol. The maze of ventilation pipes makes for a decent hiding spot, and I curl up in a cozy ball, setting the troll’s skull beside me like a favorite pillow (I decided to call her Yorichiha). I start watching the foot traffic, eavesdropping on random conversations.

A few hours pass without me even noticing. I get into this weird meditative state, idly swaying my tail blade like a bored housecat lounging on a radiator. About thirty minutes ago, I got a fresh life lesson.

Down in the alley beneath me, two women had started beating the absolute shit out of each other. I missed the start of the scuffle, distracted by my own thoughts, but the telltale sounds of a brawl brought my attention back.

One chick was clearly more athletic and had the upper hand, absolutely pounding her thinner opponent. For a second, I thought about intervening—flashes of Flash and Parker dynamics floating up—but I held back. No weapons, one-on-one… I let it play out.

The beef ended with the sporty chick standing tall, and the loser slumped against a wall, clutching a bleeding nose.

“You don’t speak normal, do you?” the victor growled. “This is your last warning, Alex! No more weed for Johnny! If you bring drugs into our house again, I swear I’ll break your arms. I don’t care if we’re cousins!”

“B-but Beth, come on,” the defeated one whined. “It’s just weed, for fuck’s sake!”

“I don’t give a shit,” the gym rat snapped. “We want healthy kids, dumbass! You’ve already smoked away half your brain!”

Ah. Family drama. Now it makes sense. And honestly, I’m siding with Beth the Gym Rat. If you’re trying to get pregnant or raise a family, yeah, maybe don’t fill your system with garbage. Adults can destroy themselves all they want, but unborn kids? No choice in the matter. So in this trial, presided over by yours truly, violence is deemed justified. Beth: not guilty. Alex: legally bitch-slapped.

I let out a soft, amused click-chuckle, then returned to quietly watching the street.

Things stayed quiet until a duo rounded the corner near the shop. Damn. The old lady’s luck sucks. Two women in balaclavas. Tense body language. Hands in pockets like they’re packing heat.

Although… why am I annoyed? This is a perfect chance to earn more points with the shopkeeper.

I watch one of the would-be robbers flip the “Open” sign to “Closed,” but not lock the door before heading inside. Perfect.

One long leap from the rooftop and I land silently right by the entrance. I crack the door open, slip in, and make my way inside low to the floor, hugging the tiles. I remember the store’s layout, and under the soundtrack of “Give us the cash, bitch, or we’ll blow your brains out!” I slither forward toward the action.

Two figures, backs to me. Each with a revolver in their right hand. Old-school detective pieces—.38 Colt snubbies, if I’m not mistaken.

Lovely.

In one smooth motion, I rise behind them, snatch both guns so the hammers can't drop, twist wrists just enough to disarm them gently, and whisper:

“Good evening.”

A sudden flash of an old dark and dirty joke about a polite donkey-rapist nearly makes me chuckle. My tail, meanwhile, coils around both women’s waists and binds them together, neatly preventing any escape.

As they flail and try to process what the fuck just happened, I continue:

“Didn’t you know? The Silver-Haired Lady frowns on chaos in her neighborhood.”

I catch the shopkeeper reaching for something under the counter—then freezing. Her face relaxes just a little. She’s got someone with her tonight—a young girl, maybe her daughter or granddaughter. She’s staring at me with those eyes: full of wonder, spiked with fear. Honestly, par for the course in Marvel’s Hell’s Kitchen.

The robbers? They’re reacting… appropriately. Stunned. Terrified. Until the one on the right lets out a noise so gross, it instantly ruins the moment.

“Ugh, fuck me,” I grimace. “Stinkers. Piss off, and don’t let me catch you back here.”

One gentle shove and they’re stumbling out, practically tripping over themselves, leaving behind a trail of shame and body odor. I snort, annoyed, ease the hammers down on the guns, and set them on the closest shelf before turning back to the shopkeepers.

“Once again, good evening. Sorry for the scare,” I nod politely, burying the irritation. This is a big moment. First friendly contact between a xeno-tyranid hybrid and local humans.

The older woman, after a brief hesitation, bows low and murmurs something in Hindi. The girl follows suit a second later, mimicking her—mother or grandmother, probably.

"Excuse me? Could you speak English, please?"

“I honestly thought Asura himself was coming to my store,” the shopkeeper exhales with visible relief, even managing a faint smile. “Thank you…”

“Dimon,” I introduce myself with a little nod. “Happy to help. I was actually planning to do some shopping, and then—well, this mess happened.”

“I’m Malati,” she replies, smile gaining a bit of confidence.

“Shopping?” the younger one raises a skeptical brow.

“Shopping,” I confirm patiently, fishing a hundred-dollar bill out of my belt pouch and placing it on the counter. “I urgently need pants.”

Both women glance down… The younger one goes crimson, and the older one lets out an impressed little grunt and nods.

“Jaya, grab a pair of army pants from the back,” Malati says over her shoulder, then adds to me, a touch apologetically, “We’ve only got military-style stuff, but in different sizes.”

“That’s fine,” I shrug, watching Jaya head into the back. My ears—figuratively speaking—stay alert. Just in case she tries to call the cops.

“So you… work for the Silvermane?” Malati asks carefully.

“No,” I click-chuckle. That eyebrow raise from her is priceless. “But she does frown on chaos in her neighborhood, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Malati smirks. “Technically, I pay the Hell Bitches—local girls from the Kitchen. But they work under her.”

“Uh-huh. This kind of thing happen often?”

“All the damn time,” she sighs. “Though it’s calmed down a bit. Used to be Kingpin’s turf. Her people loved to cause trouble. Those were dark days.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” Not that I was dying to hear her life story, but it beats idly playing with my tail while Jaya rummages around. And for what it’s worth—she’s actually rummaging, not secretly dialing 911.

“They’d waltz in whenever they wanted, grab whatever they liked, never paid a cent. The Bitches? Sure, they take a discount or run tabs—but at least they pay. They don’t smash up the place, and they more or less keep the neighborhood clean. They even chase off dealers with that real nasty shit. Even Daredevil—bless her blind ass—doesn’t really tangle with them much…”

“Oh come on, she made up for it!” Jaya suddenly bursts in, arms full of clothes.

“But the trauma remains,” Malati grumbles, and now it’s official—yep, she’s the grandma. “Even the kids—Spider-Girl, Salamander, and that new one—they were way more careful. But your Daredevil? She trashed half my damn store. Would’ve been better off if I had been robbed!” She throws her arms up dramatically, lips pursed. “I’m an old, sick woman! Took me all night to clean up the mess! Here, Dimon, try these on. Oh, underwear? Good girl,” she nods approvingly at her granddaughter.

So yeah. I got dressed. Well… sort of. Slipped on a pair of surprisingly decent boxer briefs, pulled the army pants up over my skinny ass, and added a shapeless, oversized T-shirt and a rain poncho.

They didn’t charge me for the clothes. We settled on a good ol’ barter deal—two revolvers from the robbery in exchange. “They’ll go in my collection,” Malati chuckled, shooting a side-eye at her granddaughter before stashing the guns under the counter.

The atmosphere was warm, honestly. I felt pretty damn good—semi-dressed, semi-respectable, and having aced a social interaction. Malati was content the situation was resolved without bloodshed, and even the residual fear had mostly faded. As she put it: “After everything I’ve seen in Hell’s Kitchen, a strange-looking but polite gentleman with a tail who didn’t hurt my family? Far from the weirdest thing in New York.”

I paid cash for the rest—snacks, two bottles of Coke, and a pack of salt. Just in case. The trauma of cooking without spices in that other dimension still haunted me.

I was checking out and wrapping up the warm fuzzies when I felt trouble approaching. A female presence, signature flaring hard, zeroed in on the shop’s front entrance.

I sighed. Should’ve knocked those two out.

“What’s going on here?” a tense, battle-ready voice asked. Daredevil.

I was just about to answer when Malati exploded with righteous fury:

“You again?! You’re back to wreck my store? You promised you wouldn’t show your face here again!”

The sheer volume of Malati’s rage was a meal you could chew. Jaya looked mortified. The hero? Clearly thrown off her game. I sensed her confusion, guilt, and a touch of what-the-fuck-is-going-on.

“But—”

“But what? What? Don’t you see? The gentleman’s shopping! ‘What’s going on here,’” Malati mimicked her with a theatrical sneer. “It’s called commerce! I take money, I give goods! Got a problem with that?!”

“But Ba—” Jaya tried to cut in, voice small.

“Don’t ‘Ba’ me,” Malati snapped, then rounded again on Daredevil. “Get out of my shop before I call the police!”

Hands on hips, she glared at the hero. I swear, we both stared at her in stunned silence, identical dumbfounded expressions. The freaky alien monster gets treated like a valued customer, and she’s the one being threatened with the cops?

Matt—because yeah, I know who she is—stood there a second longer, then turned and walked out without a word.

“Um… weren’t you being a little harsh?” I ask, actually kinda feeling bad. “She does help people, y’know?” I catch a flicker of approval from Jaya and a pulse of surprise from Matt.

“She’ll live,” Malati huffs. “Not made of glass. You handled it clean: no one got hurt, and those two won’t be back. Neither will those other punks. For that—thank you. But don’t be offended, Dimon, I just want my family safe. I pay the Hell Bitches for protection, not a goddamn war zone. If those junkie idiots had been found by them, they’d have made them apologize and repay what they owed. But a shootout, bullets flying over my head, over my granddaughter’s—I don’t thank people for that! That’s not heroics. That’s bullshit!”

“Fair enough…” And really, it was fair. Honestly kind of poetic—Malati spoke more fondly about a local gang than a costumed superhero, and served me, a literal demon-spawned nightmare beast, without batting an eye. Man… this world really is something else.

After saying my goodbyes—and getting a “come again” that honestly sounded pretty heartfelt—I head for the exit, lost in thought. Gotta find a payphone. Got some loose change, and I do remember Yuriko’s number…

I climb back up to the rooftop where I’d made my little nest (can’t forget Yorichiha’s skull), tail carrying the bag of snacks like a loyal grocery-caddy, and feel Daredevil’s energy signature approaching again. The woman launches up between two buildings like it’s nothing, landing lightly about five meters away from me.

Psssshhhhh, the Coke hisses as I twist the cap open. Wordlessly, I toss the second bottle her way—she catches it mid-air without missing a beat.

A few seconds of silence pass. I can feel her cocktail of emotions: confusion, curiosity, suspicion… and readiness to throw hands if needed. That last part’s exactly why I didn’t bolt—sure, she’s ready, but I don’t get that classic superhero urge to scream “purge the xenos!” and start punching.

“Hey. I’m Dimon. You know where I can find a working payphone around here?” I ask casually, ripping open a bag of chips and dropping onto a nearby pipe like it’s my goddamn throne. My tail gently sets the grocery bag on the rooftop and coils into a lazy curve against the surface.

“I gotta make a call.”