The moment the car rolled to a stop in the guild's private garage, the fragile peace was shattered. The doors slid open, and Ryo was there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a look of intense, almost predatory curiosity on his face.

"What happened, guys?" he asked, his usual teasing smirk firmly in place, though his eyes held a sharp, analytical light that betrayed his casual demeanor. "I want details. All of them."

TGP glided silently out of the vehicle. "The full report contains classified documents pertaining to a matter of national security," the robot stated, its voice a perfect, professional monotone. "However, I will leave a redacted résumé of the mission's key events on your desk in twenty minutes."

Ryo's smirk widened. "Sounds good," he said, his gaze flicking to Bombom for a split second. "I heard even the president was involved." He gave a slow, deliberate wink that was clearly meant to convey a thousand unspoken questions, and then, with a final, appraising look at the party of misfits, he turned and walked away.

The tension in the air immediately dissipated. DragonSlayer let out a long, frustrated "humpf." "Whatever," he grumbled, turning to Bombom, his usual arrogant bravado returning. "Now that this is over, what will be next, Bombom?"

Kenjiro, who was still processing the sheer, unmitigated weirdness of the last twenty-four hours, just shot him a tired, dismissive glare and turned his head the other way. "Hey," he mumbled.

DragonSlayer's face flushed with a familiar, indignant rage. He moved around, trying to get back into Bombom's line of sight, his hands clenched into tight fists. "Don't you ignore me!" he snapped.

"You're a pain in the ass," Bombom said, his voice flat with exhaustion.

"That's it!" DragonSlayer roared. "Whatever. I'm leaving." He spun on his heel and stalked off, his angry footsteps echoing in the cavernous garage.

Case, who had been quietly finishing off a bag of potato chips he'd found under his seat, let out a massive, contented belch. "Since everyone's leaving," he announced to his still-active stream, "I'm gonna eat. I'm hungry."

The chat immediately flooded with a chorus of "OFC" and "Classic Case." He lumbered off in the direction of the guild's kitchen, the ground trembling slightly with each of his heavy, purposeful footsteps.

Bombom just shrugged. The party was a temporary arrangement, after all. He was used to the chaos, the coming and going of strange, powerful, and deeply annoying individuals. He needed to clear his head, to feel the familiar, grounding burn of a good workout. He turned and headed for the gym.

The guild's training facility was a temple to physical perfection, a vast, cavernous space filled with sleek, high-tech machines and racks of gleaming, polished weights. It was usually a hive of activity, but at this hour, it was almost empty. Almost. In the center of the room, surrounded by a pile of dumbbells so large they looked like they had been forged for a giant, a familiar, and deeply unwelcome, figure was striking a pose.

It was Super Alexander. He was clad in his garish, skin-tight superhero costume, his muscles so large they seemed to have a gravitational pull of their own. He was in the middle of a perfect, front-lat-spread, his back a vast, sculpted landscape of pure, unadulterated power.

Bombom saw him and immediately turned to leave. He was not in the mood. Not today. But before he could take two steps, a figure appeared directly in his path, a blur of primary colors and unshakeable, messianic confidence.

"I am a fruit of divinity's desire," Super Alexander declared, his voice a deep, booming baritone that seemed to shake the very air around them. "In the end, it will be only me. For I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the final, glorious culmination of all that is and all that ever will be."

Bombom just sighed, a long, weary sound of pure, unadulterated resignation. Not again, he thought, his shoulders slumping with the weight of an impending, and utterly pointless, monologue.

Super Alexander struck another pose, this one a classic, front-double-bicep, his arms two mountains of pure, sculpted muscle. "Take that, double biceps," he commanded, as if his own body were a separate, subservient entity that must be ordered to display its glory.

A vein, thick and purple, began to throb on Kenjiro's forehead. His eye started to twitch. An idea, a terrible, petty, and utterly magnificent idea, sparked in his mind. He smirked.

His muscular shadow erupted from his back. It was larger, more defined, more real than it had ever been before. It didn't bother with a roar, or a taunt, or a catchphrase. It simply looked at the posing superhero, a look of pure, contemptuous dismissal on its spectral face, and then, with a slow, deliberate grace, it began to pose.

"BIRL!" the shadow boomed, its voice a deep, guttural sound that was not a sound at all, but a pure, primal feeling of absolute, overwhelming power. "IT'S 37 YEARS!" It struck the exact same front-double-bicep pose as Alexander, its own impossible, phantom muscles swelling to a size that dwarfed the hero's own.

The lights in the gym, as if on cue, dimmed. A single, dramatic spotlight flared to life, illuminating the two posing figures in the center of the room. The conquest battle had begun.

What followed was a silent, epic, and utterly ridiculous duel of pure, unadulterated vanity. Alexander would strike a most-muscular pose, and the shadow would counter with a most-muscular of its own, its spectral form somehow more defined, more ripped, more ridiculously shredded than the real thing. A side-chest was met with a side-chest. An abs-and-thigh was met with an abs-and-thigh. They were perfectly matched, two titans of ego locked in a silent, deeply weird battle for physical supremacy. The very air in the gym seemed to crackle with the sheer, overwhelming force of their collective narcissism.

The pose-off reached its dramatic, sweat-glistening climax. They stood back-to-back, ready to unleash their final, ultimate pose. And then, the gym doors burst open. A small, exasperated-looking girl in a sensible pantsuit rushed into the room, her face a mask of pure, long-suffering annoyance.

"S-sorry," she stammered, grabbing the giant, muscle-bound superhero by his ear. "He was messing with you again, I'm sorry." She began to drag the still-posing Alexander away as if he were a petulant, overgrown child. "Come on, Alex. We have a world to save. You can play with your new friend later."

Bombom's shadow watched them go, a look of pure, triumphant satisfaction on its face. It struck one final, victorious pose, and then vanished, melting back into Kenjiro's form. He stood there for a moment, a small, genuine smile on his face, before he turned and began his workout.

He was in the middle of a set of squats when another, far more annoying, presence made itself known.

"Hey, Bombom," a cheerful, familiar voice said from beside him. "Let's fight." It was Nomu.

Kenjiro didn't even look at him. "No," he grunted, pushing through another rep. "He already fought in numerous times. Just go train, like me."

Nomu's face lit up with a look of pure, unadulterated joy. "So," he said, his voice full of a hopeful, misplaced excitement, "you want me to work out with you? We're besties!"

"N-no," Bombom stammered, his face flushing. "We are not." But it was too late. Nomu had already grabbed a pair of dumbbells and was now working out right beside him, his movements a strange, jerky imitation of Bombom's own. As the workout continued, a new, maddening rhythm was established. Bombom would complete a rep, and Nomu would immediately ask, "How about we fight now?" It was a relentless, one-sided conversation, a slow, grating torture of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

Just as Kenjiro was about to snap, to unleash his muscular shadow on the persistent Super Jean and let it have its way with him, a new figure stumbled into the gym. It was 9fingers. He was weaving back and forth, his face flushed, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer clutched in his gnarled, nine-fingered hand. His belly, usually hidden beneath his traveler's cloak, was now exposed, shaking with a silent, drunken laughter.

"Y-you should look for your friend," he slurred, pointing a shaky finger at Bombom. "'hiccup' Jairson. Ehehehe."

Bombom dropped his weights with a loud, metallic clang. He stalked over to the old rogue, his face a mask of pure, cold fury. "Where is he?" he demanded, grabbing the drunkard by the front of his shirt. "What have you done?"

9fingers' eyes fluttered, a dopey, contented smile on his face. And then, he started snoring, his head slumping forward, his body going limp. He was out cold.

Bombom let him go, the old man collapsing to the floor in a boneless, snoring heap. He spun around, his red eyes blazing with a new, urgent panic. "Nomu," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Can you find him?"

The Super Jean, who had been watching the scene with a wide, confused look on his face, immediately snapped to attention. He nodded, his expression turning serious for the first time since he had arrived. "On it," he said. And with a final, purposeful ZUUUUUUUHP, he was gone.

Kenjiro was left standing in the silent gym, the rhythmic, drunken snores of 9fingers the only sound. He bit his finger, a familiar, anxious habit. "W-what happened to Jairson?" he whispered to the empty room. "Did he get caught for stealing again?" A cold, heavy feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

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