Void

Major Havoc had an eccentric approach to friendship. For him, it wasn't about shared interests or mutual respect; it was about blood type.

"What's your blood type?" he'd ask, his tone deadpan, as though it were the most natural question in the world. "Third? Oh, man, we've got so much in common." He treated it like a cosmic bond, a predetermined connection that justified whatever came next.

Havoc's quirks didn't stop there. He had an obsessive fascination with Nazi history—not for the politics or ideology, but because, as he often pointed out, "They practically pioneered meth." This wasn't said with pride, exactly, but with a strange, academic admiration that made everyone uncomfortable.

Then there were the rooftops. Havoc didn't just climb them for the view. To him, rooftops were sacred spaces, places where the constraints of the ground below didn't apply. He claimed to have done everything up there: celebrated birthdays, slept under the stars, cooked meth in an old soup pot, and once, allegedly, thrown a Molotov cocktail just to see the flames dance against the skyline.

In his everyday life, though, Havoc was almost unrecognizable. He slouched through existence like a character waiting for someone else to write his lines. His words were few, his movements deliberate, and his eyes had the vacant look of someone perpetually unbothered by the passage of time. This languid version of Havoc was a byproduct of his parents' wealth—a kind of quiet resignation born from the knowledge that no matter how badly he screwed up, there would always be a safety net waiting.

But the moment Havoc stepped into his self-styled superhero persona, he transformed. Gone was the brooding, apathetic rich kid; in his place stood a manic, brilliant force of nature, capable of terrifying feats of creativity. It was this unhinged side of him that ultimately led to his downfall—and straight into the locked doors of a psychiatric ward.

Spike, on the other hand, was a relentless whirlwind of energy and noise. Where Havoc was silent, Spike filled the air with an unending torrent of words. He talked about anything and everything—unprovoked, unfiltered, and often unintelligible. Conspiracy theories about government mind control blended seamlessly with half-baked business schemes and tangents about his latest obsessions. His verbal onslaught was both exhausting and strangely captivating, a kind of chaotic poetry that was hard to ignore.

Spike justified his constant chatter as a side effect of loneliness. "I talk because no one listens," he'd say, though it was hard to reconcile this self-image with the reality that he was always surrounded by people. He had a magnetic quality, the kind that drew strangers into his orbit whether they wanted to be there or not.

Spike's ambitions were as outsized as his personality. He envisioned himself as a future kingpin, the kind of guy who could walk into a room and command instant respect. He'd fantasize about cruising through Mexico in a gleaming Range Rover, his wrist weighed down by an obnoxiously expensive watch. For now, though, his life was a patchwork of odd jobs and side hustles. He worked multiple gigs, juggled them with impressive skill, and maintained a veneer of respectability for anyone who wasn't paying close attention.

Within our circle, though, Spike was known simply as "that guy with the DXM tattoo." The inky chemical structure on his forearm was both a badge of honor and a warning sign, a permanent reminder of his reckless loyalty to substances.

Their first meeting could have been pulled straight from the script of a dark, twisted romantic comedy. It happened on a sweltering city bus, the kind of cramped, humid vehicle where the air smelled like a mix of sweat, cheap cologne, and fried street food. Havoc was seated in the back, sprawled across two seats, loudly pontificating about his favorite subject: the chemistry of controlled substances.

"Life is short," Havoc proclaimed, gesturing with exaggerated flair, "but the list of substances? That's endless."

His voice carried through the bus, drawing looks from weary commuters and curious teens. Spike, seated a few rows ahead, couldn't resist. He twisted around, grinning like he'd just stumbled onto the punchline of some cosmic joke.

"Yeah, but have you ever cooked it on a roof?" he shot back, his tone equal parts challenge and admiration.

Havoc froze for a moment, caught off guard. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. "You're my kind of guy," he said, patting the empty seat beside him.

In that moment, it was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring these two misfits together. Havoc, with his detached brilliance and chaotic energy, and Spike, the mouthpiece of madness, became an instant partnership. They were opposites, yet perfectly aligned, each feeding off the other's strengths and weaknesses in a way that felt both natural and dangerous.

That bus ride marked the beginning of their unlikely alliance—a partnership destined for greatness, disaster, or something far stranger in between.