Paying is for losers
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny Vos paused amid the wreckage of his luxury apartment, surveying the damage with a detached, amused smirk. Shattered glass glittered like fallen stars on the hardwood, the fridge door still embedded in the drywall like a modern art installation, the sofa reduced to a sad pile of splintered wood and deflated cushions. His 7'0", 450-pound frame made every movement a hazard; even breathing too hard sent small tremors through the floorboards.
He moved with exaggerated care now—super strength reined in like a coiled serpent. Using the very tips of his long, metallic-gold nails, he righted what could be righted: nudging the coffee table back into approximate position (it wobbled but stayed upright), sweeping debris into neat piles with gentle sweeps of his massive hands. He even attempted to re-hang a crooked painting, only for the frame to snap like a dry twig between thumb and forefinger. “Oops. Guess abstract expressionism wasn’t meant to survive divinity,” he muttered smugly.
Satisfied that the place looked at least marginally less like a war zone, he flicked off every light with a soft puff of super breath, plunging the apartment into darkness. He locked doors and windows—more out of habit than necessity; no lock on Earth could hold him now. Then he crouched, massive thighs flexing, and leaped straight up through the open rooftop access, emerging onto the gravel roof in a single, silent bound.
The night sky welcomed him like an old lover. Cold wind kissed every inch of his naked, milky-white skin, tracing the thick veins that mapped his hypertrophied muscles. He slung the duffel of cash over one colossal shoulder again and scanned the city below with golden eyes that pierced the dark as easily as daylight.
Stores still glowed here and there—24-hour pharmacies, late-night diners—but Danny’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Paying for stuff? Adorable. But I think not.”
His gaze settled on the eastern edge of downtown: the old Havenridge Galleria, a sprawling, abandoned mall shuttered for six months of “major renovations.” Chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter, security lights dark, cameras dangling lifelessly from their mounts. No guards, no motion sensors. Perfect.
He dove.
Wind roared past his ears as he plummeted, then leveled out at the last second and punched straight through the concrete roof like it was wet cardboard. Rebar bent and snapped; chunks of debris rained down behind him. He landed in the center of the main atrium—tile floor exploding outward in a spiderweb of cracks that raced to the walls. The shockwave rattled empty storefronts. Danny threw his head back and laughed, low and delighted. “Homecoming for the new management.”
Sensual satisfaction rolled through him as he strode forward, every step a small earthquake. His bare feet left shallow craters; his swinging arms brushed light fixtures that shattered in sparkling cascades. He reveled in it—the casual ruin his mere presence created, the way the world bent and broke around his godlike body.
He reached the shuttered SportXtreme store. The metal security gate was no obstacle; he hooked two golden-nailed fingers under the bottom edge and peeled it upward like tinfoil, the screech of tortured steel echoing through the empty mall. Inside, racks of athletic wear stretched into shadow.
Danny plucked a medium T-shirt from the nearest rack—five sizes too small. He held it up to his chest; the fabric barely spanned one pectoral. “Cute. But we’re going to need a bigger boat.”
An idea sparked.
He planted his feet wide, thighs like marble columns, and began to spin—slow at first, then faster, faster, until he became a golden blur. Air howled around him; a tornado formed, sucking clothes off hangers and shelves in a swirling vortex. Shirts, shorts, hoodies, underwear, socks—all spiraled toward him. In a dizzying blur he snatched items mid-air, tried them on with impossible speed, discarded what tore or constricted (most of it), and flung the rejects outward.
In less than ten seconds the cyclone died. The store looked like a bomb had gone off—empty racks toppled, mannequins decapitated—but Danny stood revealed in the eye of the storm: tiny metallic-gold boxer briefs that clung scandalously to his massive package and thick glutes, paired with a matching gold compression T-shirt stretched skin-tight across his colossal chest and shoulders, sleeves already splitting at the seams from the sheer volume of bicep and tricep beneath.
Bags—dozens of them—lay heaped at his feet, stuffed with every piece of clothing that had survived his tornado fitting session: oversized hoodies, stretch shorts, jockstraps, tanks—all in gold, black, or white. Gold had always been his favorite color; now it felt like destiny.
Next stop: the shuttered supermarket at the mall’s far end. He tore the gate apart with one casual yank and strode inside. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly on emergency power. Danny loaded industrial trash bags with everything he’d once forbidden himself—donuts, ice cream, frozen pizzas, chips, candy bars, liters of sugary soda—pure caloric excess to fuel his insatiable new metabolism. “Diet’s overrated when you’re a god,” he drawled, slinging the bags over his shoulders.
Loaded like a golden pack mule, he launched upward, punching back through the roof in a shower of concrete dust. The city shrank beneath him as he arrowed toward the Havenridge Mountains Nature Reserve.
Minutes later he touched down outside the secluded family cabin—timber and stone, perched on a high ridge overlooking dark pines and moonlit valleys. The place was pitch black, shutters closed, no vehicles in sight. Off-season emptiness. Perfect.
Danny pushed the front door open with one finger; the lock popped like a champagne cork. “Welcome home, darling,” he said to the silent cabin, voice smug and theatrical. “Your new deity has arrived.”
He ducked inside—careful this time not to demolish the frame—and set the bags down. No need for lights; his golden eyes saw every detail in perfect clarity: the stone fireplace, the thick rugs, the wide leather sectional. He flicked on the flat-screen TV instead, volume low, some late-night sports recap flickering blue across the room.
From one bag he pulled a six-pack of premium beer—frosted bottles he’d swiped from a craft display. He twisted off a cap with thumbnail alone, took a long swallow, and sank onto the sectional. The couch groaned but held—barely.
Danny sprawled back, legs spread wide, gold compression shirt riding up to expose the razor-deep cuts of his eight-pack. He raised the bottle in a mock toast to his reflection in the dark TV screen.
“To new beginnings,” he murmured, golden eyes gleaming. “And to the poor bastards who have no idea what’s coming.”
What Danny do?
1. Danny uses the week to learn how to control his superpowers and drips his secrets onto his social media to prepare everyone for the external transformation he has undergone.
2. Danny, horny and snobbish, occasionally sneaks back to Havenridge for sex and to show off his new body, needlessly jeopardizing his disguise.
He moved with exaggerated care now—super strength reined in like a coiled serpent. Using the very tips of his long, metallic-gold nails, he righted what could be righted: nudging the coffee table back into approximate position (it wobbled but stayed upright), sweeping debris into neat piles with gentle sweeps of his massive hands. He even attempted to re-hang a crooked painting, only for the frame to snap like a dry twig between thumb and forefinger. “Oops. Guess abstract expressionism wasn’t meant to survive divinity,” he muttered smugly.
Satisfied that the place looked at least marginally less like a war zone, he flicked off every light with a soft puff of super breath, plunging the apartment into darkness. He locked doors and windows—more out of habit than necessity; no lock on Earth could hold him now. Then he crouched, massive thighs flexing, and leaped straight up through the open rooftop access, emerging onto the gravel roof in a single, silent bound.
The night sky welcomed him like an old lover. Cold wind kissed every inch of his naked, milky-white skin, tracing the thick veins that mapped his hypertrophied muscles. He slung the duffel of cash over one colossal shoulder again and scanned the city below with golden eyes that pierced the dark as easily as daylight.
Stores still glowed here and there—24-hour pharmacies, late-night diners—but Danny’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Paying for stuff? Adorable. But I think not.”
His gaze settled on the eastern edge of downtown: the old Havenridge Galleria, a sprawling, abandoned mall shuttered for six months of “major renovations.” Chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter, security lights dark, cameras dangling lifelessly from their mounts. No guards, no motion sensors. Perfect.
He dove.
Wind roared past his ears as he plummeted, then leveled out at the last second and punched straight through the concrete roof like it was wet cardboard. Rebar bent and snapped; chunks of debris rained down behind him. He landed in the center of the main atrium—tile floor exploding outward in a spiderweb of cracks that raced to the walls. The shockwave rattled empty storefronts. Danny threw his head back and laughed, low and delighted. “Homecoming for the new management.”
Sensual satisfaction rolled through him as he strode forward, every step a small earthquake. His bare feet left shallow craters; his swinging arms brushed light fixtures that shattered in sparkling cascades. He reveled in it—the casual ruin his mere presence created, the way the world bent and broke around his godlike body.
He reached the shuttered SportXtreme store. The metal security gate was no obstacle; he hooked two golden-nailed fingers under the bottom edge and peeled it upward like tinfoil, the screech of tortured steel echoing through the empty mall. Inside, racks of athletic wear stretched into shadow.
Danny plucked a medium T-shirt from the nearest rack—five sizes too small. He held it up to his chest; the fabric barely spanned one pectoral. “Cute. But we’re going to need a bigger boat.”
An idea sparked.
He planted his feet wide, thighs like marble columns, and began to spin—slow at first, then faster, faster, until he became a golden blur. Air howled around him; a tornado formed, sucking clothes off hangers and shelves in a swirling vortex. Shirts, shorts, hoodies, underwear, socks—all spiraled toward him. In a dizzying blur he snatched items mid-air, tried them on with impossible speed, discarded what tore or constricted (most of it), and flung the rejects outward.
In less than ten seconds the cyclone died. The store looked like a bomb had gone off—empty racks toppled, mannequins decapitated—but Danny stood revealed in the eye of the storm: tiny metallic-gold boxer briefs that clung scandalously to his massive package and thick glutes, paired with a matching gold compression T-shirt stretched skin-tight across his colossal chest and shoulders, sleeves already splitting at the seams from the sheer volume of bicep and tricep beneath.
Bags—dozens of them—lay heaped at his feet, stuffed with every piece of clothing that had survived his tornado fitting session: oversized hoodies, stretch shorts, jockstraps, tanks—all in gold, black, or white. Gold had always been his favorite color; now it felt like destiny.
Next stop: the shuttered supermarket at the mall’s far end. He tore the gate apart with one casual yank and strode inside. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly on emergency power. Danny loaded industrial trash bags with everything he’d once forbidden himself—donuts, ice cream, frozen pizzas, chips, candy bars, liters of sugary soda—pure caloric excess to fuel his insatiable new metabolism. “Diet’s overrated when you’re a god,” he drawled, slinging the bags over his shoulders.
Loaded like a golden pack mule, he launched upward, punching back through the roof in a shower of concrete dust. The city shrank beneath him as he arrowed toward the Havenridge Mountains Nature Reserve.
Minutes later he touched down outside the secluded family cabin—timber and stone, perched on a high ridge overlooking dark pines and moonlit valleys. The place was pitch black, shutters closed, no vehicles in sight. Off-season emptiness. Perfect.
Danny pushed the front door open with one finger; the lock popped like a champagne cork. “Welcome home, darling,” he said to the silent cabin, voice smug and theatrical. “Your new deity has arrived.”
He ducked inside—careful this time not to demolish the frame—and set the bags down. No need for lights; his golden eyes saw every detail in perfect clarity: the stone fireplace, the thick rugs, the wide leather sectional. He flicked on the flat-screen TV instead, volume low, some late-night sports recap flickering blue across the room.
From one bag he pulled a six-pack of premium beer—frosted bottles he’d swiped from a craft display. He twisted off a cap with thumbnail alone, took a long swallow, and sank onto the sectional. The couch groaned but held—barely.
Danny sprawled back, legs spread wide, gold compression shirt riding up to expose the razor-deep cuts of his eight-pack. He raised the bottle in a mock toast to his reflection in the dark TV screen.
“To new beginnings,” he murmured, golden eyes gleaming. “And to the poor bastards who have no idea what’s coming.”
What Danny do?
1. Danny uses the week to learn how to control his superpowers and drips his secrets onto his social media to prepare everyone for the external transformation he has undergone.
2. Danny, horny and snobbish, occasionally sneaks back to Havenridge for sex and to show off his new body, needlessly jeopardizing his disguise.
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June 13
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