Chapter 4. Self-Defense and Self-Improvement for the Powerless

Grunt. Grunt.

“Hey, Astra, getting the hang of it?” Misaki’s dad called out.

“Sorta,” I said, curling dumbbells with shaky arms. “Who knew working out could be fun?”

Misaki’s dad laughed. “Most people don’t find lifting fun, kid.”

But I wasn’t “most people.”

And honestly? I needed this.

After the Flash, powers were everything. Strength was everything. Identity was everything. And I had none of it—so learning how to protect myself wasn’t optional.

Misaki grunted beside me. “Dad, am I doing this right?”

We were all training together—me, Misaki, and his dad. A weird little squad in the living room surrounded by dumbbells and a protein shake Misaki definitely made wrong.

See—Misaki’s dad wasn’t just some regular house husband. Before the Flash, he had been one of the strongest combat specialists inside the early World Government. After the Flash, his “power” manifested as… self-improvement. Literally.

His essence made him capable of learning anything a hundred times faster than a normal person. Martial arts, weapons, acrobatics—you name it. Basically a walking self-help audiobook with hands rated E-for-Everyone.

So yeah, he became my coach. Lucky me.

I swore I’d never let another person define me again. So I doubled down.
Self-defense. Conditioning. Weapons training.

Batons. Pepper rounds. A futuristic riot shield I probably was not supposed to have.

Six months later, I wasn’t the powerless kid in the chair anymore—I was a walking armory, stubborn enough to fight anyone who tried me.

At least… that’s what I told myself.

One afternoon, Misaki and I went out for ice cream. It was supposed to be normal—simple—finally a piece of life that didn’t hurt.

Until I saw him.

Jerrad.

Our old class bully. Same smug walk, same fire in his eyes—literally, now.

Misaki immediately tugged my sleeve. “Let’s go. Let’s just go.”

I froze. Every memory rushed back—the trash cans, the punches, the humiliation. My body remembered the old script.

Shrink. Hide. Submit.

But then another thought hit me:

This is post-Flash. I don’t get to be the past version of myself anymore.

Jerrad smirked. “So… you really don’t have powers, huh, Powerless?”

I breathed out. “Yeah. And so what?”

That was apparently all he needed. His fists ignited in flame.

A split second later he blasted fire directly toward me.

I dove out of the way. Misaki yelled behind me, “Use your batons! Remember what Dad said!”

I pulled them out. My hands were shaking—but not with fear.

“Round two,” I muttered. “Let’s see how you like this.”

Jerrad burst into laughter that turned into hysterics. “Bro, seriously?! You’re gonna fight fire with sticks?”

He hadn’t even finished laughing before I rushed him.

Rule One of self-improvement combat: when fighting someone ranged—get in close.

He tried blasting upward, launching himself into the sky and coming down with a flaming drop-kick. I crossed my batons and absorbed it just in time. Skin burning. Arms rattling.

“I trained,” I said through my teeth.

“I LIVED in hell!” he shouted back. “That’s different.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe training wasn’t enough. Maybe powerless people would always lose.

But then I remembered something.

I wasn’t powerless anymore.

I was choosing myself.

Jerrad fired another blazing fist. I ducked. Closed distance. Think. Adapt. Act.

When he charged his next attack, I pulled my secret weapons: dual pepper pistols.

He didn’t react fast enough.
Pop!

Red pepper pellet—directly in his face.

He screamed, fire flaring in every direction as he panicked.

I rushed in, slipped under the blasts—then slammed the baton into his stomach.

He flew backward into a parked car, gasping, blind, coughing, disoriented.

Fire versus preparation.
Power versus strategy.

And for once in my life—I won.

But of course… nothing stays simple.

From the shadows, someone watched.

A familiar whisper cut through the alley:

“You've become strong, Astra… what a disappointment. I’m heartbroken. Truly. I’ll have to fix that.”