by Hydrargentium

Gibraltar stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for the other guy to make the next move. Brute was what the guy called himself. Gibraltar was pretty sure that was it.

Gibraltar was used to being the biggest hero in the room. Heroes like Phoebe, whose power it was to make themselves bigger, were the exception, obviously, but in non-combat situations, they usually stayed close to normal size. Brute, though, was still pretty damn big.

The guy was muscles piled on top of muscles, probably close to four hundred pounds, and standing over seven feet tall. He was so thick that from a distance he looked shorter, but up close, even Gibraltar noticed how big he was. The fact that he wore nothing but red biking shorts (size XXXL, he assumed) only made the human eye think he was that much bigger. It was only when Gibraltar stood almost toe to toe with Brute that he could say for sure that he was the taller of the two.

The referee flicked his finger, and the spinner whirred as it spun.

“Brute, hand on yellow.”

Moving easily, Brute squatted on his heels, and put two meaty fingers on the closest yellow circle. His muscles rippled over themselves beneath flawless skin. He seemed very confident.

Gibraltar watched, and then nodded. This guy was going to be some real Twister competition.

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