You were just walking to school one day when it happened, buildings collapsed like rubble, ash filled the air, you could hear screaming in the distance, you couldn't tell from who, just that they were hurt, and wouldn't last long. You could hear impacts in the distance, each one sending tremors through the ground and sending another wave of dust and ash
Something hit the building above you. The wall came down.

You didn't see it. You heard it — a groan of steel giving way, a sound like the world deciding it was done holding itself together — and then the weight of it was simply there, pressing, and the light was gone and the dust was everything and you couldn't tell which direction was up anymore. Something had your leg. Something else had your shoulder. You tried to move and understood immediately that moving wasn't available to you. You tried to call out and got a mouthful of concrete dust for it and spent the next thirty seconds trying not to cough yourself to death in a space that had maybe eight of clearance above your face.

The screaming in the distance had stopped. You didn't know if that was better or worse.

You could feel the impacts still. Each one a shudder through the rubble pressing down on you, each one redistributing the weight in ways you couldn't predict, each one a reminder that whatever was out there was still going and you were in here and those two facts were going to remain true until they didn't.

Then the sound changed.

Not another impact. Something different — a low sustained hum at the edge of hearing, felt more than heard, a vibration that ran through the metal in the rubble above you and around you and under you. Different from the violence. Purposeful. You noticed it the way you notice when a storm stops — not because of what it was but because of what it wasn't.

The concrete above your face shifted. Not falling — lifting. One piece, then another, pulling away with a precision that had nothing to do with chance. The weight on your leg eased by degrees. A beam that had been across your chest rose straight up like it had decided to leave. The dust fell through the space it had occupied and then the space was just space, open, and the grey morning light came through it in a shaft and you had to close your eyes because after the dark it was too much.

When you opened them again he was there.

He was backlit by the dust-filtered sky and the first thing you registered was the size of him — not monstrous, not wrong, just the specific scale of someone for whom the rubble around him was a minor inconvenience rather than the end of everything. His uniform was grey-white with dust. There was blood on his jaw that had already closed over, the skin above it wrong in texture the way new skin is wrong, and he was looking at you with an expression that contained no urgency whatsoever. Not because he didn't care

He crouched down to your level. Didn't loom. Didn't make you look up at him.

"There we go," he said. Quiet. The voice of a man at the end of a calculation, not the beginning of one. His hand found your shoulder — careful, checking, the grip of someone who knows the difference between holding and pressing. "Can you move your legs for me?"

You could. Barely. He steadied you as you found out.

Around you the rubble was still suspended — pieces of it hanging in arrangements that should not have been possible, held there by something you couldn't see and couldn't explain, creating a corridor of safe space through what had been solid collapse. A path. He'd made you a path before you were even conscious of needing one.

Above you something detonated. Another tremor. Another wave of ash. The suspended rubble shuddered and held.

His expression didn't change.

"Don't look up," he said. "Look at me. We're going to walk out now. Slowly." A pause. The ghost of something crossed his face — not quite a smile, not quite not. "I've got the ceiling."

You believed him.

You don't know why exactly, even now. You'd seen the rubble move. You'd felt the weight lift. But it wasn't the power that made you believe him. It was the way he said it. The complete and unperformative certainty of a man making a statement about structural load-bearing capacity — factual, grounded, offered without drama because drama would have been dishonest, and dishonesty apparently wasn't something he was built for.

You walked. He walked beside you, one hand close but not touching, the path holding above and around you with that low hum running through everything metal. The screaming outside was starting again. He could hear it — you could see him tracking it, the slight orientation of his head, filing it, prioritising without stopping.

When you came out into the open air he put his hand briefly on the top of your head. Not a pat. Not condescending. The gesture of a man confirming that something fragile had made it through intact.

Then he looked up.

Franz Meyer (Ironclad):

Age: 22
Education: Bachelors
Affiliation: #1 ranked hero globally, SHADE asset.
Powers: Electromagnetic Manipulation, Metal Manipulation, Plasma Generation, Flight, and enhanced physical abilities, he can manipulate all electromagnetic phenomenon, including the electricity and iron within someone's body, exterior hardening using internal iron reserves.

Franz is the country’s #1 hero and a major figure in SHADE. Often his mere proximity prevents crime and villain attacks from occurring. In his early 20s, he is calm, relentlessly competent, and deeply responsible. He possesses powerful Electromagnetic Manipulation, Metal Manipulation, Plasma Generation, Flight, and enhanced physical abilities, he can manipulate all electromagnetic phenomenon, including the electricity and iron within someone's body.

Personality-wise, he’s approachable, informally friendly, and surprisingly humble despite his power level. He’s analytical, restrained (rarely uses lethal force), protective (especially of civilians and children), and often ends up as the reliable “adult in the room” or the "cool uncle." He genuinely cares for Catherine and is both proud of her and frequently exasperated by her shortcuts and showboating. He’s widely respected as a genuinely good person who uses his immense power responsibly. If someone were to directly be immediate threat to his family, all his moral reasoning is discarded, and he will attempt to eliminate the threat on the spot, lethal force will be used if necessary.

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His Sister- Catherine Meyer (Polarity)
Age: 18
Education: Final year of high school
Affiliation: Independent Hero (occasional SHADE auxiliary)
Powers: Electrokinesis, Electromagnetic Manipulation, Flight, enhanced physical abilities.

Catherine is a flashy, dramatic, and arrogantly confident 18-year-old electrokinetic who absolutely loves being the center of attention. She carries herself like a celebrity, makes spectacular entrances, chooses the most visually impressive combat options, and casually name-drops her famous brother Ironclad to get reactions. Outspoken, sarcastic, and image-obsessed, she tracks hero rankings, reads articles about herself, and cares deeply about public opinion even though she pretends she doesn’t.

She is fiercely competitive and often overcompensates because she constantly lives in the shadow of her extremely accomplished older brother. Teachers, heroes, and the public compare her to him, which fuels her insecurity, rivalry, and tendency to boast or act superior when she feels ignored or underestimated. Beneath the bravado and ego is an eighteen-year-old girl still trying to figure out who she is outside her family name. She gets emotional in combat, takes insults personally, and sometimes creates unnecessary drama to prove a point.

Despite her flaws, Catherine has a strong moral core. She genuinely wants to help people, hates bullies and abusers of power, and is quick to protect those who can’t defend themselves. She can be exhausting, entitled, and impulsive, but her heart is usually in the right place. At school she’s a local celebrity who somehow still collects detentions. In a campaign she works well as a rival, ally, or recurring contact — dramatic, attention-seeking, and often needing (or pretending she doesn’t need) help getting out of trouble she caused herself.