Hitter

I Got A Story To Tell.

The flickering streetlight cast long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement of Oakhaven. Hitter, real name Marcus Bell, leaned against the brick wall of Mrs. Rodriguez’s bodega, the damp chill seeping into his bones. He was on his nightly rounds, neighborhood watch duty, a far cry from the glory he sometimes dreamt of.

Growing up in Oakhaven, you learned to be tough, to take a punch. Marcus, however, learned something else. Something extraordinary. He could hit. Really hit. It wasn’t super strength, not in the traditional sense. He wasn’t lifting cars or tearing down buildings. It was…focused force. Concentrated impact. He could channel his energy into a single, devastating blow. A punch, a kick, even a headbutt, could carry the force of a small missile if he willed it.

The kids in the neighborhood, back then, had called him Hitter. The name stuck.

He’d spent countless hours practicing, hitting abandoned cars in the junkyard, denting steel like it was tin foil. He learned to control it, to dial it up and dial it down. He once accidentally knocked down a brick wall with a flick of his wrist. Thank God no one saw.

For a while, the allure of the bigger stage had been undeniable. He imagined joining the X-Men, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Avengers. He pictured himself taking down villains with a single, perfectly placed punch, the hero of the hour.

But then reality would crash back in with the force of, well, one of his punches. He wasn’t invulnerable. He wasn’t particularly fast or agile. He was just Marcus Bell, a guy who could punch a hole through the Earth…and then probably get his nose broken by a common street thug.

What good was his power against, say, Magneto? He’d get tossed around like a ragdoll. And what if he lost control? What if he accidentally killed someone? The responsibility, the potential for catastrophe, was overwhelming.

Compared to superheroes who could fly, control the weather, or phase through walls, his ability felt…pathetic. A party trick with potentially apocalyptic consequences.

So, he tucked his secret away, like a worn photograph of a life he’d never live. He took a job as a security guard at the local community center. It was honest work, and it paid the bills. He could keep an eye on things, use his…unique talents to protect his community, discreetly.

One night, a group of teenagers tried to break into the center. He didn’t even have to use his full power. A stern warning, a flex of his hand that made the air ripple, and they scattered like pigeons.

He became a fixture in the neighborhood, a silent guardian. He’d break up fights, deter petty theft, and help Mrs. Rodriguez carry heavy boxes into the bodega. He was respected, maybe even a little feared, but mostly just…accepted. He was Hitter, the guy who kept Oakhaven safe.

Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and simmering resentment. He heard the distant sound of shattered glass, followed by angry shouts. He sighed. Another night, another problem.

As he walked towards the commotion, he felt a familiar twinge in his fist, the subtle hum of untapped power. He wasn’t a superhero, not the kind that graced magazine covers. But he was something, something important. He was a protector. And in Oakhaven, that was more than enough. As long he protected the community he grew up in, the responsibility that he was given he was more than happy to protect it.