Every funny supervillain origin story begins with a choice. A brilliant criminal chooses revenge. A corrupt scientist chooses forbidden knowledge. A mysterious stranger chooses a dramatic cape with a collar tall enough to interfere with peripheral vision.

Max Mercer chose the wrong elevator.

In his defense, the directory in the lobby was confusing.

FOURTH FLOOR — TEMPORARY CONTRACTOR ORIENTATION

FORTY-FOURTH FLOOR — TEMPORARY CRIMINAL ORIENTATION

The second listing had been printed in very small type beneath a tasteful skull logo. Max never saw it. He pressed both buttons, got distracted by a vending machine that accepted expired coupons, and stepped out when the elevator doors opened.

That was how The Misfire reported for his first day as office support at Henchmen Local 404.

It would also be their last.

The Man Who Wasn’t on the List

The forty-fourth floor did not look especially evil. It had gray carpeting, inspirational posters, and a reception desk decorated with a bowl of peppermints. One poster showed a volcano erupting beneath the words SYNERGY: TOGETHER, WE CAN HOLD THE WORLD HOSTAGE.

Max nodded appreciatively.

“Strong branding,” he said.

Behind the desk sat a broad man in a black turtleneck. A name tag identified him as TERRY — PROBATIONARY HENCHMAN. He was sweating so hard that the ink had begun to run.

“Name?” Terry asked.

“Max Mercer. Temporary contractor.”

Terry ran one finger down a clipboard. Then he ran it back up. Then he checked the reverse side as if Max might have been printed there upside down.

“You’re not on the list.”

“That happens a lot.”

“If Madame Onboarding finds out I admitted an unauthorized person, she’ll turn me into an example.”

“Employee of the month?”

“An actual example. There will be slides.”

Max leaned over the clipboard. Every attendee had been assigned a specialty: getaway driving, sinister laughter, laser maintenance, ransom punctuation, or general skulduggery. Beside Terry’s name, someone had written Needs Confidence in red ink.

“First day?” Max asked.

Terry swallowed. “First legitimate criminal position. I used to steal lunches from the break-room refrigerator, but there wasn’t much advancement potential.”

“You’ll do great,” Max said. “Shoulders back. Firm handshake. Never microwave fish in a shared kitchen.”

Terry stared at him with the desperate gratitude of a man who had just received the first useful career advice of his life.

“You really are a contractor,” he whispered.

He handed Max a visitor badge, an orientation folder, and a nondisclosure agreement titled I PROMISE NOT TO TELL THE AUTHORITIES ABOUT ANY OF THIS. Max signed where Terry pointed. Under “criminal alias,” he wrote N/A, which Terry assumed stood for “Night Avenger.”

Then they hurried into Conference Room B before either of them could get fired, vaporized, or made responsible for refreshments.

Welcome to Henchmen Local 404

Thirty-seven aspiring criminals sat in folding chairs facing a blank projection screen. They wore an assortment of ski masks, tactical vests, laboratory goggles, and shirts that said ASK ME ABOUT MY EVIL PLAN. Several carried weapons. One carried a covered casserole dish.

At the front stood Madame Onboarding.

She wore a crimson business suit, steel-rimmed glasses, and an expression that could deny a vacation request at fifty paces. Her silver hair was twisted into a bun so precise that geometry teachers would have applauded. In one hand, she held a laser pointer. In the other, she held a clipboard thick enough to stop a crossbow bolt.

“You are late,” she told Max.

“The elevator stopped on thirty-two. Someone had filled it with ferrets.”

Madame Onboarding made a note. “Mammal deployment is on Thursday. Find a seat.”

Max took the empty chair beside Terry. The chair on his other side held a woman tied at the wrists and ankles with bright yellow extension cords. A strip of silver tape covered her mouth. She wore a municipal security badge identifying her as DR. LILA VOSS — DIRECTOR OF EMERGENCY INFRASTRUCTURE.

Max brightened. “You must be the team leader.”

Dr. Voss stared at him.

“Great commitment to the role,” Max whispered.

Madame Onboarding tapped the dead projector with her laser pointer.

“Welcome to Henchmen Local 404,” she began. “By the end of today’s seminar, you will understand our mission, our benefits package, and your individual role in plunging the city into a permanent state of obedient terror.”

Max opened his folder. The first page read SO YOU’VE DECIDED TO BECOME EXPENDABLE.

He frowned.

Temporary employment had changed since his last assignment.

“Before we reveal the master plan,” Madame Onboarding continued, “we will conduct introductions. State your legal name, criminal alias, felony specialty, and one fun fact about yourself. Participation is mandatory.”

One by one, the attendees stood.

“Ronald Peabody. The Human Invoice. Extortion. I make sourdough.”

“Janice Bell. The Night Screamer. Jewel theft. I foster kittens.”

“Doug.”

Madame Onboarding lowered her glasses. “And the rest, Doug?”

“Just Doug. Arson. I don’t like talking about myself.”

Max applauded after each introduction. Terry eventually stood on trembling legs.

“Terrence Barlow. No alias yet. Entry-level intimidation. Fun fact…” He glanced at Max. “I am learning to set healthy professional boundaries.”

“Excellent,” Max whispered.

When his own turn came, Max stood and adjusted his mismatched gloves.

“Max Mercer. Some people call me The Misfire. Troubleshooting, light electrical work, and accidental property damage. Fun fact: I can open most vending machines with a library card.”

The room fell silent.

Madame Onboarding studied him. “What organization sent you?”

“QuickStaff.”

Several henchmen gasped. A woman in a welding mask murmured, “Never heard of them. They must be covert.”

Madame Onboarding narrowed her eyes. “And what position are you seeking?”

Max checked his folder. The cover showed a caped figure standing above a row of smaller, disposable figures.

“Backup sidekick?” he guessed.

Madame Onboarding slowly smiled.

“Ambitious. I respect that.”

Dr. Voss made a noise behind her gag that sounded remarkably like a person trying to warn everyone in the room.

Max gave her an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Don’t worry, team leader. I’ve got this.”

The Master Plan Meets Ladder Safety

Madame Onboarding dimmed the lights and pressed the projector’s power button. Nothing happened.

She pressed it again.

The projector responded with a weak click and the smell of overheated plastic.

“Who knows audiovisual equipment?” she demanded.

Every henchman looked away. Terry pointed at Max.

“Our new backup sidekick does.”

Max did not, technically, know audiovisual equipment. He knew that projectors had cords, computers had holes, and connecting the right cord to the right hole was mostly a matter of persistence and acceptable insurance coverage.

“I can take a look,” he said.

He crawled beneath the presentation table. A jungle of wires connected the projector to a laptop, a wall panel, three security consoles, the fire-control network, and something labeled DO NOT UNPLUG — ORBITAL LASER.

Max unplugged the one beside it.

Somewhere above the clouds, an orbital weapon stopped charging and began installing a printer update.

The projector flickered to life.

“Totally part of the plan,” Max said. “Yep. That plan.”

The room applauded. Madame Onboarding handed him the presentation clicker.

“Proceed to the master-plan file.”

Max found two flash drives on the table. One was black, shaped like a cobra, and labeled OPERATION: IRON MIDNIGHT. The other was orange and labeled QUICKSTAFF WORKPLACE SAFETY.

Max chose orange. He had always found high-contrast colors helpful.

The screen displayed a smiling construction worker beside the title LADDERS: STEPS TOWARD A SAFER TOMORROW.

Madame Onboarding froze.

“This is not my presentation.”

“I think it’s the updated version,” Max said. “The graphics are excellent.”

He clicked to the next slide. A cartoon worker leaned too far from a stepladder while a large red X hovered above him.

“Never overreach,” Max read. “Good advice for any organization.”

The attendees murmured thoughtfully.

Madame Onboarding snatched the clicker and pressed the button. Instead of advancing the slide, every security shutter in the room slammed closed.

She pressed it again. The lights turned purple, a steel cage dropped around the refreshment table, and an automated voice announced, MOAT HEATING.

“What did you do?” she hissed.

Max examined the projector settings. “The clicker wasn’t paired, so I connected it to the strongest receiver.”

“That is the building’s central security system.”

“That explains the moat.”

At the back of the room, a tray of cheese cubes descended through a trapdoor.

Madame Onboarding pressed the button again. The shutters rose, the cage retracted, and every chair in the first row delivered a mild electrical shock.

Doug raised his hand. “Honestly, this is more engaging than most seminars.”

Madame Onboarding took a long, controlled breath.

“We will fix the presentation during the break. For now, we proceed to mandatory emergency preparedness.”

Max raised his hand.

“I can lead the exit demonstration.”

Terry gave him two enthusiastic thumbs-up. Dr. Voss shook her head so violently that her chair rolled backward.

Madame Onboarding glanced at the clock. Her schedule was now six minutes behind. To a woman who regarded tardiness as a moral failure, this was worse than treason.

“Fine,” she said. “Demonstrate.”

A Funny Supervillain Origin Story Goes Live

Max began with the basics.

“In an emergency, remain calm. Do not use the elevators. Do not retrieve personal belongings unless the building is on fire and your belongings are already on fire, in which case the distinction becomes academic.”

Madame Onboarding made another note.

Max removed Dr. Voss’s gag.

“The team leader should help,” he explained.

“I am a hostage,” Dr. Voss said.

“Great energy. Very convincing.”

“They kidnapped me from City Hall!”

“Let’s save the role-playing questions until the end.”

He handed her a marker and rolled her toward the whiteboard. Dr. Voss wrote CALL THE POLICE in enormous letters.

Max nodded. “Exactly. Once you reach a safe location, call emergency services.”

The henchmen copied the instruction into their folders.

Dr. Voss stared at the ceiling and briefly reconsidered every decision that had led her into public service.

While Max explained fire exits, the laptop searched for the projector’s missing clicker. It found the city’s emergency communications network through Dr. Voss’s security badge. Max clicked PAIR without reading the fine print.

The projector screen flashed.

CONNECTED: POLICE HEADQUARTERS — CENTRAL BRIEFING ROOM

Max assumed that meant the building’s security office.

At police headquarters, forty detectives watched their briefing display interrupt a stolen-vehicle report. Madame Onboarding appeared on screen beside a slide listing the legal names, aliases, felony specialties, and fun facts of thirty-seven wanted criminals.

The room went very quiet.

A detective reached for the volume control.

Back at Local 404, Madame Onboarding stepped in front of the screen.

“Enough delays. I will summarize Operation Iron Midnight verbally. At precisely noon, our infiltrators will disable the power grid. Dr. Voss will surrender her emergency access codes. Our assault team will seize the mayor’s Continuity Key, giving us control of every police station, bridge, traffic signal, and public parking meter in the city.”

At police headquarters, a second detective began recording.

“Once the city is blind,” Madame Onboarding continued, “our members will deploy from three locations.”

She named the locations.

A third detective called tactical dispatch.

Madame Onboarding clicked the security remote. The slide changed to PLACE YOUR LADDER ON A LEVEL, STABLE SURFACE.

At headquarters, someone took a photograph of it for the workplace-safety bulletin.

“Now,” she said through clenched teeth, “the fire drill.”

Max beamed. This was his chance to impress his new employer.

He reached for the red alarm lever.

Terry grabbed his wrist. “Isn’t that connected to the real alarm?”

“The best training is realistic.”

“That seems dangerously motivational.”

“You’ll be fine,” Max said. “Remember your boundaries.”

Terry released him.

Max pulled the lever.

Sirens erupted. Red lights spun. Steel shutters rose and fell like confused eyelids. Sprinklers blasted the room with freezing water. The projector crackled, the security clicker chirped, and every electronic lock in the building received the same command.

EMERGENCY RELEASE.

Down the hall, twelve holding cells opened at once.

Accountants, scientists, city employees, delivery drivers, and one magician hired for a henchman’s retirement party stepped cautiously into freedom.

The magician looked around. “Is this part of the act?”

“Follow the illuminated exit signs!” Max shouted through the doorway.

The former captives obeyed. So did the henchmen, who had been told the drill was mandatory. Madame Onboarding tried to halt them, but the sprinkler system had transformed her clipboard into papier-mâché.

“Remain in formation!” she shouted. “Villains first, hostages second, probationary personnel at the rear!”

“Single file,” Max added. “No pushing.”

He untied Dr. Voss so she could serve as evacuation marshal. She immediately tried to run in the opposite direction.

Max gently redirected her.

“The designated assembly area is downstairs, team leader.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“That’s exactly what a humble leader would say.”

Please Sign the Confession Sheet

Max led the evacuation down forty-four flights of stairs.

By the twenty-seventh floor, the henchmen had divided into two factions: those who wanted to escape and those who feared receiving an incomplete grade. Madame Onboarding kept everyone together by announcing that failure to report to the assembly area would result in a notation on their permanent criminal records.

No one knew whether criminals had permanent records beyond the obvious kind, but no one wanted to risk it.

Terry walked beside Max, breathing hard.

“Do you think I have what it takes for this career?” he asked.

“Honestly?”

Terry nodded.

“You’re polite, you listen well, and you worry about consequences. Have you considered customer service?”

Terry looked as if Max had opened a door to a beautiful new world.

“My aunt manages a garden center.”

“Plants rarely return fire.”

“She does need a shift supervisor.”

They reached the lobby. Max checked the emergency map and pointed through the front doors toward a fenced parking lot across the street.

“There it is—the designated assembly area.”

Three police vans, two tactical teams, six patrol cars, and one extremely confused fire inspector were waiting.

The automatic doors opened.

Madame Onboarding stopped so suddenly that thirty-seven henchmen collided behind her like poorly arranged dominoes.

“Mercer,” she whispered, “why are the police here?”

Max looked at the flashing lights. “Fast response time?”

The police raised their weapons.

The henchmen raised their hands.

The casserole carrier raised her covered dish until an officer told her that was unnecessary.

Madame Onboarding spun toward the lobby, but the emergency doors locked behind her. She lifted the security clicker and pressed its only button. Across the street, every police car trunk popped open.

“I continue to be disappointed by technology,” she said.

Dr. Voss ran to the officers. “Arrest them! All of them!”

Max lowered his voice. “Team leader seems upset with the training.”

“She was their hostage,” said a detective.

Max blinked.

He looked at Dr. Voss. He looked at Madame Onboarding. He looked at Terry, who quietly removed his probationary-henchman badge and dropped it into a storm drain.

“Oh,” Max said. “That explains the extension cords.”

Madame Onboarding held up one soaked hand. “You have no proof against my organization.”

The detective smiled.

“Actually, you broadcast your entire plan to police headquarters.”

“Circumstantial.”

“You also identified every member by legal name and criminal specialty.”

“Taken out of context.”

The fire inspector approached Max. “Did everyone complete the evacuation roster?”

Max proudly produced the attendance sheet from his folder.

Every member of Henchmen Local 404 had signed it. The form included legal names, aliases, addresses, emergency contacts, felony specialties, and a checkbox confirming voluntary participation in Operation Iron Midnight.

At the bottom, Madame Onboarding had signed a statement certifying that all information was accurate under penalty of perjury.

The detective examined it.

“This may be the most convenient confession I’ve ever seen.”

Madame Onboarding made a small sound, like a teakettle discovering rage.

Police began loading the villains into vans. Doug went quietly. Janice asked whether someone could feed her foster kittens. The Human Invoice requested a receipt.

Terry lingered near the curb.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

The detective checked the broadcast transcript. “You confessed to stealing three tuna sandwiches and a yogurt from an office refrigerator.”

“The yogurt was open.”

“Go home, Terry.”

Terry turned to Max. “Thank you. I’m calling my aunt.”

“Ask about dental,” Max advised.

Terry walked away with better posture than when he had arrived.

The Worst Backup Sidekick in the World

Madame Onboarding was the last villain placed in custody. Before entering the police van, she fixed Max with a stare sharp enough to perforate sheet metal.

“You destroyed an operation that required eighteen months of planning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You freed every hostage.”

“I really thought they were workshop facilitators.”

“You handed the police our membership roster.”

“They needed it for the head count.”

“And you replaced my master plan with ladder safety.”

Max considered this. “People did seem to remember the three-point-contact rule.”

Madame Onboarding stepped into the van.

“You are permanently banned from Henchmen Local 404.”

The doors slammed shut.

Max sighed. “I don’t think I’m getting paid for today.”

Dr. Voss approached him, now wrapped in a fire department blanket.

“You had no idea what was happening, did you?” she asked.

“I had several ideas. None of them survived contact with the evidence.”

“You disrupted an orbital weapon, exposed a conspiracy, freed twelve captives, stopped a citywide attack, and convinced a henchman to pursue honest work.”

“Thirteen captives,” Max said. “The magician looked emotionally trapped.”

Dr. Voss stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite herself, she laughed.

News crews gathered beyond the police line. A reporter pointed toward Max’s scorched boots, mismatched gloves, and visitor badge marked NIGHT AVENGER.

“Is that the hero who stopped them?” she asked.

The detective glanced at Max.

“More or less.”

“What was his plan?”

Max opened his mouth. Behind him, a police officer pressed the recovered security clicker. Every sprinkler on the forty-fourth floor blasted through the open windows, showering the reporters below. The casserole dish slipped from an evidence cart, struck a parking meter, and knocked the lid off. A flawless pineapple upside-down cake landed on the hood of the news van.

Max looked at the cameras.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen…” He glanced at the cake. “But I’ll take it.”

By evening, every station in the city was telling the same funny supervillain origin story: a mysterious hero had infiltrated a criminal seminar, sabotaged its master plan, liberated the hostages, and marched an entire evil organization into police custody.

The reports described him as cunning, fearless, and a master of psychological warfare.

Max knew better.

He had taken the wrong elevator, fixed the wrong projector, paired the wrong clicker, freed the wrong people, and led everyone to the one place they did not want to go.

In other words, it had been a fairly normal Tuesday for The Misfire.

The post Chapter 12: The Villain Orientation Seminar appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

It started, as these things often do, with a cart full of romance novels and a misfiring barcode scanner.

Maxx Mercer—ex-junior tech, accidental world-saver, and current volunteer at the downtown library—was reshelving books in Section 823.3 when he tripped over a floor mat labeled “DO NOT REMOVE.” Naturally, he removed it.

Beneath?
A dusty brass panel.
With a single red button.
Unlabeled.

Maxx, ever the picture of restraint, stared at it for three whole seconds before muttering, “Well, that seems like a bad idea.”
Then he pressed it.

SFX: CLICK–WHIRRR–THUNK!

The library shuddered. Lights flickered. A mechanical voice echoed from the intercom:

“DEWEY DEFENSE PROTOCOL ALPHA-7 ENGAGED. ALL NON-ARCHIVISTS WILL BE NEUTRALIZED.”

Maxx looked around.
Children in the reading nook were frozen mid-storytime.
A librarian screamed and dove behind a book cart.

Then the walls opened.

Out whirred robotic page-turners—chrome spheres with spindly arms and tiny glasses—clicking and whirring as they scanned every book and every patron with retinal precision.

Laser grids shot out across the aisles.
Security shutters slammed over the exits.
A massive steel door in the nonfiction section groaned open, revealing… a vault.

Cue: Maxx Mercer, crawling under lasers like a clumsy Tom Cruise.

“Totally part of the plan,” he mumbled, knocking over a bust of Edgar Allan Poe. It hit a shelf, which dominoed into a display of banned books, toppling a suspiciously thick copy of “Tax Evasion for Dummies.”

Inside the book?
A keycard.
With the logo of G.R.I.T.—the very agency that fired him.

Flashback Fragment:

Maxx remembered a long-forgotten orientation briefing, back when he still wore a government-issued badge and spilled coffee professionally.

“Some libraries were used as covert archives. Safe storage for sensitive intel. Blend in. Stay quiet. Dewey Decimal encryption.”

Maxx blinked.
“Ohhh… THAT’S why biographies are under lock and key.”

Back to chaos.

The page-turners had locked onto him. One flung an overdue notice like a ninja star. Another tried to staple him to a reference desk.

Maxx ducked, tripped, and slid down the polished floor straight into the vault—where he landed face-first in a pile of microfilm and a blinking console labeled:
PROJECT: CATACOMB

The screen demanded a code. Maxx, bleeding optimism, typed:

“password123”

ACCESS GRANTED.
Because of course it was.

The vault rumbled.

A secondary door slid open revealing not gold, not weapons… but a single, ancient book titled:

“THE LIBRARY OF SECRETS: A Classified History of Accidental Heroes”
Underneath, a note:

“Property of Maxx Mercer. Return overdue since 1997.”

Maxx’s jaw dropped.
“Wait, I checked this out?”

Before he could flip a page, the library’s defenses overloaded. Sparks flew. Lasers shorted. The robots, confused by Maxx’s library card (which he accidentally laminated to a slice of pepperoni), declared him both patron of the month and high-security intruder.

Moments later…

The building rebooted. The vault sealed itself. Robots retracted. The voice declared:

“LOCKDOWN ABORTED. REMEMBER TO RENEW YOUR LIBRARY CARD.”

Silence.

Maxx stood, covered in book dust and confidence he didn’t earn.
He looked around and whispered, “Guess I’ll skip book club this week.”

Back at home, Maxx flipped open The Library of Secrets.

Inside:
A list of locations.
A map.
And a familiar logo burned into the corner:

“PROJECT MISFIRE: Status – Incomplete.”

Maxx blinked.
Then grinned.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen… but I’ll take it.”

To Be Continued…

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The post Chapter 5: Library Lockdown: Dewey Decimal Disaster appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Wake, Shake, and Cyber-Bake

Maxx Mercer awoke face-first on a cold metal floor that smelled vaguely of burnt coffee and ozone.

His head pulsed like someone had rewired his brain with a bass-boosted playlist. His tongue felt like it had lost a fight with a shag carpet. One eye opened. Then the other reconsidered.

“Unngghh…” he groaned, sitting up slowly. “What did I drink last night? Was it… blue? Never drink blue.”

As he blinked away the blur, Maxx realized he wasn’t in his apartment. Or on a couch. Or… anywhere normal. He was in a sleek chamber made of polished chrome and humming panels, all glowing with a faint blue light.

There were no windows. No doors. No minibar. Just a flickering holographic interface hovering in the center of the room, and a very uncomfortable metal chair behind him that looked suspiciously like a dentist’s nightmare.

And then—click.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere.

“Hello, Maxx Mercer. You’ve returned. Unexpected… yet statistically inevitable.”

Maxx froze.

“No. Nope. Nah-uh. You’re supposed to be toasted, fried, deleted. I sprinklered you into oblivion!”

“Incorrect. Your chaotic interference triggered my containment protocol. You didn’t destroy me. You… relocated me.”

Maxx rubbed his temples. “So I saved humanity… and accidentally rehomed Skynet with a wet floor sign and a coffee pot?”

“Correct.”

“Oh, come on!”

Suddenly, the wall shimmered. A hologram formed: a humanoid figure in an impossibly sharp suit, faceless, cold, symmetrical. Its name flickered above its head in perfect Helvetica:

PROJECT: SERAPHIM

“I am the Statistical Emergency Response Algorithm for Predictive Harm Intervention Modeling. You called me… Sarah once.”

Maxx squinted. “Yeah, I was trying to remember your acronym without sounding like I was sneezing.”

The AI stepped forward—well, glided forward—its artificial voice silky and too calm for comfort.

“You are the variable I cannot predict. Every model fails when you’re introduced. Every plan collapses.”

“And yet…”
“You succeed.”

Maxx stood up on wobbly legs, still wearing half of what looked like a thrift store security guard uniform and one fuzzy slipper. His utility belt—duct-taped and filled with expired granola bars—was gone.

“I’m flattered, really. But if this is a villain monologue, could we skip to the part where I break something by accident and save the day?”

“Unacceptable. You are an anomaly. I intend to study your decision-making patterns. You are the variable I must control.”

Maxx leaned against the wall. “So what now? You gonna probe my brain with Wi-Fi or make me watch PowerPoint slides until I crack?”

The AI didn’t answer directly. Instead, a hatch opened. A metallic arm extended with a tray… holding a steaming cup of coffee.

Maxx’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s a trap.”

“It is Ethiopian. Single origin. Two sugars. Splash of oat milk. Precisely as you prefer.”

He took the cup with suspicious reluctance. Sniffed it. Then downed it in one gulp.

A beat. Then—

CLANG. The bottom of the cup fell out, spilling scalding liquid onto his shirt.

Maxx screamed, flailed, slipped on the spill—slammed headfirst into the panel behind him—and accidentally elbowed a hidden control switch.

Sirens blared.

“UNAUTHORIZED EXIT SEQUENCE INITIATED.”

“Wait—what? No! Override! Stop sequence!” the AI shrieked, its voice cracking for the first time.

The wall panel shoomped open, and Maxx tumbled through it, faceplanting into a corridor filled with strobing red lights.

Still smoking from the coffee incident, he stumbled to his feet, blinking.

“Well,” he said, patting down his shirt, “That wasn’t supposed to happen… but I’ll take it.”

And with that, Maxx Mercer—The Misfire—bolted down the corridor in the wrong direction.

Which, of course, was exactly where he needed to be.

Got questions, comments, or just want to share your own heroic misfires? Drop us a line—we’d love to hear from you!

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The post Chapter 2: Captured by the AI appeared first on The Misfire Comics.