The Avengers are used to fighting for their lives, but their new teammate just wants to make it home in time for grocery store sales.
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One Punch MCU
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Statistics (3 threadmarks, 3.7k words)
User Total TheLastDreamer 3 Threadmarks Reader mode
Chapter 1
New
TheLastDreamer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2026
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- Likes received
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Tatsumaki screamed, blood dripping from her nose as she thrust both hands toward the sky. Above her, an entire city block complete with a shattered intersection and a half-collapsed grocery store were slowly drifting up into the clouds. She pulled with every ounce of her power to bring it back down, but the city block continued onto the sky.
A few yards away, Silver Fang was on one knee, his breathing ragged. Beside him, King stood, the legendary King Engine rumbled loudly in his chest. Even Genos, missing his left arm and leaking sparking fluid from his chest plate, could only stare upward in despair.
The sky above Z-City wasn't a sky anymore.
At the center of the tear floated a being that defied the senses. It had no face, no limbs, just a shifting mass of blinding, multi-dimensional shapes.
"TREMBLE, MORTAL FLESH," the being's voice vibrated directly into the marrow of their bones. The pressure alone forced several A-Class heroes in the distance to collapse, clutching their heads. "I AM THE DEVOURER OF PARADIGMS. YOUR REALITY IS BUT A THREAD, AND I HAVE COME TO UNRAVEL IT!"
Tatsumaki's knees buckled. Genos gritted his teeth, his optical sensors flashing red as he calculated their chance of survival as zero. This was it. The end of the world.
A few feet to Genos's right, a white cape flapped lazily in the upward draft.
Saitama scratched his cheek.
He tilted his head, watching the geometric nightmare flash with impossible colors. He brought a red-gloved hand to his face, rubbed his left eye, and let out a long, whistling yawn.
Something was bothering him.
Did I leave the AC running? Saitama thought, his blank, oval eyes staring through the city block. ...No. I unplugged it this morning. ...Good.
He blinked. Another thought surfaced, far more pressing than the floating concrete.
"Hey, Genos," Saitama said, his voice flat.
Genos turned his head, his mechanical eye whirring. "Master! You must fall back! My core is critically damaged, but I will detonate it to buy you and the others a few seconds.."
"Is today Saturday or Sunday?" Saitama interrupted.
Genos froze.
"M-Master?" Genos stammered, the apocalypse momentarily forgotten. "It... it is Saturday. Why?"
Saitama's eyes widened. A bead of sweat formed on his bald head.
Saturday, Saitama panicked. The premium beef is fifty percent off until 7:00 PM. If I miss it again, I'm going to have to eat plain udon for the third night in a row. "BEHOLD THE END OF EPOCHS!" the Devourer boomed. "I SHALL FOLD YOUR DIMENSION INTO DUST! COWER BEFORE HYPERSPACE COLLAPSE!"
The space beneath the entity began to fold inward. A massive, swirling hyperspace gate ripped open, a black hole began to form in the sky, sucking the very light out of the atmosphere. The pressure was immense. The city block collapsed into it, and the ground beneath the heroes began to crack and lift.
Saitama looked at his watch. 6:42 PM.
"Yeah, okay," Saitama muttered.
As king raised his hands in defeat Saitama stepped forward, wound back his right arm, and threw a punch.
The fist hit the air.
For a fraction of a second, silence blanketed the world.
Then, reality itself cracked.
A web of jagged, glowing fractures exploded outward from Saitama's knuckles, shattering the hyperspace gate like glass.
The Devourer ceased to exist.
But the unstable dimensional field didn't just vanish. The crack grew. It splintered downward, opening a violent, impossible chasm of twisting colors right beneath Saitama's boots.
The ground disappeared.
"...Eh?" Saitama blinked.
He reached out, grabbing at nothing but fractured purple light. A chunk of concrete flew past his face. Then, the light swallowed him whole.
Darkness.
He was falling. Endless fields of stars blurred past him, streaking like a rain. Upside-down oceans and shattered, impossible geometries floated in the void. There was no wind, no sound, just the dizzying sensation of tumbling through the spaces between realities.
Saitama slowly rotated in the void, looking at a passing nebula.
"Huh," he said.
He hit the ground. Hard.
Saitama sat up slowly, patting the dust off his yellow jumpsuit. He was sitting on wet, sticky asphalt. The air smelled entirely wrong, a thick mixture of stale urine, wet garbage, and heavy exhaust fumes.
He looked around. It was a narrow, shadowed alleyway walled by red brick. He walked to the end of the alley and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was loud.
A boxy, bright yellow car flew past him, the driver slamming on the horn.
"Hey, I'm walkin' here, buddy! Watch it!" a man in a thick coat yelled at the taxi.
Saitama blinked. The people that rushed past him on the crowded sidewalk didn't look like the citizens of Z-City. They wore heavy coats, strange hats, and all seemed to be glaring at the pavement as they walked.
A metal cart on the corner was billowing steam. The heavy, greasy smell of boiled meat, onions, and mustard drifted over to him. Saitama's stomach gave a loud growl.
He looked up. The towering skyscrapers were just buildings. No Hero Association headquarters looming in the distance. No smoking craters. Just... a city.
He walked up to a green metal newspaper stand on the corner. The vendor gave his spandex a weird look but didn't say anything. Saitama stared at the bold, English print at the top of the paper.
The New York Times.
Saitama stared at the letters. New York?
It should be very far away from my apartment, he thought. Can I just jump back? He looked up at the sky. No. Probably not.
He patted his pockets. He reached into the hidden pouch of his suit and pulled out his worn, leather wallet. He flipped it open. A few thousand yen bills and some loose silver coins clinked softly.
He checked another pocket. Nothing.
He looked up and down the street. No familiar grocery stores. No Genos trailing behind him with a notepad. No apartment key that fit any door on this continent.
He was hungry. He was tired. Nobody here spoke Japanese. His money was basically shiny metal disks and colorful paper.
Saitama stood frozen on the corner of 42nd Street, emptiness settling in his chest.
"...The supermarket sale."
Desperate, he wandered down the block until he found a glowing vending machine tucked outside a closed bodega. He stared at the colorful rows of snacks. He held his breath, slid a 500-yen coin into the slot, and prayed.
The machine whirred.
Clink. The coin dropped into the metal return tray at the bottom.
Saitama stood there in silence for a long, long time. The neon light of the machine buzzed. He reached down, took his useless coin back, and felt his shoulders slump in defeat.
He turned around, walked slowly back into the dark alleyway, and found some relatively clean cardboard boxes stacked near a dumpster. He flattened one out on the cold concrete, sat down, and pulled his knees to his chest.
His stomach rumbled again, echoing in the New York night.
"The sale's definitely over."
A few yards away, Silver Fang was on one knee, his breathing ragged. Beside him, King stood, the legendary King Engine rumbled loudly in his chest. Even Genos, missing his left arm and leaking sparking fluid from his chest plate, could only stare upward in despair.
The sky above Z-City wasn't a sky anymore.
At the center of the tear floated a being that defied the senses. It had no face, no limbs, just a shifting mass of blinding, multi-dimensional shapes.
"TREMBLE, MORTAL FLESH," the being's voice vibrated directly into the marrow of their bones. The pressure alone forced several A-Class heroes in the distance to collapse, clutching their heads. "I AM THE DEVOURER OF PARADIGMS. YOUR REALITY IS BUT A THREAD, AND I HAVE COME TO UNRAVEL IT!"
Tatsumaki's knees buckled. Genos gritted his teeth, his optical sensors flashing red as he calculated their chance of survival as zero. This was it. The end of the world.
A few feet to Genos's right, a white cape flapped lazily in the upward draft.
Saitama scratched his cheek.
He tilted his head, watching the geometric nightmare flash with impossible colors. He brought a red-gloved hand to his face, rubbed his left eye, and let out a long, whistling yawn.
Something was bothering him.
Did I leave the AC running? Saitama thought, his blank, oval eyes staring through the city block. ...No. I unplugged it this morning. ...Good.
He blinked. Another thought surfaced, far more pressing than the floating concrete.
"Hey, Genos," Saitama said, his voice flat.
Genos turned his head, his mechanical eye whirring. "Master! You must fall back! My core is critically damaged, but I will detonate it to buy you and the others a few seconds.."
"Is today Saturday or Sunday?" Saitama interrupted.
Genos froze.
"M-Master?" Genos stammered, the apocalypse momentarily forgotten. "It... it is Saturday. Why?"
Saitama's eyes widened. A bead of sweat formed on his bald head.
Saturday, Saitama panicked. The premium beef is fifty percent off until 7:00 PM. If I miss it again, I'm going to have to eat plain udon for the third night in a row. "BEHOLD THE END OF EPOCHS!" the Devourer boomed. "I SHALL FOLD YOUR DIMENSION INTO DUST! COWER BEFORE HYPERSPACE COLLAPSE!"
The space beneath the entity began to fold inward. A massive, swirling hyperspace gate ripped open, a black hole began to form in the sky, sucking the very light out of the atmosphere. The pressure was immense. The city block collapsed into it, and the ground beneath the heroes began to crack and lift.
Saitama looked at his watch. 6:42 PM.
"Yeah, okay," Saitama muttered.
As king raised his hands in defeat Saitama stepped forward, wound back his right arm, and threw a punch.
The fist hit the air.
For a fraction of a second, silence blanketed the world.
Then, reality itself cracked.
A web of jagged, glowing fractures exploded outward from Saitama's knuckles, shattering the hyperspace gate like glass.
The Devourer ceased to exist.
But the unstable dimensional field didn't just vanish. The crack grew. It splintered downward, opening a violent, impossible chasm of twisting colors right beneath Saitama's boots.
The ground disappeared.
"...Eh?" Saitama blinked.
He reached out, grabbing at nothing but fractured purple light. A chunk of concrete flew past his face. Then, the light swallowed him whole.
Darkness.
He was falling. Endless fields of stars blurred past him, streaking like a rain. Upside-down oceans and shattered, impossible geometries floated in the void. There was no wind, no sound, just the dizzying sensation of tumbling through the spaces between realities.
Saitama slowly rotated in the void, looking at a passing nebula.
"Huh," he said.
He hit the ground. Hard.
Saitama sat up slowly, patting the dust off his yellow jumpsuit. He was sitting on wet, sticky asphalt. The air smelled entirely wrong, a thick mixture of stale urine, wet garbage, and heavy exhaust fumes.
He looked around. It was a narrow, shadowed alleyway walled by red brick. He walked to the end of the alley and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was loud.
A boxy, bright yellow car flew past him, the driver slamming on the horn.
"Hey, I'm walkin' here, buddy! Watch it!" a man in a thick coat yelled at the taxi.
Saitama blinked. The people that rushed past him on the crowded sidewalk didn't look like the citizens of Z-City. They wore heavy coats, strange hats, and all seemed to be glaring at the pavement as they walked.
A metal cart on the corner was billowing steam. The heavy, greasy smell of boiled meat, onions, and mustard drifted over to him. Saitama's stomach gave a loud growl.
He looked up. The towering skyscrapers were just buildings. No Hero Association headquarters looming in the distance. No smoking craters. Just... a city.
He walked up to a green metal newspaper stand on the corner. The vendor gave his spandex a weird look but didn't say anything. Saitama stared at the bold, English print at the top of the paper.
The New York Times.
Saitama stared at the letters. New York?
It should be very far away from my apartment, he thought. Can I just jump back? He looked up at the sky. No. Probably not.
He patted his pockets. He reached into the hidden pouch of his suit and pulled out his worn, leather wallet. He flipped it open. A few thousand yen bills and some loose silver coins clinked softly.
He checked another pocket. Nothing.
He looked up and down the street. No familiar grocery stores. No Genos trailing behind him with a notepad. No apartment key that fit any door on this continent.
He was hungry. He was tired. Nobody here spoke Japanese. His money was basically shiny metal disks and colorful paper.
Saitama stood frozen on the corner of 42nd Street, emptiness settling in his chest.
"...The supermarket sale."
Desperate, he wandered down the block until he found a glowing vending machine tucked outside a closed bodega. He stared at the colorful rows of snacks. He held his breath, slid a 500-yen coin into the slot, and prayed.
The machine whirred.
Clink. The coin dropped into the metal return tray at the bottom.
Saitama stood there in silence for a long, long time. The neon light of the machine buzzed. He reached down, took his useless coin back, and felt his shoulders slump in defeat.
He turned around, walked slowly back into the dark alleyway, and found some relatively clean cardboard boxes stacked near a dumpster. He flattened one out on the cold concrete, sat down, and pulled his knees to his chest.
His stomach rumbled again, echoing in the New York night.
"The sale's definitely over."
Last edited:
Lord of the First Flame
So many timelines, so little time
- Joined
- Apr 13, 2015
- Messages
- 5,052
- Likes received
- 55,720
Loki: I have an army
Tony: We have a Caped Baldy.
Tony: We have a Caped Baldy.
Last edited:
Kolarthecool
Eyes Without, Eyes Within
- Joined
- Mar 18, 2015
- Messages
- 904
- Likes received
- 9,052
Nice, this should be hilarious.
OPM world doesn't have an America, its one huge supercontinent with 26 regions.
OPM world doesn't have an America, its one huge supercontinent with 26 regions.
TheLastDreamer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2026
- Messages
- 4
- Likes received
- 51
Thank you for the catch.
Chapter 2
New
TheLastDreamer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2026
- Messages
- 4
- Likes received
- 51
The alleyway on 42nd Street was loud and bright.
Saitama stood up, leaving his flattened cardboard box behind. If he was going to be homeless in America, he'd at least find a place where the flashing neon lights didn't drill directly into his retinas.
He walked aimlessly for hours. New York at night never seemed to slow down. Steam drifted from food carts on nearly every corner. Grilled meat, roasted nuts, and spices filled the air. People were everywhere, eating hot food wrapped in foil, laughing, shouting.
Nobody paid any attention to the bald man in the yellow jumpsuit. In a city this crowded, he didn't even register as strange.
His stomach protested.
He stopped outside a corner store. Through the glass, he could see rows of plastic-wrapped pastries. He pushed the glass door open. A bell jingled.
The man behind the counter didn't look up from his tiny television screen. "Next."
Saitama walked to the aisle, picked up a soft, squishy loaf of bread, and set it on the counter. He held up one finger.
"One loaf."
The cashier glanced at it, then at Saitama. "Three dollars."
"..."
Saitama reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, colorful Japanese yen note. He placed it softly on the counter.
The cashier stared at the paper. He immediately shook his head, sliding the bread back toward his side of the register. "No, man. Dollars."
Saitama pointed at the yen.
"No," the cashier repeated, his voice hardening.
Saitama slowly pulled the yen back. He turned and quietly left the store. The bell jingled behind him.
He walked another ten blocks. The exhaustion setting in, worse than hunger. He found a bench near a subway entrance and lay down, pulling his white cape over his shoulder. He closed his eyes.
A sharp tap on his boot woke him.
A police officer in a heavy blue jacket was standing over him, holding a nightstick. "Move along, buddy."
Saitama blinked, sitting up. "...Move?"
The officer pointed down the avenue. "Yeah. Can't sleep here. Move along."
Saitama stared at the officer's pointing finger, then looked back down at the bench. He nodded slowly.
"Ah."
He stood up and walked away.
He tried the concrete steps of a large church. A security guard waved him off. He tried the corner of a quiet bus stop. A late-night street sweeper honked loudly until he stood up. New York City, it seemed, did not want him to sleep.
Eventually, he ended up in front of a line of trees with central park written its gate.
Saitama crossed the street and stepped onto the grass. It was dark here. The city noise faded behind the trees. He walked deep into the shadows until he couldn't see the streetlights anymore.
He found a large oak tree with exposed roots. He pulled a discarded piece of cardboard he'd found a few blocks back from under his arm, laid it out on the dirt, and sat down. He wrapped his white cape around his shoulders like a blanket.
Birds chirped softly in the branches above. The wind rustled the leaves.
It was peaceful. No one here to bother him.
Saitama closed his eyes. Finally.
Clack-clack.
Saitama's eyes opened.
It was a sharp metal sound. It came from a clearing just a few dozen yards through the trees. He ignored it and closed his eyes again.
Then came the voices.
"Load the truck. We move in three minutes," a soft-spoken voice said.
Saitama frowned in the dark. ...Construction? he thought.
"Too risky," another voice answered in Mandarin. "The port authority is swarming with federal agents."
"Nobody comes through here this late," another man said. "Just get the crates in the van. The buyer's paying double for the ordnance."
Saitama sighed.
Too loud. He stood up, leaving his cardboard on the ground, and walked through the brush.
In the clearing, a large black van was parked entirely off the path, its headlights off. Five men dressed in dark clothing were moving heavy steel crates. They worked quickly without wasting a movement. There was a nervous, younger man keeping watch near the tree line, a veteran operative guiding a crate, and an impatient man barking muffled orders.
The soft-spoken leader stood by the van's open doors.
"Boss," the nervous man whispered, raising his assault rifle. "I heard somebody."
The leader looked at the nervous man and spoke in his soft spoken tone. "Then check."
The nervous man flicked on a flashlight, sweeping the beam through the trees. The beam caught the edge of a white cape.
The operative stepped forward, keeping his rifle raised. He reached out and pushed a low-hanging branch aside.
Saitama stood there scratching his stomach.
"Who the hell…" the operative started.
Saitama spoke. "...Please... quiet."
The clearing went completely still. One crate hit the ground with a heavy thud. Four rifles swung toward Saitama. The laser sights cut through the darkness, pointing little red dots across Saitama's yellow chest.
One of the men laughed. "It's just a bum."
The leader stepped forward. He looked at Saitama's bizarre outfit, then motioned with his hand. "Move."
Saitama stared at him. "No."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "I said move."
"Sleep," Saitama replied, pointing back toward his tree. "Too loud."
The impatient thug stepped up alongside the leader, his finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. "We don't have time for this crap. Put him down."
The thug fired.
The sound echoed through the treeline.
Ping.
The bullet struck Saitama squarely in the chest. It flattened against his collarbone, bounced off, and fell harmlessly into the grass.
Saitama looked down. There was a tiny, smoking hole in the fabric of his yellow jumpsuit.
No one moved.
The impatient thug stared at his rifle, then at the flattened bullet in the grass. His grip loosened. He looked back at the bald man trying to make sense of what he'd just seen.
Saitama gently touched the frayed edges of the hole.
"..."
He looked back up at the men.
"...Now I have to fix it."
Saitama pulled his right fist back.
Leaves rained from the canopy like a torrential downpour.
A massive flock of pigeons exploded out of the trees, scattering into the night sky. Half a mile away, along Fifth Avenue, the heavy glass windows of luxury penthouses rattled violently in their frames. An old man walking his golden retriever on the sidewalk suddenly dropped his coffee cup as the ground beneath his feet bucked.
Deep inside the park, a massive cloud of dust slowly drifted into the moonlight.
When the dust cleared, the clearing was gone. In its place was a massive, perfectly smooth trench carved straight through the ground, uprooting trees and displacing tons of soil for hundreds of feet.
Saitama stood at the edge of the crater. He looked at his ruined cardboard box, now buried under a mountain of dirt. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, turned around, and began walking deeper into the park to find another tree.
When dust settled.
Half-buried, a shattered steel crate lay split open. A scorched metal plate had come loose from its side.
Ten interlocking rings adorned the plate.
Near the edge of the crater, the nervous operative who had been standing just far enough back to only be thrown by the shockwave lay in the dirt, covered in blood and coughing violently. His hand trembled as he reached for a shattered radio clipped to his vest.
"Central..." the operative wheezed into the static. "Shipment is... compromised..."
Saitama stood up, leaving his flattened cardboard box behind. If he was going to be homeless in America, he'd at least find a place where the flashing neon lights didn't drill directly into his retinas.
He walked aimlessly for hours. New York at night never seemed to slow down. Steam drifted from food carts on nearly every corner. Grilled meat, roasted nuts, and spices filled the air. People were everywhere, eating hot food wrapped in foil, laughing, shouting.
Nobody paid any attention to the bald man in the yellow jumpsuit. In a city this crowded, he didn't even register as strange.
His stomach protested.
He stopped outside a corner store. Through the glass, he could see rows of plastic-wrapped pastries. He pushed the glass door open. A bell jingled.
The man behind the counter didn't look up from his tiny television screen. "Next."
Saitama walked to the aisle, picked up a soft, squishy loaf of bread, and set it on the counter. He held up one finger.
"One loaf."
The cashier glanced at it, then at Saitama. "Three dollars."
"..."
Saitama reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, colorful Japanese yen note. He placed it softly on the counter.
The cashier stared at the paper. He immediately shook his head, sliding the bread back toward his side of the register. "No, man. Dollars."
Saitama pointed at the yen.
"No," the cashier repeated, his voice hardening.
Saitama slowly pulled the yen back. He turned and quietly left the store. The bell jingled behind him.
He walked another ten blocks. The exhaustion setting in, worse than hunger. He found a bench near a subway entrance and lay down, pulling his white cape over his shoulder. He closed his eyes.
A sharp tap on his boot woke him.
A police officer in a heavy blue jacket was standing over him, holding a nightstick. "Move along, buddy."
Saitama blinked, sitting up. "...Move?"
The officer pointed down the avenue. "Yeah. Can't sleep here. Move along."
Saitama stared at the officer's pointing finger, then looked back down at the bench. He nodded slowly.
"Ah."
He stood up and walked away.
He tried the concrete steps of a large church. A security guard waved him off. He tried the corner of a quiet bus stop. A late-night street sweeper honked loudly until he stood up. New York City, it seemed, did not want him to sleep.
Eventually, he ended up in front of a line of trees with central park written its gate.
Saitama crossed the street and stepped onto the grass. It was dark here. The city noise faded behind the trees. He walked deep into the shadows until he couldn't see the streetlights anymore.
He found a large oak tree with exposed roots. He pulled a discarded piece of cardboard he'd found a few blocks back from under his arm, laid it out on the dirt, and sat down. He wrapped his white cape around his shoulders like a blanket.
Birds chirped softly in the branches above. The wind rustled the leaves.
It was peaceful. No one here to bother him.
Saitama closed his eyes. Finally.
Clack-clack.
Saitama's eyes opened.
It was a sharp metal sound. It came from a clearing just a few dozen yards through the trees. He ignored it and closed his eyes again.
Then came the voices.
"Load the truck. We move in three minutes," a soft-spoken voice said.
Saitama frowned in the dark. ...Construction? he thought.
"Too risky," another voice answered in Mandarin. "The port authority is swarming with federal agents."
"Nobody comes through here this late," another man said. "Just get the crates in the van. The buyer's paying double for the ordnance."
Saitama sighed.
Too loud. He stood up, leaving his cardboard on the ground, and walked through the brush.
In the clearing, a large black van was parked entirely off the path, its headlights off. Five men dressed in dark clothing were moving heavy steel crates. They worked quickly without wasting a movement. There was a nervous, younger man keeping watch near the tree line, a veteran operative guiding a crate, and an impatient man barking muffled orders.
The soft-spoken leader stood by the van's open doors.
"Boss," the nervous man whispered, raising his assault rifle. "I heard somebody."
The leader looked at the nervous man and spoke in his soft spoken tone. "Then check."
The nervous man flicked on a flashlight, sweeping the beam through the trees. The beam caught the edge of a white cape.
The operative stepped forward, keeping his rifle raised. He reached out and pushed a low-hanging branch aside.
Saitama stood there scratching his stomach.
"Who the hell…" the operative started.
Saitama spoke. "...Please... quiet."
The clearing went completely still. One crate hit the ground with a heavy thud. Four rifles swung toward Saitama. The laser sights cut through the darkness, pointing little red dots across Saitama's yellow chest.
One of the men laughed. "It's just a bum."
The leader stepped forward. He looked at Saitama's bizarre outfit, then motioned with his hand. "Move."
Saitama stared at him. "No."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "I said move."
"Sleep," Saitama replied, pointing back toward his tree. "Too loud."
The impatient thug stepped up alongside the leader, his finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. "We don't have time for this crap. Put him down."
The thug fired.
The sound echoed through the treeline.
Ping.
The bullet struck Saitama squarely in the chest. It flattened against his collarbone, bounced off, and fell harmlessly into the grass.
Saitama looked down. There was a tiny, smoking hole in the fabric of his yellow jumpsuit.
No one moved.
The impatient thug stared at his rifle, then at the flattened bullet in the grass. His grip loosened. He looked back at the bald man trying to make sense of what he'd just seen.
Saitama gently touched the frayed edges of the hole.
"..."
He looked back up at the men.
"...Now I have to fix it."
Saitama pulled his right fist back.
Leaves rained from the canopy like a torrential downpour.
A massive flock of pigeons exploded out of the trees, scattering into the night sky. Half a mile away, along Fifth Avenue, the heavy glass windows of luxury penthouses rattled violently in their frames. An old man walking his golden retriever on the sidewalk suddenly dropped his coffee cup as the ground beneath his feet bucked.
Deep inside the park, a massive cloud of dust slowly drifted into the moonlight.
When the dust cleared, the clearing was gone. In its place was a massive, perfectly smooth trench carved straight through the ground, uprooting trees and displacing tons of soil for hundreds of feet.
Saitama stood at the edge of the crater. He looked at his ruined cardboard box, now buried under a mountain of dirt. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, turned around, and began walking deeper into the park to find another tree.
When dust settled.
Half-buried, a shattered steel crate lay split open. A scorched metal plate had come loose from its side.
Ten interlocking rings adorned the plate.
Near the edge of the crater, the nervous operative who had been standing just far enough back to only be thrown by the shockwave lay in the dirt, covered in blood and coughing violently. His hand trembled as he reached for a shattered radio clipped to his vest.
"Central..." the operative wheezed into the static. "Shipment is... compromised..."
Hobbes
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2021
- Messages
- 28
- Likes received
- 285
Didn't read that far into the manga, does it make a difference?
ENDDRAGON
Experienced.
- Joined
- Mar 18, 2021
- Messages
- 4,567
- Likes received
- 40,190
Kind of. I don't know if you care for spoilers or not.
Saitama and Garou's fight almosts destroys the planet and so Blast sends them to Jupiter. Saitama destroyes Jupiter with a sneeze and catches up to Garou at light speed via a fart. After the fight Garou teaches Saitama a technique that allows him to go back in time and change the future.
CaraMyBeloved
Just Monika(Cara)
- Joined
- Dec 24, 2023
- Messages
- 578
- Likes received
- 3,732
What the fuck is OPM even about anymore. This sounds like a crackpot theory.
ENDDRAGON
Experienced.
- Joined
- Mar 18, 2021
- Messages
- 4,567
- Likes received
- 40,190
The fight with Garou made Saitama stronger as Cosmic Garou was the strongest opponent he had faced not to mention the emotions he felt when Garou killed Genos. Strong emotions plus strong opponent equals stronger Saitama.What the fuck is OPM even about anymore. This sounds like a crackpot theory.
Last edited:
The Radiance's Follower
The Radiance is best.
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2019
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Pretty much the conclusion of the whole monster society arc. Incredible art. Incredible storytelling. It didn't feel like crack at all.What the fuck is OPM even about anymore. This sounds like a crackpot theory.
Chapter 3
New
TheLastDreamer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2026
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- 51
The sun wasn't entirely up when the jogger called 911.
By 6:00 AM, two NYPD officers from the local precinct ducked under the low-hanging branches of Central Park, following the frantic civilian who kept pointing toward the clearing. The older officer had his hand resting casually on his belt, expecting kids setting off fireworks or a vandalized statue.
They stepped through the tree line and both the officers stopped.
The older cop slowly let his hand fall away from his belt. He stared straight ahead. "...Jesus."
This wasn't a crime scene. Half the park was gone.
The younger officer unclipped the radio from his shoulder, his hands slightly shaking.
"Central, this is Lincoln Twelve."
"Go ahead, Twelve."
"...You're gonna want supervisors down here."
The radio crackled. "Shots fired?"
The officer looked down into the sheer drop of shattered ground fading into the morning mist. "...I don't know what this is."
An hour later, the clearing was wrapped in layers of yellow tape.
Crime Scene Unit technicians stepped carefully around the edge. Detectives in trench coats stood in small groups, talking quietly. Personnel from the Parks Department and the Fire Department stood further back, nobody quite willing to step into the massive trench.
A senior detective knelt near the edge. He picked up a handful of loose dirt, rubbed it between his fingers, and dropped it.
No scorch marks. No glass fragments. No lingering smell of sulfur or cordite.
Just displaced earth.
Another detective walked carefully along the rim, looking down into the darkest part of the gouge.
"...How deep?" he asked.
A CSU tech holding a tape measure shook his head. "About 50 feet at the deep end."
A few yards away, near the barricades, a man in a plain dark suit ducked under the police tape.
He held a paper coffee cup in one hand and briefly flashed a badge to the uniform on guard. He had a mild, unassuming face and a small, polite smile.
An NYPD lieutenant noticed the federal credentials and walked over, his expression remaining tight.
"Morning," Agent Phil Coulson said. "Mind if I take a look?"
The lieutenant sighed, stepping aside. "Be my guest. Whatever it is."
Coulson walked toward the trench, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he looked.
"Who found it?" Coulson asked quietly.
"Jogger," the lieutenant replied. "About five-thirty."
"Nobody heard a thing until a single gunshot got called in around two. But dispatch couldn't pin the location. After that, nothing."
Coulson nodded. He turned his attention away from the crater and looked toward an ambulance parked on the grass. Paramedics were loading a man on a stretcher into the back.
"Victim?" Coulson asked.
"Found him near the edge," the lieutenant said. "Unconscious. Internal bleeding. Lucky to be alive."
Coulson walked over to the ambulance. He stood out of the paramedics' way, watching them secure an oxygen mask over the man's face. Coulson's eyes drifted down to the man's hands hanging off the side of the gurney. Thick, rough calluses on the knuckles and the inside of the index finger. He looked at the heavy, laced tactical boots.
Not homeless.
Coulson turned back to the lieutenant. "Appreciate the help, Lieutenant."
Ten minutes later, a woman in a sharp suit walked up to the NYPD command post. She handed the precinct captain a thin stack of paperwork. Just paperwork and a quiet transfer of authority.
The area became federal.
SHIELD agents in dark windbreakers replaced the local CSU. They moved methodically through the debris field.
"Got something," an agent called out.
He used a pair of tweezers to lift a small, deformed piece of lead from the grass. A flattened bullet. A few yards away, another agent uncovered the shattered remnants of a rifle.
Further down the trench line, three agents were digging around a massive chunk of twisted steel.
"Agent Coulson."
Coulson walked over. The agent brushed the loose dirt away from a scorched metal plate bolted to the side of the ruined crate.
Ten Interlocked rings.
He stood up and looked around the clearing. He gestured to a technician carrying a heavy, portable scanning unit.
"Run it again," Coulson said.
The tech swept the long sensor wand over the dirt, adjusting the dials on his chest rig. The scanner stayed silent.
"Sir..."
"What've you got?" Coulson asked.
The tech looked up from his screen. "...Nothing."
"Nothing?"
The tech said. "No radiation. No chemical residue. No electrical discharge. No thermal event."
Coulson looked past the tech at the trees lining the edge of the destruction. One massive oak stood in two perfectly separated halves.
He followed the line of destruction backward. The trench didn't radiate outward like an explosion. It went in one direction. A perfect half cone, originating from a single point in the grass.
Coulson's eyes narrowed.
"...Impact."
The agents turned to look at him, then followed his gaze to the origin point. One by one, the agents looked from the trench to the untouched trees behind them.
Coulson stepped away from the group. He pulled a secure phone from his pocket and pressed a single button.
"Sir," Coulson said.
"Talk to me," Nick Fury's replied over the encrypted line.
"Ten Rings shipment," Coulson said.
A brief pause. "Destroyed."
"How?" Fury asked.
The trench stretched across the park. "...We don't know."
"Estimate."
Coulson watched an agent bag the flattened bullet. "One enhanced individual. Strong. Probably close combat."
Coulson looked back at the trench before answering. A rogue super-soldier experiment. A black-market exoskeleton.
"Contain it," Fury said. "Find him."
…
Saitama opened his eyes.
Sunlight filtered through the green leaves above him. He sat up slowly, stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked. Sleeping on the roots of a tree wasn't much better than the cardboard box.
The small, scorched bullet hole was still there in his yellow jumpsuit.
He sighed.
His stomach let out a violent, echoing growl.
"...Hungry."
He stood up and brushed the dirt off his yellow pants. He walked aimlessly through the park until he hit a paved walking path. The morning air was crisp, and the path was already busy with people jogging, walking dogs, and riding bicycles.
Saitama stood by a drinking fountain, watching the people go by. He needed food.
A man in expensive running gear jogged past, slowing down to check his smartwatch. Saitama stepped toward him.
"...Food?" Saitama asked.
The jogger blinked, pulling out an earbud. "Sorry?"
Saitama pointed at his stomach. "...Hungry."
The jogger looked at the bald man in the bizarre, dirty yellow costume. The jogger hesitated. He reached into the tiny zipper pocket of his running shorts without another word, pulled out two crumpled paper bills, and handed them over.
"Here you go, man. Good luck," the jogger said, putting his earbud back in and jogging away.
Saitama stood on the path, looking down at the two green, crumpled pieces of paper in his hand. They had the number '1' printed on the corners and a picture of a stern-looking man in the center.
"...Money?" He turned the bill over. Not yen. Different.
He stuffed the strange paper into his pocket and started walking toward the edge of the park. The city was awake now. Yellow cabs rolled past one after another. Delivery trucks idled by the curbs.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the smell of fresh bread reached him.
Saitama stopped. He inhaled deeply. His blank eyes were suddenly full of hope.
He started walking toward the bakery sign hanging a block away.
Across the street, a black, unmarked SHIELD SUV drove past him, heading straight toward the police barricades in Central Park.
By 6:00 AM, two NYPD officers from the local precinct ducked under the low-hanging branches of Central Park, following the frantic civilian who kept pointing toward the clearing. The older officer had his hand resting casually on his belt, expecting kids setting off fireworks or a vandalized statue.
They stepped through the tree line and both the officers stopped.
The older cop slowly let his hand fall away from his belt. He stared straight ahead. "...Jesus."
This wasn't a crime scene. Half the park was gone.
The younger officer unclipped the radio from his shoulder, his hands slightly shaking.
"Central, this is Lincoln Twelve."
"Go ahead, Twelve."
"...You're gonna want supervisors down here."
The radio crackled. "Shots fired?"
The officer looked down into the sheer drop of shattered ground fading into the morning mist. "...I don't know what this is."
An hour later, the clearing was wrapped in layers of yellow tape.
Crime Scene Unit technicians stepped carefully around the edge. Detectives in trench coats stood in small groups, talking quietly. Personnel from the Parks Department and the Fire Department stood further back, nobody quite willing to step into the massive trench.
A senior detective knelt near the edge. He picked up a handful of loose dirt, rubbed it between his fingers, and dropped it.
No scorch marks. No glass fragments. No lingering smell of sulfur or cordite.
Just displaced earth.
Another detective walked carefully along the rim, looking down into the darkest part of the gouge.
"...How deep?" he asked.
A CSU tech holding a tape measure shook his head. "About 50 feet at the deep end."
A few yards away, near the barricades, a man in a plain dark suit ducked under the police tape.
He held a paper coffee cup in one hand and briefly flashed a badge to the uniform on guard. He had a mild, unassuming face and a small, polite smile.
An NYPD lieutenant noticed the federal credentials and walked over, his expression remaining tight.
"Morning," Agent Phil Coulson said. "Mind if I take a look?"
The lieutenant sighed, stepping aside. "Be my guest. Whatever it is."
Coulson walked toward the trench, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he looked.
"Who found it?" Coulson asked quietly.
"Jogger," the lieutenant replied. "About five-thirty."
"Nobody heard a thing until a single gunshot got called in around two. But dispatch couldn't pin the location. After that, nothing."
Coulson nodded. He turned his attention away from the crater and looked toward an ambulance parked on the grass. Paramedics were loading a man on a stretcher into the back.
"Victim?" Coulson asked.
"Found him near the edge," the lieutenant said. "Unconscious. Internal bleeding. Lucky to be alive."
Coulson walked over to the ambulance. He stood out of the paramedics' way, watching them secure an oxygen mask over the man's face. Coulson's eyes drifted down to the man's hands hanging off the side of the gurney. Thick, rough calluses on the knuckles and the inside of the index finger. He looked at the heavy, laced tactical boots.
Not homeless.
Coulson turned back to the lieutenant. "Appreciate the help, Lieutenant."
Ten minutes later, a woman in a sharp suit walked up to the NYPD command post. She handed the precinct captain a thin stack of paperwork. Just paperwork and a quiet transfer of authority.
The area became federal.
SHIELD agents in dark windbreakers replaced the local CSU. They moved methodically through the debris field.
"Got something," an agent called out.
He used a pair of tweezers to lift a small, deformed piece of lead from the grass. A flattened bullet. A few yards away, another agent uncovered the shattered remnants of a rifle.
Further down the trench line, three agents were digging around a massive chunk of twisted steel.
"Agent Coulson."
Coulson walked over. The agent brushed the loose dirt away from a scorched metal plate bolted to the side of the ruined crate.
Ten Interlocked rings.
He stood up and looked around the clearing. He gestured to a technician carrying a heavy, portable scanning unit.
"Run it again," Coulson said.
The tech swept the long sensor wand over the dirt, adjusting the dials on his chest rig. The scanner stayed silent.
"Sir..."
"What've you got?" Coulson asked.
The tech looked up from his screen. "...Nothing."
"Nothing?"
The tech said. "No radiation. No chemical residue. No electrical discharge. No thermal event."
Coulson looked past the tech at the trees lining the edge of the destruction. One massive oak stood in two perfectly separated halves.
He followed the line of destruction backward. The trench didn't radiate outward like an explosion. It went in one direction. A perfect half cone, originating from a single point in the grass.
Coulson's eyes narrowed.
"...Impact."
The agents turned to look at him, then followed his gaze to the origin point. One by one, the agents looked from the trench to the untouched trees behind them.
Coulson stepped away from the group. He pulled a secure phone from his pocket and pressed a single button.
"Sir," Coulson said.
"Talk to me," Nick Fury's replied over the encrypted line.
"Ten Rings shipment," Coulson said.
A brief pause. "Destroyed."
"How?" Fury asked.
The trench stretched across the park. "...We don't know."
"Estimate."
Coulson watched an agent bag the flattened bullet. "One enhanced individual. Strong. Probably close combat."
Coulson looked back at the trench before answering. A rogue super-soldier experiment. A black-market exoskeleton.
"Contain it," Fury said. "Find him."
…
Saitama opened his eyes.
Sunlight filtered through the green leaves above him. He sat up slowly, stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked. Sleeping on the roots of a tree wasn't much better than the cardboard box.
The small, scorched bullet hole was still there in his yellow jumpsuit.
He sighed.
His stomach let out a violent, echoing growl.
"...Hungry."
He stood up and brushed the dirt off his yellow pants. He walked aimlessly through the park until he hit a paved walking path. The morning air was crisp, and the path was already busy with people jogging, walking dogs, and riding bicycles.
Saitama stood by a drinking fountain, watching the people go by. He needed food.
A man in expensive running gear jogged past, slowing down to check his smartwatch. Saitama stepped toward him.
"...Food?" Saitama asked.
The jogger blinked, pulling out an earbud. "Sorry?"
Saitama pointed at his stomach. "...Hungry."
The jogger looked at the bald man in the bizarre, dirty yellow costume. The jogger hesitated. He reached into the tiny zipper pocket of his running shorts without another word, pulled out two crumpled paper bills, and handed them over.
"Here you go, man. Good luck," the jogger said, putting his earbud back in and jogging away.
Saitama stood on the path, looking down at the two green, crumpled pieces of paper in his hand. They had the number '1' printed on the corners and a picture of a stern-looking man in the center.
"...Money?" He turned the bill over. Not yen. Different.
He stuffed the strange paper into his pocket and started walking toward the edge of the park. The city was awake now. Yellow cabs rolled past one after another. Delivery trucks idled by the curbs.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the smell of fresh bread reached him.
Saitama stopped. He inhaled deeply. His blank eyes were suddenly full of hope.
He started walking toward the bakery sign hanging a block away.
Across the street, a black, unmarked SHIELD SUV drove past him, heading straight toward the police barricades in Central Park.
Odd1todd89
The Odd one
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2019
- Messages
- 481
- Likes received
- 2,266
This looks interesting.I truly hope you continue it until it is finished.
CaraMyBeloved
Just Monika(Cara)
- Joined
- Dec 24, 2023
- Messages
- 578
- Likes received
- 3,732
An epilogue for fanfics is called indefinite hiatus✌