Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Chapter 657 - 667: Not A Hero (Part 7)

It was the sniper from the rooftop extraction.The woman who fired infected targets off distant rooftops while the Aegis-9 strikers secured the airspace around them.

She looked him over once.

Then tilted her helmet slightly.

"Are ya lost, kid?"

Her relaxed drawl sounded completely disconnected from the military chaos surrounding them.

Don opened his mouth—

But before answering, her posture shifted slightly.

Recognition.

THUNK~

She slapped her free hand lightly against the side of her helmet.

"Oh yea — I remember you. You were with the Monclaire kid."

Her gaze swept across him again slower this time.

Assessment.

"Well shit," she added casually. "You recover quick."

Don blinked once.

"Uhm... thanks?" he said. "For the help earlier too."

She waved the gratitude off immediately.

"Don’t mention it. Duty and all that crap."

Despite everything happening around them, she looked completely relaxed standing there with that enormous rifle hanging against her shoulder like part of her own body.

And notably—

She didn’t seem remotely concerned Don stood in front of her nearly naked.

Don was about to ask about his missing equipment when the compound speakers crackled overhead suddenly.

KRRRZZZT~

Then a recorded voice echoed across the encampment in clear military cadence.

"ATTENTION TO ALL NON-MILITARY SUPERHUMAN PERSONNEL AGED TWENTY-ONE AND ABOVE. IF YOU ARE ABLE-BODIED, PLEASE PROCEED TO THE MAIN HANGAR BAY. ASK YOUR NEAREST SOLDIER FOR DIRECTIONS IF NEEDED. I REPEAT — THIS IS URGENT AND MANDATORY. ALL QUALIFIED PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT IMMEDIATELY."

The message repeated moments later exactly the same.

Same tone.

Same wording.

No explanation.

Around them, portions of the compound reacted almost immediately.

Soldiers redirected movement near several pathways while confused civilians exchanged uneasy looks nearby.

In the distance, a few visibly enhanced individuals had already begun heading toward the larger SHQ structure.

The sniper looked back toward Don afterward.

Her visor reflected the floodlights overhead.

"You look able-bodied," she said casually.

Then more directly—

"And from what I heard... I think you might wanna go there."

Don narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What did you hear?"

She tilted her head again.

Even through the visor, he could tell she was smiling faintly.

"Classified, kid."

Then she stepped past him.

The oversized rifle swayed lightly against her back with the motion.

"There’s some basics in the tent here," she added while gesturing behind herself without looking back. "Shirt. Pants. Boots. Or you can go in your briefs."

A brief pause.

"See ya."

Don watched her disappear back into the floodlit movement of the compound with one eyebrow raised slightly.

Confusing woman.

’Classified. Of course it is.’

He didn’t linger on it.

Instead he turned toward the tent she’d indicated and ducked inside.

The supply tent contained rows of neatly stacked military supplies organized across folding tables and storage crates beneath fluorescent lighting.

Uniforms.

Boots.

Medical kits.

Basic field equipment.

Don moved through the rows quietly until finding clothes close enough to his size. A plain dark shirt. Cargo pants slightly loose around the waist. Boots sturdy enough for movement even if they weren’t broken in yet.

Nothing carried insignias or identifying patches.

Just clean clothing.

He dressed quickly.

The fabric felt strange against his skin after spending so many hours covered in blood-soaked attire and damaged armor, but he ignored it.

His missing comms gear remained a problem.

So did the contacts.

But first—

The hangar bay.

When Don stepped back outside, he immediately realized he had absolutely no idea where that actually was.

Technically he belonged to SHQ.

Credentials.

Clearance.

Operational status.

All of it.

But he’d never explored most of the facility beyond designated sections tied directly to assignments or training.

So after receiving three different sets of contradictory directions from exhausted soldiers moving through the compound, he eventually found the correct route leading toward one side of the main SHQ structure.

The hangar entrance itself looked enormous.

A massive opening built directly into the side of the facility wide enough to accommodate multiple helicopters simultaneously.

Military vehicles and equipment occupied portions near the entrance while groups of gathered personnel continued filtering steadily inside.

Don entered with the others.

The hangar interior stretched far larger than expected beneath harsh industrial lighting overhead.

Soldiers lined the perimeter at regular intervals while military vehicles, crates and transport equipment occupied sections along the walls.

Most of the gathered crowd consisted of civilians.

Mostly men.

Some women too.

Different clothing everywhere.

Blood-stained civilian attire.

Makeshift replacements.

Damaged tactical gear.

Even remnants of older superhuman costumes partially hidden beneath jackets and scavenged equipment.

Nobody looked fully comfortable being there.

Curiosity.

Nervousness.

Exhaustion.

Wariness.

The expressions varied constantly throughout the crowd.

Don moved deeper inside while scanning the far side of the hangar over most heads around him thanks to his height.

Something — or someone — waited near the front based on the direction everyone faced, though he still couldn’t properly make it out through the gathered bodies.

He’d just started adjusting position for a clearer view when someone tapped his shoulder.

Don turned automatically.

Half expecting Ash.

Instead—

Pyro.

Don blinked once.

"Pyro?"

He looked exhausted.

No armor.

No signature gear.

Just a plain white shirt, loose pants and slippers that clearly weren’t his original clothing either. His hair looked disheveled while fatigue dragged faintly beneath his eyes.

But he was alive.

And alert.

His expression shifted into something close to genuine warmth.

"Don, my man."

He extended his hand immediately for a dap instead of a handshake.

Don returned it automatically.

CLASP~

The familiar gesture felt strangely grounding compared to everything else tonight.

Two survivors acknowledging each other after crawling through the same nightmare from different directions.

Pyro pulled back afterward and looked him over carefully.

"You look like shit."

Don nodded once.

"Feel like it too."

Pyro gave a tired snort.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Same."

Then both of them turned back toward the front of the hangar together just as a loud male voice cleared itself through the overhead speakers.

"Attention. Please direct your attention to the front."

The scattered murmurs throughout the crowd gradually thinned out as heads turned toward the far end of the bay.

Some stood on equipment crates near the walls to see over the taller survivors. Others simply craned their necks and waited.

Don and Pyro both looked up at the same time.

Don stood loose where he was, shoulders relaxed beneath the plain military shirt.

His expression stayed flat as his eyes tracked toward the raising platform ahead.

Beside him, Pyro leaned forward slightly instead. The exhaustion hanging off him hadn’t dulled the alertness in his stare.

If anything, it looked like fatigue had burned away everything except focus.

At the front of the hangar, a large platform had been assembled near several military vehicles and portable command equipment.

UPSDF officers stood positioned around its perimeter while multiple display screens flickered to life behind them.

The man standing at the center immediately drew attention without needing to ask for it.

He was enormous.

Close to two meters tall with the build of someone who’d spent decades carrying combat gear instead of sitting behind desks.

His command uniform stretched across broad shoulders, dark fabric marked with a colonel’s insignia near the collar.

Buzzed brown hair framed a weathered face carved by stress and old fatigue rather than age alone.

A thick mustache sat above a jaw that looked permanently set in place.

Not handsome. Not charismatic in the polished political sense.

Just solid.

"I’m Colonel Garrett Voss," the man said. "I’ve been placed in operational command of this relief sector."