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Joel was exhausted.
Fatigue gnawed at him from the inside out, grinding into his bones, pressing down with a weight he could no longer ignore. Every breath felt heavier than the last. Beneath his otherwise calm demeanor, something ancient and primal stirred—his instincts, buried for years, threatening to break loose.
He sat alone in his car, waiting for the next ride request to buzz in. He chewed absently on a handful of mixed nuts, wiping his fingers meticulously after each bite. The car had to stay clean. Always. Even if the scent of old cigar smoke clung to the upholstery no matter how much he scrubbed. Even if the backseat bore mystery stains he chose not to question.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was his. And that meant something.
The old stick shift purred softly beneath his palm, the engine smooth despite its age. It wasn’t a flashy ride—just a tired vehicle rebuilt from scrap—but Joel had restored every inch with his own hands. Unlike the money and luxuries Lizzie had offered him, this was something he’d earned.
And lately, it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Joel didn’t have flashy powers. He couldn’t summon storms, shoot lasers, or move objects with his mind.
His power was quieter. Stranger.
When he drove, he became the car.
Every vibration of the engine pulsed through his nerves. Every shift of the tires, every change in road texture echoed inside him like a second heartbeat. He didn’t just operate the machine—he was it. His instincts threaded through metal and rubber like a second skeleton.
And he ached to let go.
To push past the speed limit, past logic, past safety.
To race like his body demanded. To surrender to instinct and ride the edge of control.
But he couldn’t.
That would break the law.
And Joel had worked hard to be the normal one in the family.
Grian and Pearl didn’t have to worry about that.
Pearl—known to the public as Luna—was a top-tier government hero. Moth wings carried her effortlessly through the sky. Her powers bent darkness to her will, and her instincts were manageable: live at night, thrive in shadow. So she worked the graveyard shift and stayed balanced.
Grian was... a nightmare.
Not a hero, not a villain—something else entirely.
He worked freelance. A mercenary with wings like a falcon and eyes that could see across cities—the Watcher's Sight. His instincts were birdlike: restless, reactive, chaotic. He lived for risk, for chaos, for the adrenaline rush Joel could only dream of.
Joel exhaled, running a hand through his hair as the last streaks of sunlight dipped behind the skyline.
Night was coming.
Night was when the heroes flew.
Night was when the villains ruled.
Night was when his family thrived.
And night was when Joel tried to forget that he was dying.
Suppression Illness. The unspoken death sentence.
It started subtle—trembling hands, fatigue, a pale tint to his skin. Then came the cold fingers, the erratic heartbeat. Now? His organs were in revolt. His body was cannibalizing itself. Blood drawn inward in a desperate effort to protect what little life remained.
The decay was nearly irreversible now.
Joel had waited too long.
He never should’ve tried to live like a civilian. Never should’ve taken the slow, legal route—driving calm when his powers needed recklessness. He’d thought if he compromised—drove just enough—it might buy him time.
But his instincts were never satisfied with caution.
They demanded speed.
Risk.
Raw, unfiltered freedom.
He needed to floor it. Break the rules. Burn rubber and run red lights until the world blurred.
But that would have made him a criminal.
And Joel’s family had worked too hard for one of them—just one—to live a normal life.
Not a villain. Not a pawn. Just... someone safe.
The government drew a hard line.
Heroes were the chosen. Those with abilities deemed useful, instincts manageable, and values that aligned with law. But even heroes were bound—forced to act only when legally allowed, even if it meant letting people die.
Villains were everyone else.
If your power was dangerous, or your instincts demanded things the law forbade, you had two options:
Suppress them... and die.
Or break the law... and live.
His wife, Lizzie, had chosen the second path.
As Mythic, she’d become a symbol of resistance—a villain who wasn’t evil, just powerful in the wrong way. Her powers drew from legend itself: she could invoke the strength of ancient myths—but the cost was reenactment. Her instincts demanded blood, tragedy, or fate. The more potent the myth, the heavier the toll.
She was terrifying. Brilliant. Devoted.
She loved him with the fury of a thousand Greek epics. She gave him everything: safety, support, unconditional care.
And she believed—truly believed—that his slow driving, his steady work, his "safe" choices were enough to keep him alive.
She didn’t know the truth.
Joel had lied to her.
Hidden the shaking hands. The sleepless nights. The burning need inside his chest.
Now, it was too late to stop what was coming.
He was collapsing from the inside out.
By tomorrow, he might not be able to turn the wheel.
By tomorrow, Lizzie would see it in his eyes.
By tomorrow, Grian would know the cousin he’d once raced through alleys with was fading away.
And in some cruel, poetic irony, Joel’s death might even empower Lizzie—his tragedy triggering a myth that extended her own life by a year.
Joel smiled bitterly.
At least he’d be useful, then.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
A ride request.
His fingers trembled as he answered it.
He rested his head against the cool glass of the window.
One last job.
One last ride.
One last moment of control.
Then, it would be over.
…..
It wasn’t the safest part of town—not by a long shot.
Potholes cratered the roads, nails littered the gutters, and packs of wild dogs roamed unchecked. Rusted fire escapes clung to aging buildings like broken ribs, their frames leaning hazardously over sidewalks more grime than concrete.
This place had been built on cold whispers and sharper glares—watchful eyes that saw everything but never intervened.
Joel wasn’t a stranger here.
He had grown up in streets like these. Thrived, even.
Chaos and anarchy had raised him just as much as his cousins had.
He could still picture Pearl daring her twin brother to climb higher on those skeletal fire escapes, her moth wings flitting effortlessly as she circled above. Joel would try to follow, his fledgling instincts hungry for momentum they’d never know. They’d fade with age, but the craving for movement never left him.
Grian, though... Grian would eventually grow into something sharper.
His wings would spread long and narrow, built for speed and tight turns.
And Joel? Joel was never made for flight. He was made for the ground, for traction, for the pulse of rubber meeting asphalt.
He rarely felt speed as a child. They couldn’t afford it—not legally.
Back then, if you wanted to drive, you had to steal.
It hadn’t been safe. It hadn’t lasted long.
But for a few stolen minutes, Joel had felt whole.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wheel.
Everything would be better if he could just... go fast.
Of all his family, Grian had been the only one who truly understood.
They’d stolen cars together as kids, racing through alleyways, outmaneuvering cops and rivals, wind howling through shattered windows. They used to laugh as they rode toward the setting sun, sirens behind them, adrenaline roaring through their blood.
But Grian hadn’t called in weeks.
Too many jobs. Too much chaos.
Too busy being Grian to notice that Joel was wasting away.
Joel exhaled slowly. Waiting for pickups always gave him too much time to think—too much time to remember everything he was losing.
He thought about Lizzie.
He’d met her just a few blocks from here.
She’d stepped out of the shadows like something divine—young and radiant, pink hair glowing under moonlight, draped in strange robes straight from myth. A knife had glinted in her hand, blood dripping from its tip. Her expression was calm. Focused.
Joel had frozen.
She’d just fought off a mugger using the cunning of Odysseus, and the myth demanded its reenactment. The man had lost his sight, screaming on the pavement while onlookers did nothing.
Joel was sure he’d be next.
He’d taken a step back, knowing his power couldn’t save him in a fight. He’d closed his eyes.
And then—
Warm fingers had brushed his cheek. Not cruel. Tender.
"Open your eyes, my Aphrodite."
He’d hesitated. But obeyed.
She had pressed her forehead to his, her eyes glowing with something ancient and wild and certain.
"Fate brought you to me," she whispered. "In every world, you were meant to be mine. Let me protect you."
Her love had been overwhelming at first—fierce and mythic, beyond logic or consent.
But she’d never hurt him. Never forced him. Just... followed him. Relentless. Loyal.
Eventually, she had charmed even Grian and Pearl.
Somehow, despite everything, Joel found himself loving her back.
They’d been married ever since.
Now, here he sat—just blocks from the moment it all began.
The streets had raised him.
They had shaped him.
He had memorized every alley, every dead-end, every hidden path through this concrete maze.
He closed his eyes.
All he wanted was to drive fast again. Not just move, but to feel the road underneath him like a heartbeat, like breath in his lungs.
The soft click of a door opening barely registered in his ears—but the car felt it.
He felt it.
Joel’s power stretched quietly, instinctively, threading through the vehicle’s frame. He didn’t have to push it. He never did. Even restrained, his gift reached out, whispering through bolts and bearings, listening.
The car told him everything.
There were two passengers. One shifted slightly to the left, lighter than the other. The weight distribution changed just enough to nudge the shocks. One of them was favoring their right leg.
He hadn’t even looked.
It was all instinct—muscle memory.
Even now, with his power leashed, it bled through.
The car wasn’t just a machine. It was his body. His second skin. His last refuge.
Joel straightened in his seat, forcing his back against the leather.
It was time to do his job.
… …
Joel glanced into the rearview mirror.
There were four passengers in the back—despite his cab only having three seats. One of them was half-seated across someone else’s lap, crammed together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit.
He stiffened.
These weren’t strangers.
He’d seen their profiles—on Lizzie’s screens, in reports, across crumpled newspapers tossed on their kitchen table. Her henchmen.
Though none of them had met him face to face.
Directly behind him sat a man with a sun-warmed complexion, short dark hair, and a ridiculous crop top that left his scarred torso exposed. A bow was strapped across his chest, and a quiver bumped softly against his hip. His mask was dual-colored—one side crimson, the other electric blue.
Hotguy.
Joel swallowed back a snort.
Real name: Scar.
His power guaranteed he never missed a shot—some mystical alignment of muscle memory and instinct. His obsession with precision showed in the way he held a compact mirror in one hand, tousling his hair in maddeningly exact adjustments.
Left-eye dominant, Joel noted without thinking. A habit.
Next to Scar sat a tightly layered duo:
The bottom—Etho, or Kitsune—shifted as Joel’s gaze swept past. His white-furred ears twitched beneath the rim of his hood, tails flicking in irritation. He shouldn’t have been able to feel Joel staring. But instincts didn’t follow logic.
He curled in defensively, arms around the figure seated sideways across his lap.
That one was hard to miss.
Oleander, though most called him Bdubs. Child-sized, vine-veined, with ivy coiling up one cheek like nature’s tattoo. His oversized eyes narrowed into a glare, though the effect landed somewhere between “deadly” and “grumpy potted plant.”
Joel blinked.
What was Bdubs doing out at night? His power—accelerated plant growth—thrived on sunlight. Instincts like his demanded warmth, and yet here he was. It made Joel uneasy.
The last figure sat up front, unmasked, mustachioed, and wide-eyed.
Mumbo. The Engineer.
Lizzie’s tech lead. He rarely went on missions himself.
Joel recognized him from the briefing files: machine-talker, redstone genius. His power allowed him to interface directly with tech, instinctually drawn to machines like a bird to air.
Sorry to intrude, my good machine friend.
Joel flinched. The words buzzed faintly in his head.
He grit his teeth, mentally reining in his own gift—careful to keep his presence in the car minimal, no more than background noise. If he didn’t, Mumbo might accidentally link with him through the machine. The last thing Joel wanted was to feel his own instincts bleeding into someone else.
Nope. Not now.
Outside, another figure circled around the car.
Joel didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he turned in his seat, finally facing the quartet in the back. He plastered on a smile.
“I don’t suppose any of you are a Ms. Veronica Winchester?” he asked lightly. “She’s the one who booked this ride.”
A beat of silence.
Scar’s mirror snapped shut.
The front passenger door opened.
“You’re not our getaway driver, are you?” Scar asked, eyebrows raised.
Joel’s heart stuttered.
Getaway driver.
A chance to drive fast.
A chance to push limits.
A chance to live.
He turned back to the wheel and started the engine.
“I am now,” he said simply.
He turned to the newest arrival—and froze.
Grian.
His cousin stood outside the car, wings pulled tight against his back. Recognition sparked instantly. So did panic.
They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, but their family had agreed on one thing for years:
Joel stays out of hero and villain business. No exceptions.
“Nope,” Grian barked, feathers ruffling. “Absolutely not. We are not having a civilian drive our getaway car!”
Before Joel could respond, a hand clapped down on his shoulder.
Scar leaned in, grinning.
“C’mon, man. You wouldn’t deny a dying man his last ride, would you?”
Joel froze.
Scar had no idea what he’d just revealed. But Joel still wanted to strangle him.
Grian’s face went pale. “Dying?”
Scar, apparently oblivious, lifted Joel’s arm like a show-and-tell exhibit. “See these greenish nails? That’s the first stage—instinct decay. Happens when you suppress your power for too long.”
He pointed to Joel’s gray-tinged skin. “See that? That means he’s halfway there.”
He let go of Joel’s hand, which shook slightly.
“Then comes the tremors. Muscles stop responding. After that, the blood shift starts—body pushes it all to the brain, tries to compensate. Then... purple eyes. Once that happens, it’s game over. Connection to power is gone. So is the person.”
Joel stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.
Grian turned, eyes scanning Joel as if seeing him for the first time.
“Hotguy,” he said tightly, “what exactly is he losing?”
Scar raised an eyebrow. “His instincts, Watcher. What do you think happens when someone’s body is wired for one thing and they don’t let themselves do it? It rots you from the inside out.”
Joel didn’t look at Grian. He didn’t want to see the betrayal. Or worse—the guilt.
But Grian’s voice was quiet when it came.
“...Citizen.” A pause. “Will being our getaway driver prolong your life?”
A breath caught in Joel’s throat.
That wasn’t a question. It was a plea.
Joel nodded, just once.
Grian hesitated. Then buckled his seatbelt. The others followed.
In the distance, sirens began to wail.
Grian smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a way that made Joel’s chest ache.
“Then you know where to go.”
Joel revved the engine.
The wheels chirped against the pavement.
And then they were gone.
....
The gears clicked as they shifted into place, bumping lightly against Joel’s hand. He pressed on the shifter and eased the clutch, the engine roaring to life as his heartbeat synced with the car’s rhythm. Joel swung the vehicle backward and slipped effortlessly into first gear, escaping the tight parallel parking spot with practiced ease.
One foot on the accelerator, one on the clutch. An ear to the wind and sirens wailing nearby. Open windows blasted air against his face, blurring the lines between world and machine. His vision melded with the car’s — yellows and blues swirling — until he could see every movement around them.
This was the power he’d been craving. The weight of the car, the tension of the passengers, the thrill of the chase. He could feel it all, deep beneath his skin.
It hadn’t always been like this. The first time his ability fully synced, it nearly blacked him out. Now, it was a high. An addiction.
The city bled into him, a living map of every alley and shortcut, every worn curb and cracked pavement. For the first time in years, Joel smiled genuinely.
Ahead, a sharp corner rushed at them.
“Better buckle up,” he warned.
His passengers fumbled with their seatbelts — all except Bdubs, wedged too tightly to move. Panic flickered in the plant boy’s large eyes, but it was too late.
Joel grabbed the cold handbrake, countering the sharp turn. Tires screeched. Bdubs thudded against the window. Grian screamed — and Joel laughed.
“Someone hold onto Oleander!” Etho lunged, wrapping his arms around Bdubs just as the car lurched forward.
Joel could hear the police cars closing in, sirens blaring. The engine thrummed beneath his fingertips, straining but not enough. Not yet.
He let himself sink deeper into his power, mind stretching outward. The city map ignited in his consciousness — every hidden alley, every underground tunnel like a second highway.
Three cars were ahead, spaced evenly across two lanes. A massive semi-truck loomed just beyond them, rolling steadily forward.
The light ahead flickered yellow — changing fast.
Joel tightened his grip on the wheel.
Just after the intersection, an alley. The perfect place to lose them.
Getting there would hurt. He’d have to push the engine to the limit.
He floored the accelerator.
The car roared forward.
A small yellow sedan was first. Joel cut sharply in front, matching speed before slipping between lanes. The blue truck was next — but he was already ahead.
The semi-truck was dangerously close.
The light was seconds from red.
Joel flicked to the side mirror, judging inches between his rear bumper and the car tailing him. Not enough space — unless he made it.
A sharp flick of the wheel — he cut in front of the pursuing vehicle, narrowly missing the bumper.
The engine sputtered.
His heart skipped a beat.
He had to make it.
Horns blared behind him as the semi-truck charged like a mechanical beast.
Then — space.
Just enough.
Joel slammed the gas.
The light turned red.
The truck’s horn screamed in protest.
Joel shot through the intersection, tires screeching as he barely cleared the way.
There! The alley.
He should have had more room, should have angled cleanly — but he’d missed slightly.
Not a mistake.
He slammed the brakes and clutch together, yanking the shifter into reverse.
The world tilted.
His stomach dropped as he yanked the wheel hard right. Tires screamed against asphalt.
The force of the spin threw passengers into their seats — Bdubs hit the console with a yelp, Grian’s scream cut through the roar, and Joel —
Joel just laughed.
The car slid into the alleyway, rear bumper barely clearing a rusted dumpster behind them.
Inside the narrow shadow, Joel killed the engine and lights.
Police cars roared past, sirens fading.
Silence.
Then—
Sighs.
Mumbo slumped forward, out cold. Scar’s head lolled against the seat. Bdubs clutched his black eye, tangled in Etho’s arms. Etho sat frozen, white-knuckled, staring ahead.
Joel glanced at Grian, who threw his head back and laughed.
“That was awesome!”
Joel’s pulse hammered in his skull. His body buzzed with energy — for once, the constant pain, the symptoms, the decay were gone.
“They don’t call me Joel Toretto for nothing,” he joked, adrenaline still thrumming beneath his skin.
Grian elbowed him. “Nobody calls you that.”
Joel chuckled, sinking back. He had driven. Really driven. Felt the car as part of himself — every gear shift, every engine growl linked to his heartbeat.
And he wasn’t done.
Grian clapped him on the back. “Thanks for the ride. We’re heading to a safehouse out of town, so you can drop us here —”
“No.”
Grian blinked.
Joel met his cousin’s eyes, steady and sure.
“Let me finish what I started.”
A beat.
Grian grinned. “Alright.”
Joel gripped the wheel, the engine’s warmth pulsing beneath his fingers. A smirk curled his lips.
“Let’s outrun some heroes.”
Grian stepped out, wings unfurling with a sharp pop. Feathers rustled, sleek and powerful — like a falcon ready to dive. Tips shimmered under the streetlight, catching the motion like glinting blades.
“What are you doing?” Joel asked, hesitant.
“What does it look like? Watching from above.”
Joel sighed. “Just don’t come crying when some heroes catch you.”
Grian’s grin deepened, eyes glinting with something Joel didn’t want to understand.
He turned to the backseat where Bdubs rubbed a bruise near his eye. The plant villain looked like trouble wrapped in vines — hair tipped with petals, bruises blooming violet-green.
Thorns peeked out from his collar like warnings.
“You’re too small to be without a seatbelt, Oleander.”
Joel popped the trunk. “There’s a kid seat back here. Engineer, you’re up front with me.”
Mumbo hurried out, pulling the seat inside, glancing nervously at the irritable plant boy.
“I am not a child!” Bdubs snapped.
Etho picked him up without hesitation, sitting him carefully in the seat.
Bdubs flushed green, chloroplasts tingling with embarrassment.
“But you are too small, Oleander.”
Bdubs sighed. “My powers make me small. I can’t help it.”
Etho patted his head gently.
Mumbo buckled in. Joel started the engine again.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. The tag read BirdBoy.
Joel answered, voice low. “Yo.”
Mumbo glanced suspiciously. “How do you have his number?”
Joel ignored him. “Watcher, are we clear to ride?”
Grian’s voice crackled through the line, thick with smugness.
“Toretto, we are ready to roll.”
Joel let himself fall deeper into his power. Vision sharpened. The road became his anchor, the engine’s pistons his heart.
“Then let’s ride.”
…….