Chapter Text
Life certainly had a funny way of throwing curves at people’s faces. South Park was no stranger to unexpected circumstances, but its residents being bestowed superpowers felt like the cherry on top – leaving some reeling after its effects. If anyone had told Ned Gerblansky, he’d end up having the ability of flight, among other powers, he would’ve laughed in their faces. Or thought they were crazy.
Becoming a hero hadn’t been his first choice, but after seeing the young kids (even if they were already teenagers) trying to take on supervillains, who had to be adults, he couldn’t just stand to the sidelines. Unbeknownst to most, Ned had a soft spot for the boys – even if he didn’t have the foggiest who could be behind the mask. He refused to stand back as they risked their lives.
His wings were a gleaming, opalescent shade, appearing to shift colors and almost towering from behind. Adjusting to them had been difficult, having to learn an entirely new trick – flying – but after weeks of practice, Ned got the hang of it. He’d constructed an entire outfit and of course, had gone off to assist in the battlefield of South Park’s interior.
Battling villains slowly improved which the war veteran came to find pride in.
Ned had opted for a bow and an accompanying set of arrows, the quiver strapped into place onto his shoulder. His aim was practically impeccable; perhaps from having served in the war, but regardless he rarely failed a shot. Though sometimes grievances tended to happen.
Much like right now as he faced off the latest supervillain.
He notched an arrow before letting it fly forward, feeling a morbid sense of satisfaction when it hit its target. It still hadn’t been enough to down them but at the very least, it would slow their attacks while he prepared another shot. Though to the people, he wasn’t Ned Gerblanski – but instead Guardian Silver Wing, or to put it simply Guardian .
His wings fanned out, stretching above him and flapped them rapidly, taking off to gain better altitude and target sight. Guardian readied the wooden arrow, only to curse as something was flung in his direction and he had no choice but to swerve. He grunted, flying up before landing swiftly on a rooftop. His eyes were narrowed and pulled another clean arrow from the quiver, allowing his senses to hone in on the latest attempt to criminalize the city.
Guardian fired again before his ears suddenly began ringing.
The piercing shriek from his opponent brought him to his knees, unable to keep the gasp from slipping free. He groaned and struggled to stand, overloaded from how intense it’d been.
Fucking shit .
He felt his wings spread open before propelling himself further up, feathers shining a bright golden at the tips against the sunlight.
Except things didn’t quite play out the way he’d hoped for them to.
Something metallic and hot wrapped around one wing as he bucked, struggling to get it away from the feathers – pulling back with all his might before another wrapped around the other wing, the excruciating feeling getting worse. Chains, burning ( literally ), had wound themselves taut around both of his new features and Guardian hissed, a cracked scream breaking free from the electrolarynx. He squirmed, unable to do much else as he was dragged back down to the earth and a third, unforgiving chain had pinned both arms down.
“Not so tough now, are you?” The supervillain mocked.
Guardian grunted as he was forced onto his knees, trying to struggle as best he could to free himself. His eyes were wild and he felt his lips curl back like a furious, cornered animal, straining his arms against the binds but ultimately it proved futile. Except the more he fought to escape, the more it began draining his energy – groaning weakly and fumbling to press the comm button built into his outfit.
Spots began to line his vision and a raspy cough escaped him, spitting up blood. Before he could make sense of anything, he collapsed on his side right as everything went dark.
Jimbo Kern had never been anxious nor did he worry too much about the what-if except he’d yet to hear anything from Ned Gerblansky, his life partner, nor his ally Guardian. Having been bestowed with his own powers, his senses were sharp and his eyes now retained a low yellow undertone much like one would’ve noticed from a wild animal. He was faster, stronger – relishing in his own strength, having vowed to do his part in protecting South Park once he’d thought of how Stan could be one of those masked vigilantes running around.
And Jimbo wasn’t about to lose the kid. Or any of his friends.
His ears suddenly pricked up, feeling the low beeping coming from his comm – a distress signal – making him tense momentarily. Without so much as missing a beat, Jimbo took off to his office and tossed on his own chosen attire. Unlike the younger heroes, he opted for something much simpler: dark, leather gloves, and matching black cargo pants, face obscured by a gray mask (pulled up over his nose and mouth) and a pair of military goggles. Jimbo pulled a plain, dark blue shirt over his head, grabbing a Smith and Wesson pistol off of the counter – keeping the safety on as he clipped it onto the holster attached to the pants.
He took off out the front door before calling out his powers, manifesting a bushy tail from behind. Gray and splotched with black markings, a bit larger than the average canine’s, and sticking atop his head were a matching set of black-tipped wolf ears.
Tracker had fallen in Jimbo’s place, chasing the heat signature of his colleague to the center of town – nostrils flaring as he picked up on a scent, almost making him recoil in alarm. His muzzle pulled back into a snarl, digging his nails into skin as he shook away the flashes of a war fought years ago. Focus, Tracker. Guardian needs you …
“Guardian!” Tracker’s voice carried down the street - checking the small pad he kept on him.
“Ahhh, so the cavalry makes it~” The supervillain laughed as he approached Tracker, the latter of which growled.
“ Where is he .”
“Oh, you mean your partner! The avenging angel?”
Tracker bristled, feeling the invisible hackles rise against his spine. He stood his ground before pressing on and took measured, careful steps toward his opponent.
“Why don’t I just show you ?”
He felt his breath hitch at the sight of his downed comrade-in-arms; horror struck him like a vice at the singed feathers, the burn marks littering Guardian’s arms – and tiny cuts all over the hero’s face. How Guardian was too still, labored breathing being the only sign he was still alive.
What had this villain done to him?
Something hot rushed at Jimbo, eyes gleaming a striking yellow before his features morphed even more – fur lining his cheeks, teeth sharpening into fangs – and then charged forward. One coordinated battle move as he fired with the pistol, just barely missing the supervillain. His ears drew back at the caterwauling sound the enemy soldier foe let out, but he didn’t let that stop him. Tracker raked his now sharp, unsheathed claws down the villain’s side, feeling some immense satisfaction at the shout he let out.
Adrenaline pumped at Tracker as he narrowly swerved one of the chains, biting down a quiet hiss because even then it managed to graze his thigh. He was on his feet in seconds and then took the pistol, firing a single shot into the supervillain’s arm – relishing in the way they stumbled away. Fangs bared, Tracker rounded on him again (another shot in the leg) before barreling right into him, pummeling a few blows onto the downed combatant’s face. Claws pressing down onto the exposed skin and he would’ve kept going, if not for the sudden groan which rang out.
Tracker’s ears angled back, wiping the blood which hit his face before huffing, “I’ll let the police deal with you.”
His attention pulled on Guardian, managing to lift the injured hero into his arms and was off, uncaring if anyone happened to see. The wolf concentrated, allowing the fur and fangs to shift back, and then ducked down a corner street, refusing to slow down as he could find some way to tend Guardian’s wounds. Tracker sighed upon reaching the side of town most wouldn’t even dare glance at: the underground .
It wasn’t the most clean nor too well-kept but at least here, no one would come following them. Even supervillains managed to not stick their nose into the hidden parts of South Park.
Tracker carefully set Guardian down and his tail slowly wagged from side to side, huffing, “I won’t be long.”
True to his word, he was back fairly soon with a kit of supplies, tucked under his arm, and immediately got to work on gently pulling out the singed feathers. He dipped his fingers through the appendages, carefully carding them - attempting to feel for any injured spots - being as careful and delicate as he possibly could. Honestly, the past him might’ve laughed at the thought of him going soft but here he was, tending to a hero whose real name he didn’t know.
The vigilante set the kit down, rolling out a set of bandages before he bound them around the wings and secured them tight with a splint. Tracker said nothing while he worked, if only because Guardian was currently out cold. His time in the war had taught him a lot and it included how to treat wounds, moving as diligently as he could.
“Oh, Guardian,” Tracker sighed, pulling his hands back once he felt satisfied. “How could this have happened to you?”
As disconcerting as it was to admit, Tracker couldn’t help being reminded of ‘Nam – seeing the prone, unmoving body of his best friend platoon member. His hands clenched tightly at his sides, but he couldn’t just leave Guardian there. He pushed his arms under Guardian’s back, managing to heave him upright and made the careful trek back to his cabin.
It was a risk he felt willing to take.
Once reaching the cabin, Tracker lowered Guardian on his couch and waited for him to wake up. He’d gotten to work on getting a stove going: a pot of soup as well as steamed vegetables, some minced meat, and a cup of white rice. God, he was due for a shower after but that was the least of his worries right now. Tracker, or rather Jimbo Kern , would have to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he had an unconscious hero on his couch.
If Ned would show up.
He was running late and with the time it currently was, Tracker couldn’t shake the pit forming in his stomach.
Where are you, Ned?