Vox's Cleanup Crew Catastrophe
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The night sky above Havenridge still crackled with residual energy from their mid-air brawl. Vox hovered fifty feet above his half-destroyed headquarters, chest heaving, silver-streaked mane wild, blue halo flaring bright with frustration and leftover lust. His seven-foot frame of pure sculpted muscle glistened with sweat, thick pecs rising and falling, deep eight-pack abs smeared with streaks of glowing blue and faint pink residue from their grinding cocks. His massive erection still throbbed angrily against his ridged stomach, leaking a slow trail of electric-blue precum that dripped toward the street far below.
Alastor had vanished again into the night with that infuriating velvet laugh, leaving chaos in his wake: shattered glass, bent steel beams, scorched billboards, and viral phone videos already spreading. News helicopters were inbound.
“Fuck that smug prick,” Vox snarled, but a wicked grin quickly replaced the scowl. “Time to clean house. My house.”
He moved at super speed.
In less than thirty seconds, the godlike reporter became a blue blur of destruction control. Laser eyes flashed in precise, low-intensity bursts, melting twisted metal debris back into smooth, harmless slag that he then froze solid with targeted cold breath. Super strength let him casually lift and reposition massive fallen girders like they were toothpicks, slotting them back into place with perfect alignment. He blurred through the streets at ground level, using super speed to snatch every dropped phone and camera from bystanders before they could upload more footage, then wiped the devices clean with a flick of super-sensitive fingers.
Flying in tight spirals, he unleashed controlled super breath to scatter lingering smoke and dust clouds, while cold breath flash-froze broken glass into harmless clumps that he swept up and compacted into neat cubes with his bare hands. The entire mess—craters in the pavement, scorched rooftops, dangling wires—was erased or disguised in under two minutes. By the time the first news chopper arrived, the headquarters looked like it had suffered nothing worse than “minor construction delays.” Vox hovered invisibly high above, smug as hell, stroking his still-hard cock once with a super-speed blur just to take the edge off before tucking it away. A final thick spurt of blue cum arced silently into the night wind as he whispered, “Amateur hour over.”
Satisfied, he flew back to his private penthouse.
By morning, Vincent “Vox” Whittman had a problem: he looked like a fucking god, and normal humans would notice.
He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the impossible physique—broad shoulders tapering to a wasp waist, every muscle striated and vascular, cock hanging heavy even soft. No hiding the height or the muscle. But the rest? Manageable.
Vox dyed his long silver-streaked mane back to its original sharp black, using industrial-strength color that his super senses told him would hold. He applied full-body skin tint to mute the unnatural pale luminosity and golden undertones left by the meteorite, turning himself back to a more believable (if still ridiculously fit) tan. Colored contact lenses hid the too-intense glow in his eyes, turning them back to ordinary sharp blue. The halo he simply willed dimmer until it was invisible to mortals.
The body, though… that stayed.
When he walked into the newly stabilized Vox Network headquarters later that morning, employees and contractors did double-takes. Vox grinned smugly and rolled with it. “New hobby,” he announced to the stunned staff, flexing one massive bicep until the sleeve of his tailored shirt strained dangerously. “Got really into bodybuilding during my… sabbatical. Personal trainer says I’ve got elite genetics. Don’t worry, I won’t make it weird.”
He made it weird anyway.
As the company rushed toward its official launch, Vox became a tyrannical force of nature who no longer bothered hiding his true nature. He finished building the empire with ruthless efficiency. Anonymous funds (fresh from the latest quiet heist) flowed into final equipment, marketing campaigns, and talent contracts. He hired aggressively—poaching the best producers, writers, and on-air personalities with offers they couldn’t refuse, then firing anyone who questioned his vision on the spot.
Meetings became spectacles of casual dominance. When a nervous department head suggested toning down the aggressive “All Eyes on Vox” branding, Vox casually lifted the solid oak conference table with one hand—muscles rippling visibly under his shirt—and set it down gently on the other side of the room. “I like the branding,” he said coolly. “Any other brilliant ideas?” The table stayed moved. No one argued.
He used his super strength in small, showy ways around the office: twisting a jammed printer into scrap with two fingers while smiling, carrying four heavy broadcast cameras at once like they weighed nothing, or casually bending a steel support beam back into shape when a rig threatened to collapse. Each display came with a smug comment: “Bodybuilding pays off, doesn’t it?” Employees whispered about his “freakish” new physique, but the results spoke louder—Vox Network was shaping up to be a sleek, cutting-edge empire faster than anyone thought possible.
Behind closed doors, Vox understood the real potential. With super senses, he could eavesdrop on rival networks’ private calls. With super speed, he could scout stories and scandals before they broke. Laser eyes and flight let him gather evidence from impossible angles. He didn’t need to reveal the full powers yet—he would shape the news himself. Plant stories. Kill inconvenient ones. Become the voice that dictated reality.
And he stopped pretending to be nice about it.
During a late-night strategy session, when a senior producer pushed back on running a hit piece on a political rival, Vox’s eyes narrowed behind the contacts. “We run it,” he said flatly, voice carrying new authority. “Or you can find another network that tolerates cowards.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The tyrannical edge was bare now—cold, commanding, and intoxicating. The producer folded instantly.
Vox leaned back in his oversized chair, secretly flexing his thighs under the desk until the wood creaked. His cock stirred at the rush of control. Alastor was still out there somewhere, pink glow flickering on the edge of his senses, but for now the radio host could wait. Vox Network was launching in days. The city would soon hang on every word he broadcast.
And if anyone got in his way—rival, employee, or glowing pink nuisance—they’d learn exactly how tyrannical a god could be.
You have the following choices:
1. Vox Network launches with a spectacular debut show, during which Vox uses his hidden powers subtly to dominate the broadcast and shape the narrative.*m
The official launch night arrives. On live television, Vox hosts his flagship late-night program from the gleaming new studio. Using super senses to anticipate questions and scandals in real time, super speed to swap teleprompters or cue graphics instantly when no one is looking, and tiny precise laser-eye bursts to “fix” lighting or melt minor technical issues on the fly, he delivers the most commanding, charismatic performance of his career. Ratings explode. But mid-show, his enhanced hearing picks up Alastor’s voice hijacking a rival station’s signal with mocking commentary aimed directly at “the new TV pretty boy.” Vox decides to escalate by weaving subtle anti-Alastor barbs into the broadcast while planning a private powered confrontation after the show.
2. Vox grows bolder with small-scale power use in the office, leading to a tyrannical meltdown when an employee accidentally discovers something suspicious.
As the launch approaches, Vox becomes more openly domineering. He casually uses super strength to rearrange entire sets single-handedly in front of terrified staff, bends metal props into custom shapes “for aesthetics,” and once even flies briefly across the studio when he thinks he’s alone. During a heated argument with a stubborn journalist who refuses to kill a story that paints Vox in a bad light, Vox snaps—lifting the man by the collar with one hand and growling threats. The employee drops a hidden recording device that captures a glimpse of Vox’s unnatural speed and strength. Realizing the risk, Vox must use his powers quickly and discreetly to contain the situation while his tyrannical side fully embraces ruling the newsroom with fear and muscle.
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June 13
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