"Rise and Viral"
BANG BANG BANG.
"Max! Open the door, you radioactive idiot!"
Max groaned into his pillow, one eye barely opening. Sunlight was stabbing through the blinds in mean little stripes, dust floating in the air like slow-motion confetti. His entire body felt like it had been rolled downhill in a trash can, set on fire, and then politely reassembled wrong.
"Go away," he mumbled.
BANG BANG BANG.
The door kicked open. Hazel didn't wait for permission.
Standing there in combat boots, ripped jeans, and a neon pink bomber jacket that said BITE ME in safety pins across the back, Hazel Patel looked like trouble wrapped in caffeine, with a permanent eye-roll ready to deploy at any second.
She held up her phone like an evidence exhibit.
"You're trending."
Max flopped onto his back with a full-body wince. "Define… trending."
Hazel stepped over the debris of his floor like she was avoiding landmines, thumb flicking the video up on her phone.
There it was.
The Clip.
Posted by three different accounts already, tagged with shaky captions like:
"BULKOUT OR BREAKDOWN? WTF HAPPENED AT GAMMA SECTOR"
"GAMMA FREAK SMASHES BOT—CLOSE UP!!!"
"WHO IS BULKOUT?? IS THIS A MOVIE???"
Max watched the glowing-white, grey-skinned thing—him—swinging that rusted beam, roaring like a kaiju stuffed into a teenager's skeleton. Sparks everywhere. Mech flying sideways.
His stomach did a full Olympic-level flip.
Hazel zoomed in on his fried stabilization harness, the cracked M logo glowing faintly before the jump.
"Congratulations," she said dryly. "You're officially New Cedar's newest urban legend. Nice branding, by the way. Super subtle."
Max rubbed his eyes. "It wasn't supposed to go like that. I—I just wanted content. Like, livestream drama, fail video, maybe a cool explosion in the background—not—"
"—Not 'become a biohazard in cargo shorts'?" she snapped, folding her arms. "Yeah. Weird how that part wasn't in the plan."
The weight of it hit him like a second mech punch. The whole city, the whole internet, had seen. No secret identity. No cool name reveal.
Just… Bulkout.
"I didn't even name it," Max muttered weakly. "The chat did."
Hazel shook her head. "Good. 'Cause it's terrible. Sounds like a protein shake for guys who yell at gym mirrors."
Somewhere down the hall, the sound of his mom shifting in bed made both of them freeze.
Hazel lowered her voice. "Listen, Max. Someone's gonna come looking. That lab wasn't empty by accident. You think the people who built that mech don't have friends? Bosses? Satellites?"
Max blinked. "Satellites?"
Hazel leaned closer, eyes sharp now. "I'm serious. You need to figure this out, fast. Before someone way scarier than me shows up banging on your door."
He sat up slowly, joints cracking like old furniture.
"Do you have a plan?" he asked.
Hazel grinned. "Nope. But I do have stolen snacks and a getaway bike. Get dressed, Bulk Boy."
Max sighed, reaching for the least-destroyed hoodie he could find on the floor.
Viral before breakfast. What else is new.
It was almost funny how normal the world looked the next morning.
Almost.
The streets of New Cedar Falls buzzed with kids on bikes, delivery drones buzzing overhead, and cars that coughed more smoke than they drove. Old brick buildings covered in graffiti leaned against newer ones like drunk friends holding each other up.
And Max? Max was riding shotgun on Hazel's battered electric bike, hood up, sunglasses on, heart pounding like a stuck bass drum.
School loomed ahead like a prison built by bored architects: West Cedar High. Half the windows were cracked, the fence around the sports field sagged, and the marquee out front still read:
"W ELC ME B CK S UMMER 'S OVER GET RE DY"
Hazel drifted the bike up to the rack, sneakers skidding slightly as they stopped. She popped her gum and glanced sideways at him. "Ready for algebra with a side of existential dread?"
Max adjusted his hood. "Can't I just… explode again or something? Math's worse."
"Cute. But no more kaiju cosplay today." She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "We keep it cool. Normal. No screaming, no glowing, no rage monster suplexing the football team. Think you can manage that, Captain Livestream?"
He was about to reply when two kids walked by, eyes glued to their phones, giggling.
"Did you see that clip?" one whispered. "That grey freak? What even was that?"
"CGI, obviously," the other snorted. "Or, like… some influencer prank or something."
Max swallowed hard. Influencer prank. Sure. That was good. That was cover.
He could work with that.
Hazel noticed his shoulders tense and gave him a look. "See? Chill. You're still Max Presley. Dumb, slightly famous, extremely breakable Max Presley."
They pushed through the doors into the main hallway, assaulted instantly by the symphony of school life: slamming lockers, half-asleep teachers, and that weird smell like someone microwaved old pizza and plastic shoes together.
And somehow, miraculously—
—no one knew.
No one pointed. No one screamed "THERE HE IS!" No dramatic finger-pointing or slow-motion gasps. Just geometry homework and half-eaten vending machine snacks.
Max exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
Safe.
For now.
"See?" Hazel whispered, smirking. "Totally normal. Totally boring. We just—"
"—Hey!" a voice called across the hallway.
Both of them froze.
It was Liam Rowe, quarterback, king of hallway confidence, and personal reason Max avoided school dances. He strutted over, varsity jacket slung like armor, flanked by two guys who basically existed to laugh at his bad jokes.
Max's stomach dropped. Now what?
"You see that video going around?" Liam asked, eyes lit up. "The monster thing? That was sick. Looked like it ripped straight outta some VR game."
Hazel was already tensing like she wanted to swing a backpack at him.
Max blinked. "Uh… yeah. Crazy, right?"
Liam grinned. "Swear to God, man—if that's a promo for something, I wanna know where to preorder. Looks insane."
Hazel snorted under her breath.
"Right," Max muttered. "Totally… a promo."
Liam didn't even notice the weird vibe. He was too busy talking about the clip, flexing through his theories like a Twitch chat come to life.
"Anyway. Later, losers."
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the hallway traffic.
Max turned to Hazel, heart still racing. "See? No problem. Totally anonymous. Totally—"
BRRRZTTT.
His fried phone buzzed in his pocket. One new message.
Unknown number.
UNKNOWN: We saw you too, Bulkout.
Max's blood ran cold.
Hazel saw the look on his face instantly. "What?"
"We've got a problem," Max whispered.
Hazel rolled her eyes. "Welcome to my life."
Gym class.
A warehouse-sized echo chamber of squeaky sneakers, rubber balls, and the faint smell of expired deodorant. The floor was polished just enough to guarantee you'd slip on it at least once a week.
Max stood by the bleachers, hoodie still on, sleeves tugged down past his wrists. Hazel was on the opposite wall, stretching lazily, shooting him looks like "Don't explode. Seriously."
"Alright, people," Coach Grady barked, blowing his whistle like he was mad at it personally. "Dodgeball. Teams of six. If you can't dodge, I recommend early retirement."
Dodgeball. Of course it was dodgeball.
And of course, standing right across from Max on the other team—grinning like a hyena—was Liam Rowe.
"Yo, Presley!" Liam called across the gym. "You playing or hiding today?"
The laughter from his crew was instant. Like trained backup dancers in a boy band of idiots.
Hazel shot Max a warning look.
Don't.
But Max's jaw tightened. He could already feel it—the low, buzzing warmth in his chest, like something stirring under the surface, crawling through his veins. His hoodie felt too hot. His palms were starting to itch.
Liam wasn't done.
"What's the matter, Presley? Don't wanna mess up that sweet influencer face for your livestreams?"
A rubber ball whomped into Max's stomach before he even finished the sentence. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to humiliate.
Thunk.
Hazel's voice drifted over. Calm. Controlled.
"Max. Breathe."
He tried.
Tried hard.
The heat was spreading, slow but steady, like a storm trying to punch through his skin. White cracks of light, faint as spiderwebs, flickered across his knuckles—just for a second.
No one saw it.
Except Hazel. And her eyes narrowed.
Another ball. This time off his shoulder. Another laugh from Liam.
Max felt his pulse slam against his temples.
"Dude," Liam smirked, picking up another ball, tossing it lazily in his hand. "You gonna cry? Need a hug? Someone call his little streaming fans, tell 'em their hero's glitching out."
Something snapped.
Max moved faster than even he expected. One second he was standing still—the next, the ball Liam threw was caught in Max's hand with a whomp that echoed across the gym.
Silence.
Everyone stopped moving.
Max's hoodie sleeve had slid up slightly in the motion—and just for a split second—
—a faint, glowing crack of white light pulsed across his forearm like a heartbeat.
Liam's smirk faltered.
Max squeezed the ball. Hard.
Crack.
It shattered in his hand. Not broke. Not popped. Shattered, like glass, leaving bits of rubber falling like black confetti at his feet.
Dead silence.
Hazel, whispering only loud enough for him to hear:
"Dude."
Max's fists were glowing faintly. Sweat slicked his palms. The buzzing was everywhere, filling his ears, his bones—
—and then the bell saved him.
BZZZZZZZT.
"Hit the showers!" Coach Grady barked, not even noticing what had just happened. "Next period in ten."
Liam stepped back, staring. Didn't say a word.
Max just stood there, breathing like a runner who'd tripped at the finish line.
Hazel was already moving toward him. "Outside. Now."
Max nodded, heart hammering.
That was too close.
The cracks were starting to spread faster.
He couldn't keep hiding much longer.
By the time Max made it to math, the cracks had faded from his skin. Barely visible now, like faint white scars under the surface, pulsing just beneath normal.
His hoodie was pulled low. Hood up. Head down.
The buzzing in his head? Still there.
Hazel was gone—gym class put her on the complete other side of the school for this period. And of course, they couldn't both have math with Mr. Calloway, King of Boring. That would've been convenient. Life wasn't into convenient right now.
Max slid into his seat by the window, hoping—praying—to disappear.
Outside, the sky was thick with clouds, the kind that looked like they might spill rain but hadn't quite decided yet. In the glass reflection, he could see his own eyes.
They looked normal. Brown. Tired. Slightly bloodshot. But normal.
"Alright, people," Mr. Calloway drawled from the front, barely awake, writing on the board with a marker that squeaked every third letter. "Quadratic equations. Excitement incarnate."
Pencils scratching. Pages turning.
Max tried to focus.
Tried hard.
Tried to make the numbers make sense, to drown in the useless comfort of algebra—
—and then—
BRRRZTTT.
His phone buzzed in his pocket again.
Heart rate: doubled.
He glanced down, pulling it out just enough to read the cracked screen under his desk.
UNKNOWN:
You can't hide from this.
You broke their toy. They want it back.
They want you.
Max's stomach bottomed out.
A cold sweat pricked his forehead. He glanced over his shoulder—
—and froze.
There was someone standing by the door to the hallway. Not a student. Not a teacher.
A tall figure in a dark grey suit. Not military. Not corporate. Something worse. Sharp. Precise. Watching him through the small rectangle window in the door like a shark waiting for a flinch.
Max looked around. No one else had noticed. They were too busy pretending to care about algebra.
Another buzz.
UNKNOWN:
Tick tock.
Max's fists clenched under the desk. He could feel it again—the pulse, that crackling warmth, crawling up his arms like static electricity gone feral. The cracks in his skin flickered faintly along his wrists beneath his sleeves.
He had to get out. Now.
"Mr. Presley," Mr. Calloway said lazily, glancing up over his ancient glasses. "Since you look so engaged, would you like to solve the next one on the board?"
The whole class turned.
Eyes on him.
Heat building.
The cracks brightened.
Max stood up, chair scraping loudly on the tile, heart hammering against his ribs. "I—I don't feel good."
And before anyone could stop him, Max shoved away from his desk and pushed through the door—
Right past the figure waiting in the hall.
For a split second—just a flash—the man smiled. But it wasn't friendly. It was like someone smiling at an expensive steak before cutting into it.
Max ran.
Max burst through the bathroom door, shoes skidding on the cracked tiles.
The place was empty. Old fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing in time with the static humming under his skin. One sink was cracked. The mirror was spiderwebbed with hairline fractures—felt fitting.
He staggered into the last stall and slammed the door shut behind him. Lock. Latch. Trap.
His chest heaved. His palms were slick with sweat. His reflection shimmered faintly in the scratched chrome of the toilet paper holder, and what stared back at him wasn't normal anymore.
The cracks were back.
White, jagged fractures of light spider-webbing across his forearms and the backs of his hands, glowing faintly through the cheap fabric of his sleeves. His fingertips flickered like faulty lightbulbs. His breath came in shallow, panicked bursts, each one making the cracks pulse brighter.
Breathe. Calm down. Think of something else.
Numbers. Math. Hazel's voice. Anything.
Quadratic equations. What the hell's a quadratic again?
It wasn't working.
BRRRZTTT.
The phone vibrated again. Another message.
UNKNOWN:
It's starting, Max.
They're coming. And you can't hold it in forever.
Something sharp rattled in his chest, like his ribs were struggling to hold something inside.
No. No. No no no.
He pressed his fists against the sides of his head, trying to force it all down.
"Not now—not—"
And that's when the knock came.
Not on the stall. On the bathroom door.
Soft. Deliberate. Waiting.
Max's head snapped up, heart pounding.
Another knock.
And then—
A voice. Calm. Crisp. Controlled.
"Maxwell Presley," it said through the door, like a polite waiter at a very dangerous restaurant. "We need to talk. Preferably before you break the plumbing."
The cracks flared.
"Stay away from me!" Max hissed through gritted teeth, but his voice was already starting to distort—deeper, echoing slightly, like a teenage shout trapped in a metal drum.
"Not possible," the voice replied smoothly. "But we can help you. Before you tear yourself apart. Before they come for you."
They?
Max didn't even get time to ask—
The metal divider next to him creaked. Bent. The glowing cracks on his arms spread up his neck now, pulsing with every heartbeat.
"Stay. Back," he growled.
And then his left hand exploded outward in a burst of white-hot energy, punching a hole straight through the metal divider like it was cardboard.
The walls shook. A shower of ceramic tile dust fell from the ceiling. One of the sinks cracked completely off its base and shattered on the floor.
Max barely even noticed.
His reflection in the broken metal shone back at him—
Grey skin starting to form. White cracks everywhere. Eyes turning into molten-glow orbs, bleeding energy like slow lightning.
Bulkout was coming.
And this time, Max wasn't sure if he could stop it.
CRASH.
The stall door didn't swing open—it exploded off its hinges.
Splinters of rusted metal and plastic shot outward as Max—half-Bulkout, half-panicked teenager—charged forward like a living wrecking ball.
The stranger in the dark suit didn't even flinch.
Max's bare feet squeaked on the cracked tiles. His hoodie was shredded now, glowing white fractures racing across his skin like lightning crawling over storm clouds.
With a roar that shook the broken mirror off the wall, Max swung his glowing fist at the man's face—
—and the stranger caught it.
Flat-palmed. Effortless.
Max's glowing white eyes widened in shock. No one—no one—should've been able to stop that.
The man's hand sizzled where it touched Max's fist, white-hot cracks of gamma-light burning against the flesh—but the man didn't react to the pain.
He just leaned in close, cool as ice, eyes dark as oil.
"You don't even know what you are yet," the man said quietly, like he was sharing a secret.
Max's heart thundered. He strained against the grip, muscle and energy flaring—
—and then the man twisted his arm, just enough to send a jolt of sharp pain through Max's shoulder, forcing him off-balance.
Max stumbled back, half out of control, fists glowing, teeth clenched, breath coming out in hot, heavy clouds of white mist.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Presley," the man said, stepping over the debris like it was beneath his notice. "But others will be. Soon."
More cracking tile under Max's feet. Another sink slid off the wall.
"I don't need your help," Max growled, voice deepening into Bulkout's distorted echo, vibrating like feedback through broken speakers. "I don't need anyone."
And then—
BOOM.
The bathroom door behind the suited man blew inward, not from Max—but from outside. Someone—or something—was coming in.
Gunmetal armored boots crunched across the tile. Shapes in tactical gear. Black masks. No insignia.
The man in the suit sighed like someone late for dinner.
"They're early."
Max's fists clenched again, cracks spreading wider, the light growing brighter.
"I suggest you get angry, Presley," the man added dryly. "It's going to be one of those days."
The bathroom walls trembled with the force of their impact—ten men in sleek black tactical gear flooded in, weapons drawn, moving like a shadowy wave.
Max's chest heaved as the cracks pulsed furiously beneath his skin, glowing white-hot, spreading fast like wildfire racing across dry brush. The suit man—calm, composed—stepped beside him, cracking his knuckles with a slow smile.
"Let's give them a show," he said, voice low and confident.
Max didn't answer. Instead, he charged forward—Bulkout, a grey colossus with glowing veins of raw energy pulsating beneath stormy skin. His roar shattered the bathroom tiles, and his fist smashed through a metal sink, sending shards flying like deadly confetti.
The attackers scattered—only to regroup instantly, advancing in tight formation.
The first struck, swinging a stun baton, but Bulkout caught it mid-swing, the energy crackling as he crushed the baton like brittle twigs. The suited man moved with deadly precision, a blur of strikes and blocks, incapacitating two assailants with fluid, surgical motions.
Suddenly, the battle spilled from the bathroom into the hallway.
Students spilled from classrooms, eyes wide as Bulkout—a monstrous, grey-skinned titan with glowing white cracks—towered over the tactical operatives.
Whispers and gasps rippled through the crowd.
Phones came out.
Live streams started.
"Is that… Bulkout?" someone murmured.
Max roared, shaking off a strike to his ribs and swinging a fist that smashed through a concrete locker wall, dust and debris choking the air.
The suit man ducked under a spinning kick, then swept the legs of another attacker with a swift move that left the man writhing on the floor.
But there were too many.
More operatives poured into the hallway from side doors and stairwells.
Max's glowing cracks flickered wildly. The energy was unstable, unpredictable—every hit, every step sent shockwaves rippling through his form.
The crowd scrambled back, some students frozen, others yelling to clear the hall.
Hazel's voice cut through the chaos, distant but sharp:
"Max! Focus! Don't let it take you!"
Max glanced toward her voice, but the battle was all-consuming. Every instinct screamed fight or flight, but there was nowhere to run.
The suit man threw a glance at Max, nodding sharply.
"Together. End this."
With a brutal force, Bulkout slammed the floor, sending a thunderous shockwave that knocked several attackers off their feet. The suit man surged forward, taking advantage, disarming another operative with precise strikes.
The fight was far from over—and with every moment, Max could feel the fragile line between himself and Bulkout slipping thinner, the white cracks blazing brighter with every pulse.
The fight raged on, every second a blur of crushing blows and shattering walls. Bulkout's grey skin cracked and glowed brighter with every hit, energy surging like a storm barely contained.
Suddenly, from the ranks of the tactical operatives, one figure pulled back, fingers tightening on a compact, sleek dart gun.
Click.
Before Max could react, ten darts shot out in rapid succession, streaking through the chaos like glowing comets—each tipped with a strange, pulsating liquid that shimmered eerie blue and white.
The darts slammed into Bulkout's massive frame—right across his chest, arms, and neck—embedding deeply with a sharp hiss.
Max's roar twisted into a strangled gasp as the strange liquid seeped beneath his skin. The glowing cracks flared violently, pulsing like a broken heartbeat.
Energy surged uncontrollably.
The white light shattered into jagged shards racing through his veins.
His eyes flashed brighter—brighter than ever before—until it felt like the whole world was blinding white.
"What the hell is this?" Max growled, voice booming with a strange distortion.
The suit man's expression darkened.
"Neuro-disruptors," he said grimly. "Experimental. Designed to destabilize gamma mutations. They're not going to just slow you down… they want to break you."
Max staggered back, muscles twitching, energy flickering wildly.
His fists clenched—then spasmed, uncontrollable tremors racing through him.
The attackers surged forward, smelling weakness, but Bulkout wasn't done yet.
With a guttural scream, Max slammed his fists together, releasing a massive pulse of white energy—a shockwave roaring down the hallway like a sonic boom, blasting operatives and lockers alike into rubble.
But inside, Max felt the sharp sting of the darts spreading—like cold fire, scrambling his control, pushing him closer to that cracking point he feared most.
Hazel, watching from the crowd, froze—her phone slipping from her fingers as panic flooded her eyes.
The battle wasn't just physical anymore.
It was a race against time—and Max's own unraveling.
Chaos had swallowed the hallway. Dust and debris hung thick in the air, the deafening sound of shattering lockers and exploding energy ringing in every ear.
Max's vision flickered—glowing cracks pulsed wildly beneath his skin, the strange darts burning cold fire through his muscles. But then—through the swirling chaos—he saw her.
Hazel.
She was pushing forward through the crowd, eyes wide with fear, phone forgotten at her side.
And then—suddenly—an attacker broke from the pack.
Quick, ruthless.
He swung a brutal punch, catching Hazel square in the ribs.
The sound—a sharp crack—cut through the chaos like a gunshot.
Hazel gasped, stumbling back, clutching her side, eyes fluttering shut.
Time stopped.
Max's heart shattered.
The glowing cracks on his skin exploded with white-hot light.
"NO!" His voice thundered, deeper and darker than before.
Everything blurred—the attackers, the students, even the suited man's calm commands—all drowned out by a rising storm inside Max's chest.
He felt it—the familiar surge, the unstable energy flooding every fiber of his being.
His fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, white lightning dancing along his arms.
The air around him rippled with raw power, electricity sparking from his fingertips.
"You touch her—" he growled, voice like a volcanic eruption, "and I break everything."
With a roar that shook the school to its foundations, Max launched himself forward, the grey titan Bulkout unleashed in full fury, his shockwave roar exploding like thunder through the halls.
The attackers froze for a fraction of a second too long.
That was all Bulkout needed.
The battle was far from over—but now it had become personal.
Max's roar tore through the hallway like a storm breaking loose.
His glowing white eyes flared brighter than ever, veins of crackling energy snaking wildly across his stormy grey skin. The strange darts' burning sting faded beneath the raging power flooding through his body.
Bulkout was done holding back.
With a ferocious swing of his colossal fist, he sent the nearest attacker flying like a ragdoll, crashing through lockers and walls, metal and concrete exploding on impact.
Another operative charged, but Bulkout clapped his massive hands together, unleashing a deafening shockwave roar that knocked the man off his feet, sending him skidding across the tile with sparks flying.
One by one, the ten black-clad attackers found themselves overwhelmed.
Bulkout's fists smashed through armored chests, crushing bones and bending steel like paper. Each strike was a tempest, each roar a thunderclap shaking the school's foundations.
The suit man moved beside him with lethal grace, incapacitating operatives with swift precision, but it was Bulkout's raw, unpredictable power that ruled the battlefield.
Finally, the last attacker staggered backward, broken and defeated, as Bulkout planted his massive fist into the floor, sending cracks spiderwebbing outward like lightning bolts.
Silence fell, broken only by the heavy breathing of the combatants—and the distant murmur of shocked students.
Max's glowing form began to flicker, the white cracks dimming as exhaustion crept in.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving, the familiar struggle to hold himself together clawing at his mind.
The fight was over—for now.
But Max knew this was only the beginning.
The dust settled like a heavy curtain over the shattered hallway.
Max knelt, his massive grey form flickering as the glowing cracks dimmed, exhaustion crashing through every muscle.
Then—through the haze of chaos and broken concrete—Hazel burst forward, her eyes wide with fear and relief.
"Max!" she called, voice trembling as she ran to his side.
Her hand reached out, brushing against his rough, glowing arm. "Are you… are you okay?"
Max's heavy breathing slowed. The storm inside him receded, just enough for a flicker of himself to surface.
He looked at her, eyes still bright but softer now.
"I'm… here," he said, voice still deep but steadying. "Thanks to you."
Hazel smiled weakly, kneeling beside him. "Don't ever scare me like that."
Max managed a tired grin, the edges of Bulkout's rage melting away for a moment.
The battle was over.
But the fight to control what he was… was only just beginning.