Angel test his speed and agility
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel paced the junkyard under the harsh floodlights, seven feet of sculpted perfection gleaming like polished marble. The air still carried the metallic tang of torn steel and spilled oil. Cherri stood a safe distance away—half-hidden behind a crushed forklift—watching with wide, reverent eyes. She hadn’t spoken since the car incident. She didn’t need to. Her body language screamed worship.
Angel stopped beside a massive industrial press—twenty tons of hydraulic steel jaws used to crush engine blocks into pancakes. He ran one long, chrome-pink nail along the upper plate, tracing a faint scratch someone else had left years ago.
“Durability test,” he announced, voice velvet and smug. “Let’s see how much it takes to mark perfection.”
He stepped between the open jaws.
Cherri gasped. “Angel—no!”
He glanced back at her, smirking. “Relax, Sugar Tits. If this thing can’t even dent me, what chance does the rest of the world have?”
He reached up, gripped the hydraulic ram with one hand, and pulled downward. Metal groaned as the press activated against his resistance. The machine whined—pistons straining at maximum pressure. The jaws closed slowly, inexorably, clamping around his midsection.
Steel met muscle.
The press screamed. Hydraulic fluid sprayed in thin jets. The jaws deformed—first bending, then buckling outward as Angel’s abs and obliques refused to yield. His eight-pack deepened, veins bulging like blue cables across the surface. His waist stayed cinched, impossible hourglass intact. The machine gave one final, tortured shriek—then the entire upper arm snapped off at the weld, crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks and oil.
Angel stepped out untouched. Not even a red mark.
He brushed imaginary dust from his pecs. “Next.”
He sauntered to a derelict forklift—fifteen tons of steel and lead-acid batteries. He gripped the mast with both hands and lifted. The machine rose off its wheels, tines dangling. He flipped it overhead like a cheerleader’s baton, then slammed it tines-first into the ground. Concrete cracked in a spiderweb pattern twenty feet wide. The forklift frame folded like wet cardboard.
Still no scratch on him.
Cherri whispered, “You’re… indestructible.”
Angel’s grin turned feral. “Not quite. Let’s find the line.”
He walked to a stack of I-beams—each one ten tons of solid structural steel. He lay down on his back beneath the pile, then reached up and pulled the bottom beam free. The entire stack—easily eighty tons—crashed onto his chest.
The impact shook the ground. Dust billowed. Cherri screamed.
When the cloud cleared, Angel was still lying there—smiling. The beams had bent around him like wet noodles. His pecs hadn’t even compressed; they thrust upward through the twisted metal like twin mountains. He flexed once—absurdly casual—and the entire pile lifted, then tumbled aside in a clanging avalanche.
He stood, stretched languidly, white hair settling around his shoulders.
“Eighty tons,” he mused. “Feels like a heavy blanket.”
Cherri’s voice trembled. “What… what could hurt you?”
Angel tilted his head, considering. “Good question.”
He scanned the yard, eyes landing on an old acetylene torch rig—industrial-grade, still half-full. He dragged it over, lit the torch, and adjusted the flame to white-hot cutting intensity. Without hesitation he pressed the blue-white jet directly against his left pec.
The torch hissed. Metal glowed cherry-red around the point of contact.
Angel’s skin didn’t even redden.
He held it there for a full thirty seconds—long enough to melt clean through a steel plate. When he pulled the torch away, the flame had scorched a perfect circle into the concrete beneath him. His pec was flawless—smooth, porcelain, untouched.
He laughed—low, delighted, triumphant.
“Fire? Really? That’s adorable.”
He turned the torch on his palm next—same result. Then his cock—thick, veined, monstrous. The flame danced across the head; not even a singe. Precum bubbled up in response, thick and custard-like, sizzling faintly as it hit the ground.
Angel shut off the torch and tossed it aside.
“Temperature, pressure, impact…” He ticked off on long fingers. “Nothing. I’m not just durable, baby. I’m fucking eternal.”
He blurred forward—supersonic speed again—stopping an inch from Cherri. She flinched, but he only cupped her chin gently, tilting her face up.
“Understand yet?” he whispered. “There is no limit. No ceiling. No weakness.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “The world isn’t ready for me. But it’s going to learn.”
Cherri’s breath hitched. “What… what do we do now?”
Angel straightened, rolling his shoulders—muscles rippling in waves of power.
“Now?” He grinned—sharp, wicked, godlike. “We go find something worth breaking.”
He turned toward the city lights on the horizon—distant, glittering, fragile.
“And when we’re done,” he added softly, “the whole planet will know my name.”
Cherri sank to her knees in the dirt, staring up at her creation—her god—with wide, worshipful eyes.
Angel laughed again—bright, cruel, unstoppable.
The night stretched ahead.
And it belonged to him.
Angel stopped beside a massive industrial press—twenty tons of hydraulic steel jaws used to crush engine blocks into pancakes. He ran one long, chrome-pink nail along the upper plate, tracing a faint scratch someone else had left years ago.
“Durability test,” he announced, voice velvet and smug. “Let’s see how much it takes to mark perfection.”
He stepped between the open jaws.
Cherri gasped. “Angel—no!”
He glanced back at her, smirking. “Relax, Sugar Tits. If this thing can’t even dent me, what chance does the rest of the world have?”
He reached up, gripped the hydraulic ram with one hand, and pulled downward. Metal groaned as the press activated against his resistance. The machine whined—pistons straining at maximum pressure. The jaws closed slowly, inexorably, clamping around his midsection.
Steel met muscle.
The press screamed. Hydraulic fluid sprayed in thin jets. The jaws deformed—first bending, then buckling outward as Angel’s abs and obliques refused to yield. His eight-pack deepened, veins bulging like blue cables across the surface. His waist stayed cinched, impossible hourglass intact. The machine gave one final, tortured shriek—then the entire upper arm snapped off at the weld, crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks and oil.
Angel stepped out untouched. Not even a red mark.
He brushed imaginary dust from his pecs. “Next.”
He sauntered to a derelict forklift—fifteen tons of steel and lead-acid batteries. He gripped the mast with both hands and lifted. The machine rose off its wheels, tines dangling. He flipped it overhead like a cheerleader’s baton, then slammed it tines-first into the ground. Concrete cracked in a spiderweb pattern twenty feet wide. The forklift frame folded like wet cardboard.
Still no scratch on him.
Cherri whispered, “You’re… indestructible.”
Angel’s grin turned feral. “Not quite. Let’s find the line.”
He walked to a stack of I-beams—each one ten tons of solid structural steel. He lay down on his back beneath the pile, then reached up and pulled the bottom beam free. The entire stack—easily eighty tons—crashed onto his chest.
The impact shook the ground. Dust billowed. Cherri screamed.
When the cloud cleared, Angel was still lying there—smiling. The beams had bent around him like wet noodles. His pecs hadn’t even compressed; they thrust upward through the twisted metal like twin mountains. He flexed once—absurdly casual—and the entire pile lifted, then tumbled aside in a clanging avalanche.
He stood, stretched languidly, white hair settling around his shoulders.
“Eighty tons,” he mused. “Feels like a heavy blanket.”
Cherri’s voice trembled. “What… what could hurt you?”
Angel tilted his head, considering. “Good question.”
He scanned the yard, eyes landing on an old acetylene torch rig—industrial-grade, still half-full. He dragged it over, lit the torch, and adjusted the flame to white-hot cutting intensity. Without hesitation he pressed the blue-white jet directly against his left pec.
The torch hissed. Metal glowed cherry-red around the point of contact.
Angel’s skin didn’t even redden.
He held it there for a full thirty seconds—long enough to melt clean through a steel plate. When he pulled the torch away, the flame had scorched a perfect circle into the concrete beneath him. His pec was flawless—smooth, porcelain, untouched.
He laughed—low, delighted, triumphant.
“Fire? Really? That’s adorable.”
He turned the torch on his palm next—same result. Then his cock—thick, veined, monstrous. The flame danced across the head; not even a singe. Precum bubbled up in response, thick and custard-like, sizzling faintly as it hit the ground.
Angel shut off the torch and tossed it aside.
“Temperature, pressure, impact…” He ticked off on long fingers. “Nothing. I’m not just durable, baby. I’m fucking eternal.”
He blurred forward—supersonic speed again—stopping an inch from Cherri. She flinched, but he only cupped her chin gently, tilting her face up.
“Understand yet?” he whispered. “There is no limit. No ceiling. No weakness.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “The world isn’t ready for me. But it’s going to learn.”
Cherri’s breath hitched. “What… what do we do now?”
Angel straightened, rolling his shoulders—muscles rippling in waves of power.
“Now?” He grinned—sharp, wicked, godlike. “We go find something worth breaking.”
He turned toward the city lights on the horizon—distant, glittering, fragile.
“And when we’re done,” he added softly, “the whole planet will know my name.”
Cherri sank to her knees in the dirt, staring up at her creation—her god—with wide, worshipful eyes.
Angel laughed again—bright, cruel, unstoppable.
The night stretched ahead.
And it belonged to him.
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June 13
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