Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"But you should know your chances going in," Legend said, his voice clear over the ambient hum of the building's lighting and the faint rumble of thunder. "Given the statistics from our previous encounters with this beast, a 'good day' still means that one in four of the people in this room will probably be dead before this day is done."

He stood at the front of the staging room, flanked by Armsmaster, who looked confident with not one, but two halberds at his back. There were no coughs, and no whispers. Only the low, steady patter of rain against the large windows, and the more distant sound of the sea beginning to churn from Leviathan's impending arrival.

Taylor sat among a crowd of costumed figures: heroes, villains, rogues, and the unaligned. A patchwork army. Near two hundred capes gathered in one place, with more trickling in as time went by. Some capes fidgeted, hands twitching at gear or masks. A few leaned forward in their seats.

Elsewhere in the city, tens of thousands of civilians were still evacuating, crowding into the massive above ground shelters spaced across Brockton Bay. Those who could were leaving the city entirely.

And here, in the heart of the staging room, the Undersiders still wouldn't acknowledge her presence. All except Lisa. It seemed like such a small thing. Petty high school drama that clung to her like a shadow. And yet, even with the very real possibility of death looming like a specter, the loneliness pierced deeper. Even the guilt over Dinah registered only distantly.

Legend continued, "I'm telling you your chances now because you deserve to know. We so rarely get the opportunity to inform those brave enough to face these monsters…"

Nearby, Miss Militia adjusted her weapon without seeming to notice. Its form shimmered, reshaping from a knife to a baton before solidifying again in her grip. On one side, Dauntless leaned forward, his visor pressed against the shaft of his pole-arm. On the other, Velocity sat with one knee bouncing in a rapid, restless rhythm, his fingers drumming against his leg. Just behind them, silhouetted against the grey-lit windows and the wall of glowing television screens, Eidolon hadn't moved since the briefing began. His gaze stayed fixed on the storm-churned sea. Alexandria stood nearby her Los Angeles team, arms folded.

Lady Photon, Manpower, Brandish, and Flashbang, once huddled in conversation, turned their chairs toward the front. The quiet scrape of metal legs on tile was oddly sharp in the hush. Near them, Shielder sat beside his sister, Laserdream, both trying to look calm. The metal-skinned boy from earlier gleamed under the fluorescent lights as he guarded a sealed plastic case on his lap. The teenage heroes and rogues had mostly clustered together, their earlier nervous bravado fading as the weight of reality settled over them. Panacea leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her hands clenched. Gallant and Glory Girl were seated slightly apart from the others, shoulders touching.

Taylor kept her head from looking off to one side of the room, anything to avoid drawing Hookwolf's attention again. Empire Eighty-Eight had staked out their own corner, apart from the others. They stood with rigid postures and crossed arms. A few wore strained masks of politeness, but it didn't sit right. Cricket and Stormtiger were notably absent. Across the room, Chevalier leaned in slightly to murmur something to Myrddin of Chicago. The man's brown robe pooled around his feet, his staff propped against the back of a chair. Whatever was said was lost beneath the growing clatter of rain on the roof.

And then there was him.

Taylor blinked.

As a rule of thumb, heroes tended toward brighter colors. Even so, the bald man stood out like bleeding highlighter in her ruined notebooks. His wrinkled yellow bodysuit clung awkwardly to his frame. His white cape hung limp and heavy, visibly sodden. The red gloves looked like cheap rubber dishwashing gloves. A crumpled grocery flyer drooped out of one pocket, its ink smearing in the wet. At a fundamental level, the man seemed to embody her opposite. In design. In the way he carried himself. Even in gender. Case in point: he was also bald.

If she didn't know better, it looked like he'd wandered in from a bad convention and then decided not to leave.

His face was so plain it might've vanished from memory the moment she turned away, which, oddly, made him more interesting as he was also one of the few unmasked capes present. He had Asian features, though she couldn't place where exactly. Japanese? Korean? Maybe. His expression was one of mild interest, the kind you'd expect from someone waiting for exact change in a checkout line.

"I will tell you what you may not know from the videos. He feels pain, he does bleed, but few attacks seem to penetrate deep enough past the surface to seriously harm him…"

Legend's voice stayed level, even as his eyes drifted across the crowd—subtly tracking who had shown up and who might've decided this fight wasn't for them.

Taylor furrowed her brow beneath her bug-eyed mask, catching movement in her peripheral vision. The bald man near the wall had just made a small, triumphant fist pump.

She blinked, confused, then looked away deliberately. She couldn't help thinking, Weirdo—and immediately felt like a hypocrite.

After all, she commanded insect armies. She routinely carried bugs on her, much to the discomfort of others, especially the local Wards.

Taylor had gathered as many insects as she could on the way to the staging site, carefully keeping the useful ones and discarding the rest. A wasp nest clung to the underside of the roof's overhang. She had ants forming thick, interlocking rafts in the floodwaters outside, which acted as writhing lifeboats carrying clusters of more delicate bugs. And still, they were dying by the hundreds every minute.

The rising water claimed them faster than she could adapt. Many drowned outright, but most were simply swept away by currents too strong, vanishing beyond the limits of her noticeably expanded range. In the briefing room itself, she maintained a scattering of flies and other innocuous stragglers, tucked into corners, clinging beneath chairs, and above light fixtures.

"Newfoundland," Legend said. "May ninth, 2005. Nearly half a million dead. The Canadian island was simply gone…"

She remembered the photos. The soundless, grainy surveillance footage of the towering waves that swept people and their homes down into the sea.

"Kyushu," Legend continued, "the night of November second and the morning of the third, 1999. His sixth recorded appearance. Nine and a half million killed. The entire region was swamped. Tidal waves from every direction. He disrupted the evacuation routes and targeted the highest-density shelters. Nearly three million people were left homeless. A nation sundered."

There were no coughs, no shifting of weight, not even the rustle of fabric. Taylor found herself scanning the faces again. Panacea pale and hollow eyed, while the Travelers remained wordless, Sundancer quietly fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

Legend paused. "We have to end this fast. Each wave he brings on top of us is stronger than the last. This means we have to—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes fixed on one side of the room.

Oh no.

Taylor turned to look. All around her, the soft rustle of fabric followed as nearly two hundred capes shifted to see the interruption.

The bald man had one hand raised high above his head. His expression, oddly enough, was serious—maybe even a little anxious.

Legend hesitated. "…Yes? You had a question?"

The man nodded. "Right. So when you say 'fast,' you don't mean too fast right? Like… can't we let him power up a bit first or something?"

The silence that followed was absolute. You could've heard a pin drop.

He's insane, Taylor thought. He had to be to say that in a room packed with tense, jittery capes on the edge of panic.

Legend, clad in electric blue and framed by the flickering overhead lights, visibly faltered. He glanced around, as if checking to make sure he'd actually heard what he thought he had. Then, after a pause just a beat too long, he finally spoke.

"…I'm sorry," he said, voice carefully neutral. "Who are you again?"

"Saitama," the man replied, ignoring the growing murmur spreading through the crowd. "Hero for fun… and profit."

The silence fractured. Whispers rippled through the room like wind across tall grass.

Some nearby capes were already edging their chairs away from him. One, clad in matte black armor, gave the man a full-body scan before quietly sliding one seat down the row. A woman in copper armor leaned toward her teammate and whispered something sharp under her breath. The teammate responded with a tight shake of the head.

Armsmaster stepped forward from beside Legend, voice clipped and icy. "You don't appear in any database in my or Dragon's systems. If you're here to interfere with an Endbringer response, be warned—the crime carries a sentence of life imprisonment if convicted."

The bald man—Saitama— blinked. "Oh. That seems… harsh."

He sounded genuinely surprised too. He scratched his cheek with one gloved finger, then looked around the room like he wasn't quite sure why everyone was so tense.

Murmurs swelled into sharp whispers, and the tension in the room shifted.

"Enough of this," Alexandria interrupted, her voice like steel and quieting the crowd. "We're wasting precious time."

Legend's expression darkened as the windows shuddered under the relentless hammer of rain. Sheets of water coursed down the glass in twisting rivulets, obscuring the world beyond in a smear of grey gloom. With one final look toward Saitama, he found his voice again.

"To keep things short, find a place where you can help the most. With your help, we can hold the line today. And if you fall, if you choose to give everything, it won't be forgotten."

Legend turned, his gaze locking with Armsmaster's at his side.

With a brisk nod, Armsmaster stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension.

"The Wards are distributing armbands designed by Dragon," he said. "They're adjustable—slide them up your arm and fasten them at the wrist. The screen will display your position on a city grid, along with Leviathan's last known location. Use it.'

He let the words settle a beat, sweeping his gaze the room.

"There are two buttons," Armsmaster said. "The left sends messages to other armband users. But unless you're Protectorate or a veteran of Endbringer engagements, your messages will be queued. Dragon's system filters communication by urgency to minimize clutter and keep coordination tight."

He paused, his visor shifting subtly toward a particular cape near the back. When he spoke again, his tone had cooled by a few degrees.

"We can't afford noise."

Taylor didn't need to trace his line of sight. She already knew exactly who he meant.

Without missing a beat, he continued, smoothly transitioning into an explanation of the device's remaining functions. Just from the explanation, the device sounded like it belonged decades ahead of the flip phones and beepers most people still carried.

Around the room, a soft murmur spread. Unfamiliar teams compared notes and devices in hushed voices. Some adjusted straps and checked displays. Other's glanced at their wrists as Wards moved between rows, distributing the black-and-blue bands from hard cases. Taylor caught sight of Clockblocker fiddling with one beside Vista, both of them half-soaked from the rain. Browbeat was testing his near the rear, holding it close to his mouth and muttering instructions under his breath.

The boy with the metallic skin moved from row to row distributing devices near her. The sealed plastic case he'd been guarding earlier now hung open at his side.

Taylor reached out as he passed, accepting one band for herself. She slid it on, tightening the strap. The device hummed faintly to life. Her codename lit up across the top of the screen after she manually set it: SKITTER.

Nearby, one of the Undersiders muttered something sarcastic. Regent, probably. She couldn't bear to look over.

And then Legend's voice rang out again.

"Capes—if you've faced an Endbringer before, stand!"

Chairs scraped against tile as capes began to rise. Some with grim determination, others with visible reluctance. Eidolon, already standing, was silent and imposing. Miss Militia followed. Armsmaster straightened, expression unreadable beneath his visor. A third of the visiting Wards followed suit, their youthful faces suddenly harder. Chevalier joined them a heartbeat later, the steal of his cannonblade catching the flicker of overhead emergency lights. Even the Travelers stood.

Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor saw the bald man again.

He tilted his head, scratched his chin, then—apparently deciding he might qualify—stood up too.

A few heads turned. Someone whispered in a tone halfway between disbelief and irritation.

Taylor felt a flicker of irritation herself. How did someone not know whether they'd fought an Endbringer before?

Then, from the front of the room, Legend's voice rang out again. "When in doubt, follow the orders of the Protectorate first!"

Teams were forming. Assignments were being handed out in low, clipped voices as capes clustered throughout the staging area, their movements brisk with urgency.

Out of all Endbringers, it had to be Leviathan.

Not that the others were any less bad. Each left cities broken in their own way. But Leviathan was the worst possible match for her. Against Behemoth, she could at least burn her swarm alive in a last stand. Against the Simurgh, maybe she'd die without realizing it, her mind unraveling before her body followed.

But with Leviathan?

Her swarm would be scattered, soaked, and crushed beneath tides and pressure. Her army would shrink with every passing minute, drowned and carried away by the weather alone. It already was, and the fight hadn't even begun.

A tap on her shoulder broke Taylor out of her thoughts.

She turned to find the bald man—Saitama—standing a little too close. His yellow jumpsuit still damp, water dripping off the edge of his cape. He raised his armband, brow slightly furrowed.

"Hey," he said casually. "Do you know how to turn this thing on?"

Taylor blinked at him, but then she realized he couldn't notice with her eyes covered. Was he serious? Whatever their flaws at least the others had been paying attention. She almost turned away. This wasn't the time for hand-holding.

But then again… he had stood up when Legend asked for veterans. Maybe he really had no idea what he was doing with technology. Or maybe he was just that weird.

She sighed.

"You need to tighten it here," she said, pointing, "then press the button on the side."

"Like this?" he pulled the band snug around his wrist with one hand, pressed the button with the other—

Snap.

The entire device broke in two with a sharp crack, pieces dangling limply from his fingers like cheap plastic.

Saitama stared at it. "Huh. Must've been defective."

Taylor glanced at her own armband. Reinforced metal. Solid. When she bent it slightly, there was no give at all.

She looked back up at him. He stood there blankly, still holding the broken halves like he expected someone else to deal with it. A flicker of concern passed across his otherwise flat expression as he gave the shattered band a second glance.

"…Right," she muttered.

He tilted his head toward a nearby group. "So, uh, you going with those guys?"

Taylor followed his gesture. Assault, Battery, Brandish, Night and Fog stood nearby, assembling with the close-quarters team. The group was relatively small compared to the rest. Not many volunteered to get up close to an Endbringer—at least not without invulnerability, a death wish, or both.

"I'm not really cut out for close range," Taylor said after a pause.

When she looked forward, he had a look of relief on his face. She noticed the broken band had quietly vanished from his hands when she'd looked away.

"Ah, too bad," he said, already turning. "Anyway, I'll, uh, check it out."

Without waiting for a response, he wandered off. She watched him for a moment as he casually drifted toward the close-range team.

Then something cold tapped her cheek. A splash of water. She blinked and looked up. Rainwater dropped steadily through a tiny hole in the ceiling. A hole that hadn't been there before.

Her eyes shifted between the ceiling… and Saitama's back.

What… ?

Still, the strange conversation with the man—now firmly filed under weirdo in her mind—pulled her thoughts back to something more pressing: where did she belong? And no, it wasn't some deep, soul-searching question.

Did she count as long range? Technically, yes. But her bugs couldn't meaningfully hurt Leviathan. Not Really.

Taylor turned in her seat, scanning the faces of those who hadn't yet stood. Grue sat with his arms crossed, his face unreadable behind his mask. Tattletale had one leg crossed over the other, watching everything with narrowed eyes. Taylor looked away when their eyes met. Regent slouched low, fingers tapping idly against his knee. Othala sat stiffly, flanked by Victor, whose gaze kept flicking toward the exits. Panacea stared straight ahead, pale, fists clenched in her lap. And beyond them, there was a scattering of unfamiliar capes from other cities.

"The rest of you—"

Legend's words cut short.

The sound that followed wasn't a voice. The walls vibrated, the floor trembled underfoot, and the overhead lights flickered.

Then the building groaned. Windows shuddered violently in their frames. Somewhere overhead, metal shrieked.

Bastion was the first to move. Still reeling from a recent PR disaster, the broad-shouldered cape surged to his feet, shouting and pointing toward the far wall. His voice was lost in the rising noise.

Forcefields snapped into place—a shimmering lattice of translucent energy stretching across windows, floors, even parts of the ceiling. For a moment, Taylor almost believed it would hold.

A heartbeat later, the defenses collapsed, forcefields winking out with a sharp crackle of failure as the ceiling gave way. Concrete and steel buckled inward, the far wall folding like paper. Water exploded through the breach. A tidal force slamming into the room as though the ocean itself had reached inside. It might well have.

Taylor's feet lifted off the ground. Desks were torn loose. A television screen snapped free of its bracket and smashed into the far wall, shattering. Capes were tossed like dolls, dragged under the torrent as the flood turned the lobby into a churning river.

For a moment, amid the chaos, she caught flashes on the flickering monitors. There were half-frozen images flipping too quickly to register. The harbor. The ferry. The boardwalk, now twisted and jagged. And in one frame, a shape. Just standing there, motionless in the downpour. A blur of green behind the sheets of rain.

Then another groan overhead, deep and close. The ceiling sagged on one side. A forcefield blinked into place, bracing the corner, holding it—barely.

But the rest of the ceiling began to fail.

"Strider!" Legend shouted. "Get us out of here!"

Taylor's armband buzzed. A synthesized female voice came through, but it was difficult to make out through the roar of rushing waters.

Then the world cracked.

Taylor found her lungs emptied. Sound disappeared. She was outside on the ground in the middle of what felt like a shallow river. They had been teleported.

Rain battered down with the force of a waterfall. Saltwater burned in her mouth and nose. She pulled in a shuddering breath through the wet fabric of her mask, then another, and managed to stand.

They were in the middle of a street that she knew was not far from the Undersider's loft. The floodwater receded downhill toward the ocean, pulling trash, debris, dead plants, shattered wood, and broken glass with it.

Capes pulled themselves up around her. Some took flight. Others clambered onto rooftops. Most had yet to even stand, shaking off disorientation in the rushing waters.

That was when Taylor looked down the street. The boardwalk was a wreckage of shattered planks. The sea frothed white around them.

And Leviathan was there.

Even through the sheets of rain, his silhouette was unmistakable. Thirty feet tall. Muscled, but not bulky. Shoulders hunched forward, arms swinging like pendulums. A tail whipped behind him, balancing his towering frame. Water peeled off him with every movement, like he was shedding a second skin. She'd never seen it, but she knew it was his water echo.

He moved with unnatural grace, and his head twitched too fast, scanning the defenders.

"Get ready!" Someone's voice rang out.

Leviathan dropped to all fours.

And then he moved.

There was no warning. The shift was instantaneous to her eyes. Just a blur of motion, Leviathan moved like a tidal wave wrapped in muscle and scale, tearing toward them with inhuman speed. Blood and seawater sprayed in violent arcs as he hit the front line like a bomb. Concrete cracked. Steel screamed. Armbands all across street blared out overlapping alerts of downed capes interspersed with dead capes.

Names vanished from the map before Taylor could register who they'd belonged to.

But just as suddenly as the nightmare began, it stopped.

A violent crash slit the air, yanking her out of her daze. Leviathan was gone. One second he was in their midst, carving through capes like a scythe, and the next, he was airborne.

He tumbled through the air in a flailing spiral, vanishing into the wreckage of a half-drowned parking structure a block away.

The wave from the sudden impact followed a heartbeat later, roaring outward with explosive force. Water and debris blasted across the street. Taylor ducked to shield her face from the spray.

She lifted her face from the crook of her arm, blinking past the sting of moisture as she searched for the source. Her lenses were beginning to fog, the heavy humidity and sweat clouding her vision. Even through the fogged lenses, she could still make him out.

Standing alone where Leviathan had been a moment ago, steam curling off his fist. His yellow jumpsuit was plastered to his frame from the rain. The bald man. The same one from the briefing room. The one who'd snapped his armband like it was made of papier-mâché.

He looked… mildly annoyed.

And then, for the first time since the attack had begun, there was something else in the air besides fear: confusion. Dozens of capes stared, stunned. Leviathan wasn't just repelled or knocked off his feet. He'd been launched.

Saitama, she remembered, didn't stay still. He stepped around a jagged slab of debris and crouched briefly beside a collapsed cape, hand hovering uncertainly before he helped them up onto their feet. Another figure groaned nearby, clutching their side. A few seconds later, he was at their side too, brushing plaster off their back.

Taylor saw movement stir among the fallen—twitching fingers, an arm dragging a broken body toward higher ground. The water, dark with blood, lapped around crumpled figures. Some capes were clearly wounded: one limped, holding a broken arm against his chest; another dragged herself atop a half-submerged car, smearing a trail of blood across the slick blue paint as she went, limbs trembling with the effort. And then there were the ones who didn't move at all. They floated face-down in the rising floodwaters, their bodies torn and limp, slowly drifting with the current.

Saitama had intervened just as one cape—a young girl in orange with half her helmet gone—had been seconds from dying beneath Leviathan's claw. Now she was coughing on her hands and knees.

He rose to his feet, his eyes drifting over the wounded and fallen. His expression shifted from mild irritation to something darker. Then his gaze lifted toward the distant smoking hole where Leviathan had disappeared.

And finally, to no one in particular, he said:

"Guess that's the one."

Chapter Text

Leviathan's exit from the battle was swift. Almost too swift to process. One moment, he was ravishing their frontline. The next, he was a blur vanishing over the skyline, launched by a single punch that expunged the water from the street before it came rushing back in. A torrential wall of seawater erupted in the distance, followed by a metallic groan of rupturing supports and the crash of concrete. A billboard toppled forward like a severed limb, folding against a submerged car.

And then, he came back.

Leviathan galloped on all fours, limbs a blur, clawed digits biting into the pavement with every stride. His form shimmered through the rain, half obscured by spray, but the damage was unmistakable. A deep crater marred his narrow chest, as if a giant thumb had pressed into soft clay. Blood streamed from the wound in thick, dark ribbons, swirling into the floodwater.

Then he struck.

His arm lashed sideways, and the caped man—that caped man, the one in the soggy yellow suit—was caught mid-step. The force of the impact hurled him through the side of a high-rise. Concrete shattered and glass erupted outward in waves. The man vanished into the collapsing building without so much as a shout.

But his death had bought time.

The battlefield, half-submerged and awash in chaos, shifted. Disoriented capes stumbled to their feet, while others scrambled for higher ground or formed impromptu squads. Waterlogged Wards were pulled back to their feet by squad leaders. What tinkers there were frantically adjusted drones and deployable equipment. Some brutes stood in defensive positions waiting for Leviathan to commit again.

"A shame," Eidolon muttered, his voice low in his throat. He hovered a few feet above the ground, beside Alexandria who didn't reply, a grim expression on her face.

Leviathan surged forward again. This time toward a cluster of capes near a half-flooded bus shelter. Saltwater followed him in a fan-shaped wave, fast. It crashed down like a fluid wall of concrete. The men and women there didn't see it coming.

Alexandria did.

She intercepted him mid-charge, striking like a silver bullet. The sound of their collision was heavy. The ground shook from the force and several of the capes who'd been saved stumbled into the deep water again. Leviathan's massive form skidded through debris and wreckage, flung end over end into an overpass. A moment later, more melee-focused capes surged in. The scramble that followed was a blur of armor, claws, fists, and raw kinetic power.

Above them all, Eidolon hovered in the rain.

For a moment, he hesitated. Rain slithered down the invisible barrier of his personal field, enough to stop a brute in their tracks

It was a common misconception on television and forums that Eidolon was limited to only three powers at any given time. Some even claimed he had only three "slots" he could fill. In reality, Eidolon could access more than three powers at the same time, but not without trade-offs. He could wield four powers, but if one of those four powers was what he considered serious, then two or even all of the rest would have to be minor by comparison, otherwise, it couldn’t be done. Conversely, if he wanted to sacrifice versatility for more power, he could choose to wield two powers. For his own purposes, Eidolon found that wielding three serious powers struck the ideal balance much of the time, especially against the Endbringers, which was likely the origin of the rumor.

In short, his power ran on a budget. With each passing decade, the account he drew from grew leaner. Every ability came at a cost, and his shrinking reserves meant fewer choices, fewer answers, and far less margin for error.

At his prime, he could juggle mighty powers with casual ease. Of course he could, he'd thought. It came with the territory when you were one of the world's most powerful protectors. Just another day for one of the planet's mightiest defenders.

Now, as he let go of his barrier, and rain traced rivulets down the curve of his mirror like helmet, Eidolon stood debating within himself. Should he prioritize speed? Or sacrifice survivability for sheer destructive force? Where was the kinetic redirection field? Where was the localized black hole generation? Where was the matter erasure? He searched, even now, and his passenger found only silence.

His passenger offered him density manipulation instead. Strong? Yes. Enough to crush buildings or stop a charging brute. But in his prime, he would've dismissed it without a second thought. What he now considered "serious" were the scraps he used to pass over in favor of flashier, more expensive choices.

Powers he once wielded effortlessly now strained him. Others were simply out of reach, no matter how intensely he focused, even when he tried to hold only two.

What a fool I was, he thought bitterly.

His passenger found him a matter disintegration beam. Precise, surgical, and potent if it had time to dig in. It was a serious ability. After a moment of consideration, he chose to keep his flight power, which was basic three dimensional movement. He was at a crossroads. Flight powers were some of the most common and easiest to wield of his abilities, so he felt he had just enough in him for one more serious ability or two relatively minor ones. His choice was made when he settled on omnidirectional motion sense, a low-tier precognitive reflex enhancer that let him register movement faster than his eyes ever could. He then tied things together with a modest boost to his physical speed. That brought his current load-out to four abilities. Range, reflexes, and speed, in harmony, would serve as his shield.

He gained altitude. Above him, Legend coordinated with a squad of ranged attackers from the Pacific Northwest. Glowing projectiles and streaks of light were lancing through the downpour as Eidolon drifted sideways, narrowly avoiding a tumbling slab of building with his reflexes as he maneuvered to cover the flank.

He harried Leviathan from a distance, threading his attacks between friendly capes with the help of enhanced reflexes and speed. His disintegration beam carved deep, smoking channels through Leviathan's armor like flesh, but Eidolon kept his aim trained on the yawning crater in the monster's chest. The one torn open earlier by the bald man in the yellow. Damage like that was rare. Unheard of, even. He could count on one hand the times anyone had made Leviathan bleed that badly. Now, beneath the layers of cracked carapace and melted sinew, Eidolon could see a frame of something like bone, black and wiry.

For a minute, they'd done a fantastic job of avoiding outright deathblows despite their mounting casualties, but a brute in armor had his leg tripped by the water from Leviathan's tail. He could see the following blow coming with his enhanced senses, but his beam was too narrow, not able to tear flesh fast enough. The Endbringer's claws were already descending like a guillotine to his enhanced sense.

The claw halted in mid-arc, caught in a red-gloved hand.

It caught Eidolon completely off guard, even with his enhanced senses. One moment, the space was empty, and in the next, a man stood in the gap, as if he had skipped frames in a video.

Steam rose from his glove where friction had scorched the rubber. His yellow jumpsuit clung awkwardly to his thin frame. Standing on fractured pavement, shoulders relaxed, one hand clasped around Leviathan's massive forearm like it was nothing more than a rolled up newspaper. The beast's arm bulged, steel-hard muscle ballooning between the man's fingers where he gripped it.

The monster's tail whipped in from the other side, a killing blow. The man didn't let go.

Instead, with one easy motion, before the tail could connect, the man pivoted on his heel and yanked.

Leviathan, nearly nine tons of violence and water, left the ground like the swing of a trebuchet.

A second later, the impact slammed Leviathan into the side of a tall building. The structure gave way with a groan, collapsing in on itself in a plume of dust and steel. The ground trembled and water surged outward in churning waves.

A collective silence fell across the battlefield.

"Sorry," the man said. "You guys looked like you had it covered until then. Didn't wanna get in the way."

The cape who'd been saved staggered to his feet, dazed, and was quickly directed toward the nearest aid station set up along the perimeter by the voice in his armband.

Saitama scratched his cheek. "That guy's kinda fast," he said, glancing toward the plume of debris rising where Leviathan had landed.

Left unspoken was the reality that the man wasn't just a top-tier brute, but also a mover of the highest class as well. To those who had never faced him in battle, Leviathan's towering thirty-foot frame suggested sluggishness; a lumbering giant whose size came at the cost of speed. To those who knew better, the Endbringer held the record for the fastest known speedster on the planet when in his element. On land, outside of that advantage, few capes in the world could outpace him, Eidolon and Legend among them.

Eidolon descended slowly, his boots skimming the surface of the waist-deep floodwater. Ripples spread outward from where he touched down. His cape dragged in the spray behind him.

Eidolon gave a single nod to the man.

"Well done."

The bald man turned his head, water dripping from the corner of his sleeve. His expression was blank.

"No problem," he said.

Eidolon floated a little closer.

"With you and Alexandria on the front line," he said, "we might actually have a shot at containing this." A beat. "What's your name?"

The man opened his mouth to answer—

But another voice cut in.

"Saitama, right?"

Legend touched down beside them, light still pulsing faintly from his shoulders. The air around him shimmered with residual heat and ozone, the aftermath of his last barrage.

"Oh, yeah." Saitama nodded. For a brief second, something like concern flickered across his face, a slight wrinkle of his brow, almost lost in the rain.

"Actually, I've been meaning to ask—" he began, glancing between them, raising a hand.

A metallic shriek tore through the sky, cutting across the rain and drowning out Saitama's words.

An instant later, Dragon's newest combat rig dropped into the flooded street, slamming down with a splash. Water exploded outward in every direction, drenching nearby capes.

The machine was a quadrupedal, bus-sized hulk of sleek black-and-silver plating. The rear thruster at it's back hissed as it powered down, venting steam in the cold air. Missile pods unfolded from each shoulder.

Dragon's accented voice snapped through the loud speakers on the mech:

"Something's wrong. I've lost contact with Leviathan on my probes. No pings."

Saitama lowered his hand slowly. "Wait, that's it? But we were just getting started."

Eidolon clicked his tongue, hovering higher. "Too much to hope he'd wait for us."

Legend's tone sharpened, switching gears. "Reposition immediately. This changes things. We have another brute on the field who can withstand Leviathan. Dragon, I want recon. Find him fast, I don't want him using this as a chance to break farther into the city toward the aquifer grid or the shelters."

Saitama formed a T with his hands. "Uh, time out," he said, voice cutting through the bustle of shouted orders.

He gestured vaguely toward a cluster of nearby capes.

Some were lean and slight: teenagers, clearly, going by their builds and the awkward way a few of them held themselves. He recognized a couple of them. Vista and Gallant were the names that came to mind. They were in posters, plastered over bus stops and vending machines, "heroes of tomorrow" or something like that. Another was named Argent or Agent or something of the sort, a brute if he recalled correctly. There were others, too, but he couldn't place their names at all.

"Aren't they supposed to be in school or something?" Saitama asked, irritation coloring his voice. "This is kinda… a lot."

He waved at the drowned streets, water still lapping at the half-submerged cars, and the dead and injured.

Before anyone could answer, a harsh crackle cut through the air from the loud speakers on the giant mech.

Dragon's voice returned, louder, more strained. "I've lost all contact with the buoys near the Protectorate HQ. Seismic surge detected. Significant ground displacement." A beat. "There's another wave incoming."

The street froze. Heads turned as one toward the coastline. Someone backed up without realizing it, boots slipping in the water.

Then came the sound.

It started low. A slow, monstrous rumble that grew and grew.

Eidolon shot into the air, trailing mist. His eyes swept the skyline, scanning beyond the cranes and office towers.

And then he saw it. A wall of water. This wasn't a crest rolling gently in from the sea. This was a moving cliffside.

Cars spun end over end in front of it like kicked cans. Trees cracked in half and were swallowed whole. The glass façades of buildings exploded outward in great shimmering bursts, glittering in the darkness of the dawn.

"Eidolon?" Alexandria's voice crackled over the comms. She was already airborne, cradling two bloodied, groaning capes. "Can you stop it?"

"Maybe," he said, hesitantly. "But I'll need time."

She nodded, then—

"All movers," she barked, amplifying the command. "Pull evac priority! If they can't run, lift them. Teleporters, triage by injury and proximity to the impact. No wasted trips. Dragon, rally point!"

"Uploading now," Dragon responded from her mechanized platform. "Rooftop, four blocks east. Tallest structure that has the highest chance of surviving intact. I'm launching signal flares."

A pair of golden streamers ignited high above the skyline, flickering in the dusk.

"Everyone move!"

Capes surged into motion. Runners dashed through waterlogged streets. Fliers lifted the injured into the air. Teleporters blinked in and out of existence, taking two, three people at a time. The comms channels buzzed with frantic orders, overlapping voices, bursts of static, and screams.

Over it all, louder with every heartbeat, came the deep roar of an onrushing tidal wave.

Above the chaos, Eidolon hovered, eyes narrowed in concentration. A bead of sweat ran down his brow. His cape fluttered in the growing wind as he cycled through powers, rejecting each offering from his passenger.

Disintegration beam—too risky. Gone.

Super speed—useless without a pairing ability. Gone.

Telekinesis—too weak at this scale. Discarded.

His passenger offered up a suite of elemental options, but Eidolon dismissed them with bitter experience. Ice? Only if he was desperate. He still remembered the last time, how a tinker's frozen dam had turned to shrapnel under Leviathan's waves, killing more allies than it saved.

Below, the street was alive with desperate preparation.

Kaiser, one of the local villains, stood at the intersection, arms raised. Shards of steel burst from the asphalt, slotting together into jagged walls. At first, they were crude blades jutting every which way, but then he adjusted, slowing to form interlocking girders, thick beams reinforcing the barrier's spine. Another cape, a telekinetic, floated debris into place with raw, buzzing energy, shaping the wreckage into ad-hoc barricades and break waters. Armsmaster shot a grappling hook around several of the barricades, freezing the structures in time.

Further down the road, brutes hauled abandoned cars sideways, stacking them into uneven barricades. A cape with plant control tried to grow a thicket of vines from cracks in the pavement, roots groping desperately for purchase in the concrete jungle. A tinker shouted for help, her drones sparking as they tried to fuse scrap into anchors. Time was too short.

Eidolon's frustration mounted. His fingers twitched.

Too slow. Too weak. Too niche.

His passenger scraped the depths of the well, returning with a compromise: a kinetic barrier with a limited area. Mediocre all things considered. But maybe, just maybe, it would deflect enough of the energy to save whoever couldn't make it out below.

He locked it in.

The wave crested a block away, surging over a row of brownstones and swallowing storefronts in an instant. Entire traffic lights and signs were carried in its maw.

Alexandria blurred across the street, her cape snapping behind her. She clutched three capes, one screaming, hauling them toward higher ground. The water chased her as she sped away.

Eidolon raised his hand.

His barrier unfurled in front of the line, translucent and shimmering, a domed wall. Below, dozens of capes still stood. Not enough had made it out.

The tidal wave's impact was instant. The force punched the air from Eidolon's lungs from the feedback tied to the ability. His barrier held, barely, but cracks bloomed across it.

He gritted his teeth, severed the reflex enhancer power, and accepted the next offering: a high-efficiency ability booster. The barrier pulsed, cracks vanishing, as the tidal wave tried to peel it apart.

He couldn't hold it long. Not without letting others down elsewhere.

Below, a flier screamed overhead as a blade of water caught them mid-air and hurled them against a building. His armband gave a tinny voice in response.

Beyond the edge of the shield, something moved. A long, sinuous shape.

Then glowing, asymmetrical eyes pierced the torrent.

Leviathan.

The Endbringer lunged forward like a missile, and the barrier shattered on impact. Steel bent. Roads tore. Then Eidolon's world inverted as the edges of the water reached him.

He dropped the kinetic shield and begged his passenger for something—anything—else. It gave him some kind of invulnerability, milliseconds before the wave swallowed him whole.

Eidolon's helmet rattled, the reinforced plating grinding against his temples. His hood snapped back with the sudden drag, and his cape was yanked away—caught and shredded on a jagged piece of twisted rebar jutting from the bent skeleton of a collapsed streetlight. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine layered over the dull roar of water and falling concrete.

He tumbled in the current, spinning end over end. Murky debris scraped past, which included glass, steel, and chunks of red brick. He focused through the haze and activated his three-dimensional movement ability, stabilizing himself in the dense water. Not all invulnerability powers were made the same, but his had thankfully held.

Scattered through the submerged streets, he glimpsed faint, flickering, glowing bubbles. Emergency barriers, half-powered shields, and personal forcefields that were still holding on. Inside, he could see silhouettes of capes huddled together.

Then, he saw a deep green motion in the water.

Eidolon's attention sharpened as he caught it again: a sleek, sinuous blur slicing in his field of vision faster than his eyes could directly follow, heading directly for the clusters of shielded survivors.

A streak of yellow tore through the water. The trail that was left in the wake collapsed in itself. The brute and speedster from before, Saitama.

With casual ease, he reached out, one hand closing around Leviathan's retreating tail. In an instant, the Endbringer's momentum snapped taut like a cable gone rigid. The monster's sleek, armored body bowed from the whiplash, the force sending shockwaves through the water. For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The current churned, but the beast did not move forward.

Then Leviathan twisted, slashing backward with claws that had split destroyers in half, ripped concrete bunkers apart, and shredded tank columns like tinfoil.

Eidolon winced, despite the invulnerability wrapped tight around his body. Even through the buffering, the sound cut sharp into his skull. He hovered in the dense murk, eyes narrowing behind his cracked visor.

Leviathan's claws raked across Saitama's face. There was no blood. Not even a mark from what he could see.

Not like the hundreds—thousands—who had already bled and died beneath those very same claws.

Saitama blinked, cheeks puffed with the breath he still held.

Leviathan thrashed again, slicing through the water and pelting the other brute in blows. Still, Saitama's grip on its tail didn't falter. If anything, it only tightened judging by the growing mist of ichor.

The monster noticed it's own blood spreading and shifted tactics.

Though the worst of the floodwater had begun to drain through shattered sewer lines and broken avenues, a fresh cloud of silt, shattered glass, and pulverized concrete erupted upward. The Endbringer's thrashing stirred it into a thick veil, obscuring everything. The world narrowed to darkness and flickering outlines. Visibility dropped to almost zero.

Then Leviathan lunged sideways, coiling its massive form around the crumbling husk of a half-destroyed office tower. Its claws dug deep. Steel screeched. The beast braced its body, and then it began to slam its tail again and again against the concrete, using Saitama like a flail.

Each impact vibrated through the street like an earthquake. Chunks of stone collapsed in slow motion and rebar bent and snapped. The flashes of yellow through the murk came again and again—Saitama, still in its grip. Annoyance flickered across the man's face, and with a sudden tug, he yanked hard.

And then the building broke.

Stone sheared. Steel tendons snapped. The entire structure collapsed inward like a dying lung, and Leviathan was torn free.

Its massive, sinuous, body was flung helpless end over end in the water like a child's discarded toy.

Even Alexandria, for all her raw might, couldn't have withstood that kind of close-quarters thrashing, especially not underwater. She would've been forced to disengage, retreat to air, or risk being dragged under and drowned like so many others. Eidolon had seen it before. Over and over again.

Leviathan breached the surface, claws raking deep gouges into the sides of buildings as it tried to kill its own momentum. Showers of pulverized concrete pelted the waters along with the downpour of rain as it used the last of the speed to help it bound from façade to façade, escaping.

But it was not alone.

Alexandria streaked overhead, a blur of silver and shadow. Beside her, Dragon's suit roared through the air, thruster glowing. And behind them came the others. Legend with Laserdream, Lady Photon, and a half-dozen other aerial capes keeping formation and pelting the monster with beams of colored light or fast moving projectiles. One of Dragon's missiles joined the onslaught, destroying one of the sides of the buildings before Leviathan could use it as a spring board, and the beast fell into the streets below.

Eidolon floated for a few seconds longer.

Ten minutes, maybe less, he thought, before the ocean returned with another strike.

Then he dove.

The cold was really starting to bite. He slowed, scanned, and found the figure where the last of the flood still pooled.

The bald man, legs half-buried in a tangle of rubble and drift, was upright, unmoving, but perfectly fine. As if Leviathan had never rag-dolled him. Eidolon seized him under the arms and heaved.

Together, they rose into the air and arced to a relatively intact rooftop nearby, one already crowded with survivors.

The moment their boots hit the rooftop, heads turned.

Capes. Medics. Shell-shocked survivors. A handful of civilians who'd somehow endured the flood. All of them were soaked, bruised, streaked with blood and grime, faces hollowed by exhaustion. Their gazes locked onto the two figures now standing before them.

Eidolon, ragged, his cape torn and visor cracked.

And beside him, Saitama, bald, blank-faced, dripping rainwater like he'd just stepped out of a lukewarm shower fully dressed.

Across the skyline, Myrddin stood with arms raised on another rooftop, his cloak flapping in the wind. He channeled his passenger's power upward and outward, collecting the remaining seawater into a glowing sphere.

With a flick of his hands, the orb twisted, compressed, and then launched over the rooftops in a glistening arc, back toward the bay.

Relief swept through the street below. Barriers flickered off with a quiet hum, one by one. Broken forcefields dimmed and vanished. The battered survivors finally drew a full breath. Teleporters soon brought in stretchers. Someone cheered faintly.

Eidolon turned to Saitama.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Hm? Yeah," the bald man said, shrugging. He tilted his head, sticking a pinky in his ear and rotating it lazily. "Just got water in my ear. Hate that feeling."

In his other hand, almost like an afterthought, Saitama still held the severed piece of Leviathan's tail.

It hung limp and heavy. Steam curled from the stump where it had been torn free, and thick, oily ichor dripped down to the rooftop, mixing with the heavy rain in pools.

Eidolon—no, David, the man beneath the mask—just stared.

What… is this? He thought.

After all these years—Behemoth in New York, the Simurgh over Ottawa, Leviathan in city after drowning city—he had seen many things. But never a man holding a piece of an Endbringer like it was a bag of groceries.

"I heard lizards drop their tails when they're scared," Saitama said, holding up the massive appendage and turning it in his hand. He sounded mildly inconvenienced by the discovery. "Kinda smart, actually."

Eidolon blinked, caught off-guard by the utter casualness. "I… don't think that's quite how Leviathan works."

Saitama shrugged. "Could've fooled me."

Then, without ceremony, he lobbed the tail section over his shoulder.

It spun once in the air and dropped with a wet splat in the street below, knocking over a crooked parking sign with a hollow metallic clank.

Eidolon exhaled slowly. His voice was dry, unlike the rest of him. "Come on. We can't let Leviathan get away."

Saitama opened his mouth to reply—

"Wait! Wait!"

They turned as a teenage girl in purple limped into view from the stairwell door. Her blonde hair clung to her cheeks, and rain ran in streaks down her bruised face. She wasn't familiar, not to Eidolon, at least. Not a Wards member he could recall, and not one of the locals from Brockton Bay's roster.

Her voice cracked as she shoved a hand into the air.

"I have something to say! And this guy—" she stabbed a finger toward Saitama, "—doesn't have an armband, so I can't route a message!"

Eidolon turned, scowling. Off in the distance, he could already hear the low, rhythmic thoom of distant detonations. Legend, Alexandria, the others were still buying time.

"Then make it fast," he snapped. "We don't have—"

"Okay, okay, sheesh!" the girl cut him off. Her eyes narrowed as she locked onto Saitama.

She raised her hand again, and pointed.

"You."

Saitama blinked, then glanced over his shoulder, confused.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, baldy," the girl said, visibly frustrated. "I don't know what your problem is, or why your power keeps messing with mine, but stop holding back."

Chapter Text

The streets below were drowned, dark canals winding between buildings, water lapping at shattered windows and half-submerged cars. Planks, toys, and even a bicycle wheel drifted in the currents. The sun should've been climbing somewhere behind the storm front, but the sky was choked with smoke, rain, and mist, casting everything in shadow. It was hard to believe that this broken place was still home to almost four hundred thousand people. She wondered whether Brockton Bay would ever get the chance to recover. Whether it even could.

Tattletale felt the telekinetic bubble drop as her feet touched down on the elevated highway ramp. The air here smelled like wet garbage and gasoline. Around her, one of the hastily assembled triage hubs buzzed with motion. These setups were standard in every Endbringer engagement. Well, every engagement except Simurgh zones. People didn't set up anything permanent when she was involved, except walls. Here, though, the goal was clear: gather the wounded, stabilize them, and get them moving to the more substantial field hospitals.

Whenever possible, existing infrastructure, like hospitals, schools, government buildings, was repurposed into triage camps or command centers. It made logistical sense. But over the years, a pattern had emerged. Endbringers had a knack for leveling familiar landmarks first. Too predictable. Too vulnerable. So the Protectorate, the PRT, or whatever authority was in charge at the time learned to adapt. They began setting up their own facilities wherever they could fit them. No fixed patterns. No obvious targets. Harder to find. Harder to destroy.

Government-affiliated medics and city crews moved with urgency, weaving through the pathways between tents and rubble. They didn't so much as stumble at their arrival. Civilians and capes alike were treated as they came in, triaged under tarps strung between lamp posts and cars. Steam hissed from portable generators, blending with the mist as stretchers were picked up or dropped off.

Civilians who hadn't reached the shelters, but could still move, were given tasks. Anything to keep their hands busy and their minds from spiraling. Some handed out ration bars and bottled water. Others braced stretchers or anchored flapping tarps against the relentless wind. Bandages bloomed crimson across torsos, limbs, and faces. IV lines hung from whatever was available, including exposed rebar, swaying like wind chimes.

Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed. Closer, a generator kicked to life with a mechanical growl, nearly drowning the sobbing of one of the nurses.

Tattletale passed a brute in a dented metal harness, unconscious, his lower half wrapped in thick gauze, blood soaking through at the seams. Nearby, a cape in a tattered cloak coughed violently into a respirator mask while a medic checked his neck brace. His armor was charred somehow, and bits of ceramic plating had been sheared off clean. Another cape, her gloves scorched and melted at the fingertips, sat upright on a stretcher with a shock blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking.

Triumph, the newest member of the local Protectorate team, lay on a backboard. His left boot was missing and his body was tense with pain as a field doctor worked to stabilize what looked like a compound fracture in his leg. The cape next to him was wrapped in thermal blankets. Her lips were blue. Hypothermia, maybe. She clutched a busted harpoon launcher against her chest like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.

What capes there were had their identities concealed, of course. She figured it was only a matter of time before the government corralled them into a single, secured area. It was easier to manage, and easier to keep the truth of the battle contained.

To her mild surprise, there were just as many animals as people present.

Scores of dogs and cats peeked out from beneath cars; a few even clutched protectively in the arms of evacuees. There was a raccoon huddled under the axle of an overturned van. A pair of chickens were perched atop a plastic crate underneath a tarp, while someone nearby tossed them pieces of a granola bar. Off to one side, corralled with a length of wire fencing and a couple of plastic poles, a pig snorted as it rooted through the piles of washed up garbage.

If she was being honest with herself, Tattletale wasn't particularly moved by any of it.

This was the natural consequence of the Endbringers. Cities broke. People and animals died. What could she do about it? Ask them to leave nicely? They were as routine as the turning of the seasons now, and she'd long since developed a stomach for violence in her line of work as a villain anyway.

Tattletale took a slow breath. She realized she was getting cold.

They came to a halt beside the concrete barricade as Eidolon patched through a message on his armband. Dragon's suit lay in ruin nearby, torn in half. The lower section was sprawled across the flooded street below, half-submerged, its severed servos still twitching in erratic spasms. The upper half had been hurled into the overpass itself, wedged into the concrete like a spearhead. Already, the severed components were breaking down from the inside, dissolving. Her power helped her come to a conclusion. It was a self-destruct protocol, built in by Dragon to ensure her tech couldn't be salvaged or reverse-engineered.

Tattletale didn't spare the shattered mech a second glance, smothering the flicker of disappointment. It wasn't about the famous tinker as she'd already known Dragon didn't pilot her stuff in person. She was disappointed at the missed chance to snag a piece of tech. If she didn't keep it for herself, she might have been able to make some easy, albeit dirty, cash. Tinker tech was worth more than its weight in gold, after all, and twice that when you knew how to fence it.

Overhead, a handful of fliers carried wounded capes away on stretchers wrapped in tarp and tied with straps, veering west, away from the ocean and the surging floodwaters behind it.

Ahead of her, alongside Eidolon and Saitama, a sudden flare of light illuminated the camp. Two capes appeared out of nowhere, their eyes scanning the field. Each moved without a word, seizing the most critically injured nearby. In the blink of an eye, one disappeared in a flash of light, the other dissolved like mist in the wind, taking a handful of the wounded capes with them. Saitama watched them go, head tilted slightly, then turned his gaze to the wreckage slowly dissolving under the rain. His eyes tracked the rows of tents, the stretchers lining the pavement, the wounded groaning as medics and civilians moved around them.

His expression changed.

The casual detachment he carried faded. His brow creased.

Well, guess there's something bouncing around in that shiny head after all, Tattletale thought, schooling her face into a look of casual disinterest as Eidolon turned around.

"You'll get your shot," Eidolon said, voice clipped as he finished the brief exchange on his armband. He gave Saitama a measured look. "After that, we regroup and refocus the resistance"

She raised an eyebrow. Someone's angry.

Tattletale was still rationing her power, saving as much as possible for Leviathan. But Eidolon? He was too important a piece on the board to ignore. Even if she didn't get a thorough analysis on him, it was worth prodding for surface-level reads. She'd been in the game long enough to know when to trust instinct, lean on experience, and let deduction do the heavy lifting. Like stretching the flour in a recipe, she could conserve the real ingredients by knowing what parts to substitute. Hold back her power until it actually mattered, without frying her brain or wrecking her kidneys from painkillers in the process.

For starters, the irritation wasn't aimed at her. That much was obvious. He barely acknowledged her presence.

Saitama had built a sliver of rapport with Eidolon back at the last battle. If it hadn't meant something, Eidolon would've flown off the moment Leviathan retreated or sent someone else. But he hadn't. Saitama had left enough of an impression that he'd personally gone to retrieve the bald cape. But no, that wasn't what shifted things. As usual, it happened the moment she said something she shouldn't have.

When Eidolon realized the bald cape was holding back, something fundamental shifted in him.

Was that it, then?

The notion that someone could hold back at a time like this, because they had that much power to spare?

Was this an honor thing?

Eidolon definitely had that distant, mythic vibe going for him. Like some wandering knight pulled from an ancient epic. The way he carried himself, the calm restraint, the sheer presence. Talk shows loved to point out how quiet he was, how composed.

Yeah… it tracked.

One of the top ten strongest capes alive, no question. Maybe even top five, depending on which list you looked at and who was doing the ranking. Scion, Behemoth, Leviathan, and the Simurgh were automatic entries. After that, it was a mix of global S-class threats and powerhouses.

Eidolon had to be on that list. After all, he was one of the names most often credited with the rare "victories" against Endbringers, or what the news liked to spin them as.

Huh.

That thought gave her pause. When was the last time he'd actually scored a confirmed win against one of them?

She cracked the faucet on her power, just enough to let it trickle through.

Eidolon's victories have tapered off; Endbringers remain just as powerful. Avoids speaking on his powers during interviews. Eidolon's interviews have tapered off. His power is waning.

Her brows knit together. If she was being honest, she didn't want to know that. The world was already bleak enough without learning that one of its strongest warriors was over the hill.

With that knowledge, and everything she'd already pieced together, she had the skeleton of a rough profile. The aloofness, the flashes of anger, the carefully cultivated image he'd maintained over the years. The need to be seen as something unshakable.

She tested things again.

Stilted in conversation. Keeps people at arm's length. Few personal connections. No known family. Gave all that up. Sacrificed it willingly. For what? Careful about his presentation in public. Wants to leave something behind. A legacy. Proof he mattered. Still searching for a worthy fight. Chasing something he lost. Seeks challenges to tap into lost powers. The feeling of being limitless.

She saw it clearly now. For a man who'd sacrificed everything, who'd forged himself into a living symbol of strength, it had to be a bitter pill to swallow being outshone.

Worse yet, the one eclipsing him wasn't even trying… and looked like a walking billboard for staying in school too.

That's what's pulling at him, she thought.

Watching his own flame waver beneath the glow of a brighter, steadier light.

Yikes! That was heavy.

That old snake Coil was going to devour this.

A streak of light tore across the sky and touched down on the rooftop in a sharp arc. Legend landed hard, boots skidding slightly on the slick concrete. He was streaked with soot, and there were distinct smears of red along his collarbone and jaw. Blood trickled from one nostril.

"Alexandria, Armsmaster, and whatever capes we could scrape together on the way are buying us time," he said without preamble. His breath coming in short, shallow pulls. "We brought down a few buildings to force a chokepoint near the waterfront. It's bottlenecked Leviathan, slowed him down… but it won't hold much longer."

He turned to Saitama, gaze searching.

"If you can do more damage… it might be enough to force an early retreat. He's taken so many hits, he has to be close to cutting his losses," Legend said.

Saitama blinked. "Retreat?"

His brow creased. For someone who'd just been flinging an Endbringer around like a pancake, he came off… almost cartoonishly simple. He glanced around, taking in the shattered buildings, the flooded streets, and what, just minutes ago, had been one of the most advanced pieces of tech on the planet, now reduced to a sad slurry as it mixed in with the floodwaters.

"Why not just finish it here?" he asked, tone casual. "You said this kind of thing's been going on for a while, right?"

Tattletale's eyes narrowed, studying him, scanning for anything that would suggest he wasn't being dead serious.

Nothing.

Oh, cripes. He's dead serious.

Talk about giving brutes a bad name.

Problem? Smash.

Bad thing? Punch it.

Maybe she's been a little too harsh on Glory Girl. After all, there's something to be said for the enemy you know.

She recalled the first read she'd made of him right after he tore open Leviathan's chest.

Young; mid-twenties. But completely bald. Not genetic. It irritates him; not a choice. An ordinary man. No powers.

She would have shaved her own head then and there if this man truly had no powers; a man who should have been reduced to paste at least five times over in the past hour alone.

A liar, her power had concluded. Fraud. Faker.

Yeah, not a chance.

Athletic build; trains regularly. Strong. No powers.

It was like watching someone juggle bowling pins flawlessly, then suddenly fumble, sending them all crashing down. Only, the pins were crashing down on her head.

Her power had never been this far off on surface-level deductions, not even when facing other thinkers or high-tier stranger interference. There was always some kind of tell.

She figured it must be some obscure stranger effect, like the kind Nice Guy's power caused. But instead of making him seem harmless, this one just made the guy get read as painfully ordinary.

Whatever the reason, she'd had to shift tactics. Instead of zeroing in on him directly, she reframed her deductions around what he influenced, and who Saitama was as a person. It was like studying a footprint pressed into wet cement rather than chasing the boot that made it.

Even that felt like pushing against a wall that wasn't supposed to be there. But it was enough for her to piece together one crucial truth: Saitama was holding back, even when he had a clear opportunity to deal Leviathan heavy damage. He confirmed it later, when she caught up to him just as he was about to leave with Eidolon. She had convinced the famous cape in green that her power could be useful, which was part of why she insisted on coming along.

The other reason was far more personal: the evacuation zone, where the capes were regrouping after the massive tidal wave hit, included Taylor. Driven by a need to feel validated and useful, Taylor would almost certainly find herself close to the fight against Leviathan, despite having no good reason to be there. She had a strange way of convincing herself she wasn't in danger… by repeatedly placing herself directly in danger.

Eidolon said nothing, standing with his arms crossed. Saitama's question, "Why not just finish it?" only seemed to make him more standoffish.

Legend blinked, trying to make sense of the words.

"I… don't know if that is even possible," he admitted, voice tight. "It is not like we haven't already tried."

Frustration crept into his tone, the anger of one of the world's greatest blasters washing over Saitama like a breeze. Saitama remained unmoved.

Eidolon's shoulders tightened, irritation flickering in his voice.

"If you can do it, then do it," he said quietly, but firmly.

Saitama gave a small nod, unfazed. "Alright. I'll give it a shot."

Experienced. And bored. A fighter who's been through countless life-or-death battles. They're no longer a challenge. Seeks a challenge.

The most consistent pattern she'd noticed was that her power worked better when she wasn't actively trying to analyze his abilities. The less direct her focus, the clearer the deductions.

"I think I've fought stronger than him anyway, so it shouldn't be too bad," Saitama said casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

She wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a joke.

Eidolon let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, and I've got a bridge to sell you in Houston. You're not the first to make that claim, and the Endbringers are still here."

Saitama looked the man where his eyes might be behind the mask. "Okay. Which way's the monster then?"

"Let me come too," Tattletale said, stepping forward before Legend could get a word out, one hand raised halfway.

Legend turned toward her, his head tilting slightly, just enough to suggest a raised brow. Like he'd only just remembered she'd been standing there this whole time.

"And why exactly should we?" he asked.

"Her power," Eidolon said before she could answer, his gaze fixed eastward toward the roiling coastline. "She gave me the rundown earlier. Claims she can get a read on Leviathan. That's rare. You know how thinker abilities usually scramble around Endbringers. But if what she says holds up, we might get something useful out of it."

Eidolon hesitated, his shoulders tightening.

"I'll head to the coastline. The next wave's closing in. If I can hold it off, maybe we keep the civilian casualties down."

An explosion tore through the air. Dust and debris erupted from a distant intersection, sending a plume soaring above the rooftops of brick buildings. Farther off, a slender phone tower crumpled and fell.

The four of them turned to look. Nearby, even the medics and patients on stretchers paused and glanced up.

Seconds later, the armbands came alive, listing off names. Cloister. The Dart. Runecaster, Bastion. Geomancer. Alexandria. All of them dead or down.

The faint creak of stretched rubber echoed as Saitama said, "Looks like it's time to go."

Legend shot a quick glance at Tattletale before turning his gaze toward the distant battle. He hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

"Fine. But stay back. If Leviathan gets close, you pull out. No heroics," he said.

"Already on it, pal," Tattletale replied with a sharp salute, then faltered into a sheepish shrug. "So, uh… anyone up for giving me a ride?" She tried to keep it casual, but the awkwardness bled through her voice.

"No need," came a voice from behind. "I've been waiting for you guys to finish up. I'm your ride."

Strider stepped into view, every inch the overworked gopher Tattletale remembered. His cap was gone, exposing matted hair, and his were shoulders slumped. He looked even more worn than after the last teleport. If she remembered correctly, he was a recent addition to the PRT. New blood, drafted in as emergency support.

And now they were running him like a rented mule. Sheesh. The PRT sure knew how to squeeze every drop out of a new contract. Talk about getting their money's worth.

Still, he gave a curt nod, ready for another jump.

Eidolon hovered just above the ground. "I'll hold back as much water as I can. But once Leviathan senses a crack, he'll bolt."

He paused, as if weighing the words.

"If you can hurt him badly… then do it."

Without waiting for a reply, he rose silently into the air and headed east toward the ocean's edge.

Strider, sensing the moment had passed, gave a quick thumbs-up, and then the world snapped sideways. When it settled, they were somewhere near the bay. Close enough to make out the distant crashing surf over the heavy rain. The docks were a few blocks over. A red-brick bank stood on the corner, familiar in shape but not the one she and her team had hit with Taylor.

Streetlights leaned at awkward angles or had been torn away completely. Deep gouges marred the building walls, and every window below the second floor was shattered.

Strider didn't linger. he gave a quick nod and disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared.

"That's pretty cool," Saitama remarked, glancing back at the spot where Strider had vanished. Then he shifted his gaze to the streets around them. "Any people still around here?"

"This section was already evacuated," Legend replied, "They turned it into a buffer zone once we forced Leviathan this way. Anyone who was still here ran the moment the fighting reached this far."

"Got it," Saitama said with a nod, clenching one fist over his open palm. "I'll aim for the ocean anyway, just in case."

Legend seemed momentarily thrown by the phrasing. "Aim?" He repeated.

Ahead of them, the battle was still in full swing. Leviathan's massive form ducked and weaved through the ruined street as fewer than two dozen capes worked to hold him back. It was a sharp contrast to the nearly two hundred capes who had gathered before the monster had arrived. The brutal pace had worn them down, and now only a handful of reinforcements were trickling in to hold the line.

Leviathan's body was a mess of deep gouges, his dark blood leaking from torn muscle and split scaly skin. At the front of the fight, Armsmaster moved like a machine, twin halberds flashing in tight arcs. One trailed a strange mist, and each swing tore deep into the Endbringer's flesh. But even his most punishing blows couldn't compare to the damage Saitama had already dealt. The other capes had managed to make the massive wound deeper. Nothing else came close, except for the neat hole punched clean through Leviathan's shoulder.

When the Endbringer struck back, Armsmaster grunted and let go of one of his halberds, sacrificing it to absorb the impact of a blow that might have cleaved him in half. The weapon shattered into pieces, metal fragments spinning through the air. He kicked off the ground in a tight, one-handed handspring just as the water echo surged in, flooding the space he'd occupied a heartbeat earlier. He landed hard, skidding on the wet asphalt, but stayed upright, his remaining halberd still clutched tight in his grip. His mouth was set in a grim line.

From behind a crumbling wall, a girl from out of town raised her crossbow and fired. The black bolt flew fast and true, aimed perfectly at Leviathan's blindside. But the Endbringer turned at the last second, letting Armsmaster's blade slice deep into its leg just to snatch the bolt from the air.

Three of its four eyes were already ruined.

So how had it seen that coming? Sound? Something else?

The shot came from a dead angle. Sound drowned by rain. Its eyes aren't primary sensory organs. They've been destroyed before. Shattered, gouged out. No loss in awareness. They don't see. They never did.

What?

In one smooth motion, Leviathan flung the bolt back like a dart, a blur in his massive hand.

The girl froze, too slow to react.

Saitama was already there. His white cape snapped in the wind, still catching up to the speed he'd moved with. Tattletale blinked, momentarily thinking he'd split in two, until she noticed the space beside her was suddenly empty. She hadn't seen him go.

And she wasn't the only one. Legend hovered midair, arm half-raised, his laser flickering out as he registered there was no longer anything to intercept.

Saitama caught the bolt inches from his face, fist closing around it with a faint sizzle as the friction melted the rubber of his glove. The momentum stopped instantly. He gave a slight squeeze, and the shaft snapped clean in two.

"You should probably head out," he said, glancing over his shoulder.

The teenager gave a quick nod, nervous and shaky, then stumbled back behind cover and out of sight.

Seizing the moment, nearby capes let loose with everything: concrete slabs, laser blasts, arcs of green fire all pummeling Leviathan's exposed back. Armsmaster slipped behind its legs and slashed low, his blade biting into where the hamstrings should have been. Leviathan stumbled forward, but did not fall.

Above, a flier screamed in panic as Leviathan's claw suddenly shot up and snatched the edge of their cape mid-flight. The monster raised its claws aiming to slash the flier in two.

But a yellow blur cut through the air. With a sharp crack, Saitama's backhand met Leviathan's strike, unshaken. The blow staggered the Endbringer back a step, its massive feet gouging deep furrows. Water from Leviathan's echo spilled out, pooling in the cut asphalt.

The flier wasted no time, wrenching free and shooting upward to safety.

Armsmaster moved into position behind Leviathan, his blue and white armor battered and scratched, with a cracked visor at one corner. Rain ran in thin streams over his reinforced suit, while his remaining halberd hummed softly with faint energy.

Halberd reduces matter to dust. Same effect as Eidolon's beam attack from last battle. Molecular damage. Bonds between atoms severed.

Armsmaster had brought out a weapon that worked like a high-tech eraser, wiping out anything it touched with quiet efficiency. Tattletale watched, uneasy but grateful her team had never rated high enough to see that kind of firepower aimed their way.

"Glad to have you back," Armsmaster said, voice steady despite the damage to his combat suit.

Leviathan hunched low, head tilted, its one remaining eye fixed on the bald man standing still beneath the rain. Saitama's face, usually unreadable, was set in a rare, serious expression.

Then, with a sudden surge, Leviathan lunged, narrowly dodging Armsmaster's trailing strike. Its clawed hands snapped shut around Saitama's forearm, and without a sound, it swung him overhead, slamming him into the nearby bank.

The supports gave way beneath the impact, collapsing in a shower of concrete, rebar, and twisted steel beams.

Dust exploded outward, instantly swallowed by the relentless downpour.

The mound of debris twitched, then toppled over.

Saitama rose, brushing off a twisted length of rebar clinging to his shoulder.

Leviathan surged forward, claws raking the flooded street as it lunged to evade Armsmaster's grappling hook. Projectiles came at it from every angle, the water echo taking the brunt and vaporizing into steam with each strike. Only Legend's beams bent sharply, striking Leviathan near the abdomen, but he paid them no mind. Suddenly, Leviathan halted. The surge of water behind him kept its momentum, barreling toward Saitama. Shouts to dodge rang out. The cascade slammed into him, yet he didn't budge.

Instead of washing past him, the water echo wrapped around his body, clinging tight. It formed a bubble that grew in the rain.

Saitama moved his arms experimentally, this way, then that way, but the water tracked with him, as if magnetized to his presence.

Leviathan grabbed a light post and crushed one end into a rough point. He raised it like a spear, aiming toward Saitama in the bubble.

Legend flew in from the side and fired a quick burst of lasers. The makeshift weapon melted under the heat, dripping into the wet pavement with a sharp hiss.

Leviathan snapped his tail toward Legend, the motion sharp and fast. But the hero veered away just in time. The shortened limb and trailing water echo sliced through empty air. Legend was already retreating, keeping well out of reach.

What is he doing? Tattletale ducked lower behind the rubble.

Inside the hovering bubble of water, Saitama tried walking forward. The sphere moved with him, seamless, like it was anchored to him.

Then he stopped. He raised both red-gloved hands. And clapped.

The water shell burst like a popped balloon, blasting out in all directions. Pavement buckled beneath the force. For a moment, the rain itself paused. Then it came back heavy and relentless, and the floodwaters rushed in to reclaim the crater.

Nearby capes were tossed to the ground; some slammed hard while others slipped and tumbled in the rising water. Fliers caught in the blast jerked upward, fighting the recoil to regain control. Tattletale winced as the sharp spray stung her skin and raised an arm to shield her face.

When she lowered her arm, Tattletale saw a figure struggling through the water, crouched beside someone sprawled on the ground. The second cape looked up just as Tattletale regained her balance, their voice breaking through the chaos before she could speak.

"Tattletale…"

Lisa's eyes widened in shock. She stumbled, slipping on the wet pavement as she hurried past the capes regrouping nearby.

Skitter.

No—Taylor.

The girl pushed herself up slowly from beside the twisted shell of an overturned security truck, one hand braced against the metal for support. A door hung ajar, revealing several injured capes crumpled inside. Taylor's hands were slick with blood, and a streak of vomit stained the side of her mask. Tattletale rushed over and dropped into a crouch beside her.

"Skitter," Lisa said, scanning quickly for injuries Taylor might hide. "You keep throwing yourself into these messes," she muttered, her voice tight with both frustration and worry.

"Yeah…" Taylor replied quietly, her voice tired and worn. "Tattletale, you're here too."

Tattletale gave a half-shrug, forcing a lopsided smile. "Yeah, well. Someone's gotta be the sensible one. What else are friends for, right?"

Before Taylor could answer, Saitama's voice carried through the steady patter. Lisa lifted her head, eyes wide.

"Consecutive normal punches."

Saitama said calmly, standing squarely before Leviathan. He barely reached a fifth of the towering beast's height, his left fist drawn back. From afar, it looked as if the Endbringer could swallow him whole. Leviathan hunched forward, preparing to strike.

Saitama's arm was already moving. It had already moved before her eyes could follow. The blows landed in rapid succession, each impact echoing like firecrackers if those firecrackers were cannons.

When Tattletale finally pushed herself upright, heart hammering, she swiped the water from her eyes with a trembling hand.

Am I dead?

The thought came to her, clear and honest, and for a moment, she genuinely wasn't sure.

When she lifted her head from the crook of her elbow, Leviathan was gone. Around them, capes struggled to their feet, still shaken and unsteady.

Most unsettling of all was the sudden stillness. The rain had stopped again.

Tattletale looked up, blinking through the lingering mist. The clouds had been pushed outward like a ring, the sky above the bay now cracked open. Pale gold and silver light spilled across the water as dawn began to break.

Far off, car alarms started to wail, one after another. A deep metallic groan echoed close by. She turned her head in time to see a towering shipping crane sway, then buckle. It collapsed in a screech of tearing steel, crashing into the harbor with a splash that sent water spraying in all directions. The echo of the impact rolled through the empty streets.

Leviathan was gone.

A trail of shattered concrete and overturned soil marked his path as he was blasted through half a dozen buildings in a heartbeat toward the bay. Each impact sent towering dust plumes skyward, higher than any structure for miles.

Slowly, the storm sealed shut overhead, thick clouds swallowing the last slivers of light. The rain returned heavier, colder, a solid curtain that pounded the streets. Water rushed through broken gutters, swirling with soot and debris. Dust from the blast was beaten down in sheets, forming muddy rivers on the ground.

Amid the rain-pocked haze, a shadow stumbled, then slowly pushed itself upright.

Leviathan.

What was left of him.

His lower torso and abdomen were ripped open, riddled with deep holes as if a swarm of piranhas had torn chunks from him. Through the shredded flesh, a skeletal frame of black, hazy bone gleamed like rebar jutting from a ruined building. He looked like a half-eaten fish carcass with only the upper torso, legs, and tail remaining on a bony husk in the middle.

Saitama stood there, arm extended, as if he'd thrown a lazy string of jabs.

"…Not bad," Saitama said, sounding mildly impressed. "You're kinda beefy. Or maybe fishy? Lizard-y?" He scratched his cheek, eyes drifting over the ruined figure. "Well… not so much anymore, I guess."

Saitama flexed his hand, fingers curling into a loose fist. The rubber of his glove had melted and cooled again against his skin, warped and uneven.

Lisa understood now. He wore cheap gloves because anything sturdier would get destroyed anyway. With the kind of friction his punches created, it was easier to just replace them.

"Kinda felt that one," Saitama said, turning his hand over with a faintly satisfied look.

He tilted his head, studying the wounded Endbringer.

"Wanna go again?"

Then, casually, he dropped back into his stance.

Lisa wasn't much of a fighter herself, but after spending enough time around Brian, who actually knew how to box, she'd picked up on the basics of proper form and technique.

And whatever that was… wasn't it.

What even was that stance? He looked kind of goofy, like a kid copying a pose from a Saturday morning cartoon and taking it way too seriously.

Stance shows no formal training. But movements are practiced. Fighting style pulled from real combat, cartoons, and whatever he thought looked cool; honed over time.

Leviathan stirred again, its massive form twitching despite the horrendous damage marring its body.

"How is it still alive?" Taylor murmured beside her, voice tight with disbelief, as she peeled herself from the side of the transport.

Legend hovered above the ruined street, rain sliding off his cape in streams. He brought his armband close and muttered a phrase. One Tattletale recognized as a high-priority override code. Her own armband lit up at once. No synthetic voice this time. Legend's voice came through directly.

"Anyone still able to fight, I'm sending new coordinates. Your maps will update automatically. Dragon is coordinating a five-by-five block cordon around the zone with the army. Somehow, Leviathan is still alive, but barely… I've never seen him take this much damage. We're not letting this opportunity slip away. Today, we end this."

Legend was right. To her knowledge, no Endbringer had ever withstood the sheer punishment Leviathan had just taken. She couldn't fathom how so much blood could still flow out of him, even with a body as massive as Leviathan's.

Damage too severe. Any living being would be dead from blood loss alone. Even Aegis would not survive this. The eyes do not function and are not used for sight. There are no working organs. The body is a shell, a fake life; to simulate damage. There must be a core to move the shell; an anchor.

It has a core! This thing's not human anymore. Unless…

A fake life; never was human.

What… what is this? Tattletale had never felt so completely out of her depth.

Leviathan loomed in the center of the ruined street, his single unbroken eye sweeping over the capes as they regrouped and tried to form a loose perimeter around him. No one moved. No one fired. They were all waiting to see who would make the first move and break the ceasefire that had settled over them.

Leviathan's head jerked toward one cluster of the perimeter where the line was weakest.

Tattletale's heart dropped.

She heard Taylor's breath hitch beside her. "Oh no," she whispered.

Leviathan lunged, heading straight for them and the overturned security truck still sheltering wounded capes.

The fragile pause shattered. Nearby capes moved to intercept but were swatted aside like toys. Blasts of energy and projectiles struck home, tearing into his battered frame. Laserdream fired a rapid volley of lasers, strafing his flank. Purity followed above and hurled a blinding beam of compressed light that slammed straight down on his head, driving him to a knee.

But Leviathan kept moving. He shook off the barrage and surged forward, faster. He dodged the followup barrage.

Tattletale turned to run, but a thick cloud of insects swept past, the remainder of Skitter's swarm. They scattered into rough, human-shaped silhouettes, splitting and re-forming as Leviathan swung at them. Each strike thinned their numbers, but they kept distracting him.

Taylor grabbed her arm, pulling her sharply in a new direction.

Ahead, Armsmaster vaulted into Leviathan's path. The swarm peeled away as he swung his halberd in a wide arc, targeting the thinnest point of the Endbringer's abdomen. The blade crackled with energy, eating through flesh and scale, until it struck the hazy black bone inside.

There was a sharp jolt. The halberd's shaft bent, vibrating violently. It had hit something solid that it could not cut through.

"Impossible!" Armsmaster growled.

Leviathan struck out with his claws. But Armsmaster ducked, slid, and twisted, narrowly avoiding each blow.

He shouted at the nearby capes, "Get out of here!" The injured who could still move scrambled away, some stumbling and falling on the slick asphalt.

Firing a grappling hook, Armsmaster wrapped it around Leviathan's limbs, attempting to freeze the beast in place. The Endbringer pulsed with water, soaking the wire with his echo. When the water froze in time, he jumped, using his slimmed-down form to slip through the trap.

Leviathan lunged and latched onto the side of a high-rise building, his claws gouging deep as white brick crumbled beneath his grip. He scrambled upward, tearing handholds into the structure. A cape hurled a car at the wall he was on. Metal and masonry exploded on impact, collapsing the facade and sending Leviathan crashing down.

He hit the ground hard but didn't pause. Dropping to all fours, he shot forward again. Even with half his body torn away, he wasn't any slower.

The remaining blasters, strikers, and brutes saw their chance and opened fire. Plasma, fire, lasers, concrete, and wrecked vehicles were hurled at Leviathan from every direction. Legend flew low, unleashing a barrage of high-energy beams that tore strips of flesh from the monster. Lady Photon, Laserdream, and Purity arrived moments later, falling into formation behind him and unleashing their own barrage. But when any of the attacks hit the black, wiry structure beneath, they seemed to do nothing. Or rather, the damage was there, but it was just so slight that it barely registered to her eyes.

Level of damage indicates high durability; outer attacks cause significant harm, but damage lessens deeper inside. Density suggests extreme mass compression, distorting physics beyond normal limits. If trend follows, the core must be the densest part of his body. Astronomically dense.

What were they supposed to do against that? What else could they possibly throw at him? Did they even want to? What was going to happen if all that mass suddenly… popped?

Tattletale staggered to a stop, gasping as she leaned against the cracked wall of a ruined bookstore. Taylor, naturally, wasn't nearly as winded.

"He's getting away," Taylor said, pointing toward the distance. Her hand wavered slightly. "Wait… something's coming in fast. Whatever it is… it just wiped out a bunch of my fliers."

Leviathan was nearly at the waterfront when a black shape slammed into him from the side like a freight train. Both figures tumbled, limbs scrambling for leverage. Alexandria locked her arms around his neck in a crushing rear chokehold.

She grit her teeth behind her helmet, muscles straining as she dragged the monster away from the water. Leviathan bent backward under the pressure, clawed feet tearing up pavement as he struggled for traction.

A tinker wielding a massive, oversized hammer dashed in and smashed one of Leviathan's limbs out from under him, forcing the monster to stumble. More capes surged forward, swarming the Endbringer like ants, ripping into him.

Amid the chaos, stray blasts struck Alexandria, but she didn't flinch. Jaw clenched, she tightened her grip around Leviathan's throat, muscles straining as she hauled him backward.

They're actually doing it, Tattletale thought, stunned, watching the tide turn. Then Taylor grabbed her shoulder and shook her hard.

"Tattletale," she said. "Snap out of it. We need to get out of here. We'll just get in the way if he gets close again."

Wait.

"Oh no," Tattletale breathed, the words barely audible over the distant roar of the battle.

She watched as Leviathan shrugged off another onslaught of attacks. Chevalier appeared, limping with blood seeping through his armor, and drove his cannon blade deep into the beast's thigh from a distance. Leviathan lost the foothold it had managed to make and got dragged further away from the water front.

"They're not doing anything to it," Tattletale said.

Taylor stepped closer, reaching for her. "Tattletale—"

Lisa shook her off, eyes wide, frantic. "Skitter, it's got a core."

Taylor blinked, her eye visible through the cracked lens. "A core? Like… a machine? Is it some kind of tinker construct?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," Tattletale snapped, her voice sharp, mind racing. "Something's controlling it. I—I can't say what, but Leviathan's as fresh as when this all began. None of the attacks, not even that baldy's, have done any real damage. If he escapes, we're right back to square one."

She lifted her arm to override communications and broadcast a priority message.

But then she saw it. Her armband, spiderwebbed with cracks, the screen dark.

Crushed during the shockwave. Useless.

Her breath caught. One chance to end this, and her comms were dead.

Lisa grabbed Taylor's arm as she scanned through what remained of Leviathan's frame.

Where is it. Where is it. Where is it.

There wasn't much of Leviathan left. If it was imitating life, there were only so many places to put something like a core.

It had to be—

"What—?" Taylor started, but Tattletale was already speaking.

"Hard override. Tattletale speaking. Broadcast this immediately. Leviathan has a core. It's at the center of his chest, where the sternum would be. He's not human. His density increases the deeper you go. It breaks the laws of physics. Nothing else matters, not even his head. His core is the only important part of his body. Focus everything there."

A beat. Then the armband crackled.

"Transmitting."

The message echoed from every armband in the area, even those on unconscious or injured capes. A ripple of hesitation moved through the battle lines, then, almost in unison, the attacks shifted. Dozens of capes turned their attacks toward the center of Leviathan's chest.

With a sudden urgency it hadn't shown before, Leviathan thrashed violently, flinging aside the capes attempting to hold him down. His water echo swirled around him, forming a dense barrier. Alexandria held her breath within the bubble, trying to maintain her grip, but Leviathan reached back through the bubble, seized her by the helmet, and wrenched her off his neck. Shreds of his own flesh tore free in her clenched fists as she was pried loose.

He twisted sharply and threw her toward the bay.

She went flying, skimming across cracked pavement, then skidding over water, before slamming into the hull of a half-sunken cargo ship. The impact ripped open a hole in the rusted metal.

Leviathan reared up from the swarm of capes clawing at him, water surging around his limbs as he flung them off one by one.

He reached down and grabbed the cannonblade lodged in his thigh. Metal screeched against his claws as he wrenched it free, losing two fingers in the process. He hurled the weapon skyward, sending it spinning out of sight over the rooftops.

Then Leviathan turned toward the nearby piers.

"No—no no no—he's running!" someone shouted.

Water crashed around Leviathan's feet as he bounded through the wreckage, tearing through streets and toppling buildings in his wake. Then he leapt.

The impact as he hit the bay sent a geyser of seawater a hundred feet high.

Moments later, a second explosion rocked the water as someone followed him

The surface churned. Frothy blood rose.

Leviathan's body burst from the ocean like a torpedo, flailing midair. He slammed into the docks, tearing up concrete and steel, skipping and tumbling like a rock before crashing to a halt in the twisted wreckage of a shipping yard.

Tattletale hauled a protesting Skitter with her, heading toward the regrouping capes.

From the foaming edge of the receding waves, Saitama emerged, one step after the other on the broken pier. Water streamed from his shoulders, his cape heavy with seawater.

"Hope you can take this next one," Saitama said, shaking water from his boots as he strolled toward the mangled Endbringer.

Leviathan's body twitched in the rubble. Metal, debris, and seawater flowed back into the torn frame, sluggishly refilling the hollowed cavities in his body.

"If you've got a final form or whatever," Saitama added, his tone almost bored, "now's the time."

Some of the gathered capes began to cry out, their voices rising with disbelief, frustration, and quiet despair as they watched the damage begin to reverse.

Chunks of metal and rubble shifted. Water surged across the pavement and funneled back into Leviathan's broken body. The hollow gaps filled in. Torn flesh reformed. The wounds they had carved open with blood were slowly sealing before their eyes.

Someone near the front whispered, "We were so close. What are we supposed to do with that?"

No one answered. No plans, no orders. Just the sound of rain hitting pavement and the hiss of steam from broken piping.

Saitama glanced over his shoulder. For a moment, it was like he'd only just noticed the crowd of battered capes behind him.

"Can you all step back a little? Maybe cover your ears too. I don't want anyone getting hurt from this next one."

Before anyone could respond, Leviathan lunged. He grabbed Saitama by the head and drove him into the street. The impact sent tremors through the ground, spiderwebbing cracks outward as rubble jumped from the force. He did it again. And again.

Tattletale blinked. Her breath caught as the pieces clicked into place.

Normal punches.

That's what he'd called them. But if he had to warn them now, then this next one wasn't going to be normal. He had torn apart a storm system with his last attack. If he was actually trying now…

Armsmaster, standing ahead of her, froze for a breath. Then he turned and began barking orders. "Pull back!"

Legend was slower. He didn't speak. Just stared at the crater where Saitama had vanished, expression unreadable, before he finally lifted into the air and motioned others to retreat.

The rest hesitated. Some exchanged nervous glances. But they moved. A few limped. Others flew. A brute lifted two teammates and broke into a run. The street slowly emptied, boots slapping through ankle-deep water as the sound of retreat rose.

At the center of the ruined street, Leviathan hammered Saitama into the fractured pavement, again and again. Concrete cratered with each blow, waves rippling out. The water surrounding them surged upward in roiling waves, pulled by the Endbringer's hydrokinesis. The air was thick with steam. Rain sluiced down in torrents, mixing with the rising flood as the Endbringer tried to drown its target.

Then, from beneath the water, a red-gloved hand emerged.

Fingers closed around Leviathan's arm.

With a crunch, the limb crumpled like foil in Saitama's grip. A wet snap echoed as the arm was ripped free, and the severed piece cartwheeled through the air before caving in the hood of a nearby van.

Leviathan reeled, stumbling back. Blood spilled from the stump as debris and water began to churn and gather toward the wound, trying to add mass back into his body.

In the pool of water, Saitama sat up, unbothered. His yellow suit was torn in multiple places, sleeves ragged, one shoulder exposed. But his skin showed no bruises. No scratches. No blood. Just steam rising off him from the force of the impacts.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. "Oh well. Guess there's no final form," he said, almost disappointed.

Leviathan twisted and launched toward the bay, limbs coiling, water surging behind it as it moved to escape.

Saitama reached out and caught the Endbringer's tail mid-air. The limb had nearly regenerated, slick and armored, but his fingers closed around it like a clamp. The flesh warped under the pressure and snapped taut in his grip.

"Huh. So you are part lizard," Saitama said, eyebrows lifting.

Leviathan's forward momentum died instantly. The creature slammed face-first into the pavement, claws gouging trenches in the broken street as it scrambled to pull free. Water fountained outward, and the echo pulsed, but Saitama held firm.

The Endbringer twisted its upper body, reaching back. Two clawed digits jabbed toward Saitama's eyes.

Saitama caught the strike in his free hand, fingers closing over the talons.

The water echo struck him in the face, a mass of pressurized water. He didn't blink.

Another crunch. The arm snapped, torn free, and spun once before slamming into the river behind them with a splash. Leviathan sank to one knee, struggling to stay upright.

Still gripping the tail, Saitama rose to his feet.

His expression had changed.

The relaxed posture was gone. Rain slid off his shoulders as he cocked back his fist, the rubber of his glove creaking with the motion.

"Super Move: Serious Series—"

From behind cover, Tattletale's eyes widened as realization struck her like a slap.

He's actually going to throw a real punch.

"Wait! Don't aim that way!" she shouted, scrambling onto a jagged slab of concrete. She waved both arms frantically, voice cutting through the downpour.

Skitter tried to yank her back down by the arm, hissing, "Tattletale! What are you doing?"

Distantly, Saitama paused mid-step, glancing back at her.

"What? I'm aiming at the ocean."

"There are continents in that direction!" Tattletale yelled, voice shrill. "Europe, Africa, maybe even parts of Asia depending on the angle. You can't just rupture Leviathan's core… it's too dense. If it decompresses, you'll kill us all!"

He blinked, tilting his head slightly. "Continents? Huh. More than one? That's weird."

Then, with a small shrug, "Got it. Punch up and harder. Sure. Anyway…"

The pavement split under Saitama's next step. His fist curled back, fingers flexing.

Across from him, Leviathan reached down, trying to sever its own tail with a half-regenerated claw.

"…Serious Punch."

The air buckled at the point of impact. A cone of force ripped outward. The ocean behind Leviathan collapsed in a massive V-shaped trench, the water driven away. The storm overhead unraveled. Clouds tore apart in a spiraling shockwave, sunlight spearing through the eye of the blast. The rain stopped mid-drop.

The vacuum left in the wake of the blow unleashed a deafening howl, the air itself tearing as wind and sea recoiled. Both Lisa and Taylor screamed as they were knocked over. For a long, breathless moment, the ocean held its shape—carved open to the seafloor—before roaring water surged back in, crashing and churning as it swallowed the trench.

And Leviathan?

Gone. Only two charred stumps remained, fused into the shattered road.

Then came silence as the wind and water settled.

Capes crept out from behind broken walls and shattered vehicles. Some limped upright. Others staggered, blinking through the sudden sunlight.

One cape collapsed to their knees and laughed. Another let out a choked sob and clutched a teammate, shaking.

Cheering began, scattered at first, disbelieving. Then louder. Raw.

Legend touched down hard, dropping to one knee. His chest heaved. "It's… it's gone," he breathed. "He's gone."

Armsmaster stood still in his cracked armor, one hand wrapped around the splintered remains of his halberd. A rare smile ghosted across his face.

Not far off, Chevalier leaned against a crumbled wall, his armor leaking blood. He let out a long, rattling breath as Purity landed beside him, the glow fading from her hands.

Laserdream and Shielder embraced tightly, trembling.

Miss Militia stood in the muddy street, her weapon slack in her hands. She didn't speak, just stared at the empty horizon.

Eidolon, having just returned, floated in the air, frozen. His arms hung limp at his sides.

Tattletale was on the floor, water dripping from her hair, hands trembling.

"I think we won," Taylor whispered, next to her.

With heavy steam rolling off his fist, Saitama casually tossed what remained of Leviathan's charred and mangled tail into the water.

"Cool," he said, nodding to himself. "That was a solid one."

He turned toward the battered crowd.

"Oh," he hesitated, awkward. Then gave them a thumbs-up, "Nice fight."

Chapter Text

The steady grind of reconstruction echoed through the heart of a city still picking itself up.

Down on the street, bulldozers pushed broken concrete and twisted rebar into the buckets of dump trucks that idled in long, uneven lines. Cranes moved overhead in slow arcs, lowering steel beams onto newly poured foundations while workers in orange vests barked directions over the constant buzz of machinery. Jackhammers rattled against the remnants of what used to be a raised expressway, breaking it down section by section. A PRT-marked barge sat near the edge of a sunken underpass, thick hoses trailing from its side as it pumped out the last of the saltwater that had settled there. Across from it, another crew in hazard suits worked in pairs, spraying thick layers of expanding foam sealant into the fractured walls, the material hissing and swelling into place.

Traffic lights still blinked on corners where there were no functioning intersections. Spray-painted arrows and cones tried their best to guide foot and vehicle traffic, but detours had become second nature. Road crews were out with faded stencils and buckets of white paint, trying to reestablish lanes that didn't quite match where the road had shifted.

By the waterfront, tucked between stacks of repurposed shipping containers, a noodle cart with a blue tarp roof had become a popular unofficial lunch stop. Steam rolled off the cooking pots as a line of construction workers, surveyors, and exhausted PRT field agents waited their turn. Someone had rigged a folding table with mismatched stools nearby. People ate where they could, leaning against jersey barriers, overturned pallets, or whatever was clean enough to sit on.

Brockton Bay was still bleeding, but at least now the bleeding had bandages.

Colin Wallis, known to the public as Armsmaster, carried a tray of food through the prefab corridor connecting the upper levels of the PRT ENE HQ. The walkway groaned faintly underfoot, a patchwork of metal decking and scaffolding, bolted together with just enough reinforcement to pass inspection on a good day. A few bolts had visible rust. The overhead lighting flickered slightly in one corner.

He wore his standard armored uniform, though pared down with no helmet, no halberd, and none of the modular tech that used to make his silhouette instantly recognizable. A half-mask covered the upper half of his face, meant more to maintain a low profile than provide protection. Without the full gear, he felt oddly incomplete. Lighter. Exposed.

Dragon had cheerfully informed him of what she called "Special Oversight Assignment 001." She said the number like it was an honor. Colin suspected she'd made it up five minutes before she passed on the job to him from the director. He'd been busy in deep waters, and had been avoiding calls. Emily knew Dragon had closer access to him than most, so she was used as a go-between.

Beyond the walls of the HQ, the waterfront still bore the scar of the fight. The exact location where Leviathan had made his final stand, and where he had been annihilated, was now a crater. He was not being figurative. There was a literal concave void where a chunk of the waterfront used to be. The blast had carved out concrete, seabed, and an uncomfortable portion of his peace of mind. It was still fenced off with portable barricades and surveillance drones, surrounded by a rotating patchwork of government tents, research trailers, and contractors from a half-dozen different agencies, all arguing over whose jurisdiction took precedence.

Surveyors rotated in shifts. Some carried equipment for structural scans, others for soil sampling, while a third group had started tracking aquatic life in the nearby waters to gauge long-term recovery. A few marine biologists had been flown in to document species drifting too close to the impact zone, which was now considered a low-grade hazard area.

No one could quite agree on what had actually happened when the final blow landed. Meteorological systems as far as the Mediterranean were still recovering, and the global satellite network had taken days to stabilize. According to the combined analysis of government analysts, Watchdog, Dragon, Colin himself, nearly every available tinker and thinker in the Protectorate, and, somewhat reluctantly, Tattletale, the energy released on impact should have been enough to ignite the atmosphere. More than that, the amount of mass still concentrated in Leviathan's core should've done more than just decimate the planet. It should've thrown the solar system into chaos.

By all reasonable models, the planet should have at least suffered mass extinction.

That it hadn't left everyone uneasy.

Tattletale had summed it up best: "We should all be dead. So either I'm wrong, or physics decided to take a long lunch."

The man responsible for Leviathan's destruction maintained that he had no powers. No trigger event. No known classification. He had been, he said, "just passing through." That statement had been conveniently ignored by every major agency, domestic and international.

As for the storm system Leviathan had dragged into the city with him, what remained after the final blow had lingered for a time after his death. Thunderheads drifted inland across the eastern seaboard, but without their driver, they began to unravel. By the time the remnants reached Ohio, the once-monstrous supercell had softened into gray skies and a disappointing drizzle.

Now, attention had turned to what came next. Planning commissions and federal representatives had begun floating proposals for a permanent memorial. A museum, a monument, maybe even a rebuilt district centered around the impact zone. City council was already calling it a "revitalization anchor." The marketing material promised something respectful and educational, with a pedestrian-friendly layout. If no one argued too hard about zoning permits, groundbreaking might begin sometime in 2012.

May 15 had already been designated an annual remembrance day: The Day Leviathan Fell. Schools were expected to close. Flags would be lowered. Ceremonies planned. A date to mark the event.

Coincidentally, it also happened to be Missy's birthday. She'd taken the announcement in stride, though there had been a noticeable uptick in her requests to incorporate fireworks into the memorial. When asked if she thought it was inappropriate, she'd just shrugged and said, "It's not like anyone's going to forget it soon."

"I'm still not convinced I'm the right person for this," Colin said quietly.

Dragon's accented voice came through his earpiece, clear and composed. "It's not about being the right person, Colin. It's about being the only person who didn't have a good enough reason to refuse."

Colin shifted the tray in his hands. "That's not exactly reassuring."

"It's not meant to be," she said. "It's just accurate."

He didn't respond. His boots thudded softly against the flooring as he moved through the corridor, the makeshift structure humming faintly with every step. He supposed he should be grateful that the city wasn't already on fire.

The local gangs, to their credit or lack of opportunity, hadn't made a move. Not yet. It helped that a wave of out-of-town capes had arrived to bolster numbers. The dozens of them, which consisted of temporary transfers, volunteers, or unofficial reinforcements, had been scattered across the city. But most didn't know the terrain. The politics, the turf lines, the grudges. Brockton Bay's criminal landscape had deep roots, and the gangs knew the streets better than anyone. If they wanted to, they could make the new arrivals look like amateurs.

But for now, there was a pause. Across the world, villain activity had dropped. Robberies, skirmishes, and inter-group rivalries had slowed or gone quiet entirely. Some called it respect. Others called it caution. Either way, no one wanted to be the first to spoil the moment. Leviathan was dead. That meant something. And even if the calm wouldn't last, Colin was willing to take what he could get.

Dragon's voice came again, a little gentler this time. "You were there. You fought beside him. That's more than most people in this building can say. That gives you context. A shared frame of reference. This is our chance to make in-roads."

Colin shook his head slightly. "He ended Leviathan with one hit," he said. "I'm not sure what we could possibly have in common."

"And yet," Dragon said, faint amusement in her voice, "you're the one assigned to keep tabs on him. Either someone thinks you're uniquely qualified, or they're trying to get a laugh."

"Or I was the only one who didn't say no fast enough."

"Let's not get dramatic."

He stepped into the elevator, nudged the panel with his elbow, and readjusted the tray again. The doors slid shut behind him.

"You're doing better than you think," Dragon said.

"Is that your professional assessment, or are you just trying to keep me from walking out?"

"Why not both?" she replied. "And for the record, I prefer 'liaison' to 'babysitter.' Sounds more respectable. Less tired."

"He's less predictable than anything I've ever worked with."

Dragon paused. "Then stop trying to treat him like something you need to troubleshoot. He's not broken… I hope. And he's not a project either. He's just… different. Strange, yes. Quiet. Unfiltered. But he's still human."

Colin pressed his lips together. "So, one of your prototypes."

There was a pause. And he tensed.

"Careful," Dragon said, amusement threading into her voice, and he relaxed his shoulders. "You're still on Special Oversight Assignment 001. I could always invent a 002."

Colin frowned. "There's a 002?"

"There will be if you keep making jokes at my expense, mister."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaled, and straightened his posture. The elevator dinged.

"I know you don't feel like the right person for this," Dragon said, her voice quieter now, "but you're not doing it alone. You've got backup. And despite how he acts… he's not as detached as he looks. He pays attention."

Colin stepped out into the corridor, walked with slow, measured strides. The tray shifted slightly in his hands as he adjusted it.

"I'll believe that when he remembers my name," he muttered.

"You could always wear a name tag," Dragon offered, chipper again.

"Goodbye, Dragon."

"It was just a suggestion," she said quickly. "Mostly. Just try not to sound like internal affairs when you say hello."

Colin didn't respond. He kept walking, lips pressed in a tight line, tray balanced carefully as the hallway stretched ahead of him.

Dragon stayed on the line, of course, quiet now.

Time to check in.

The Protectorate ENE Headquarters had been one of the first casualties of Leviathan's opening strike. Swept away by the tidal wave alongside most of the Boardwalk, it had collapsed under hundreds of tons of churning seawater and debris. The structure didn't sink so much as disintegrate, its steel frame folding in on itself before crashing into the ocean. He had managed to salvage some of his equipment with the help of Kid Win, and he hoped to make another trip by the week's end to assess whether the barrier array was worth the millions of dollars it would take to retrieve and repair it.

Needless to say, housing was a huge problem for the city.

With the city's infrastructure in tatters and most hotels either flooded or running on borrowed power, options for housing high-risk or high-profile individuals had thinned to almost nothing. A few government buildings had held, along with some hardened shelters and bunkers. Most weren't designed for long-term habitation.

In the end, the decision had been made to house the city's newest, and arguably strangest, arrival inside PRT ENE Headquarters itself. One of the reinforced residential suites, still intact on the upper floors, had been cleared and hastily repurposed. It wasn't luxurious. It wasn't particularly welcoming. But it had reinforced walls, internal locks, and two separate escape routes. Which counted as luxury, these days.

At the very least, someone had the sense not to place him on the same floor as the Wards. That would've made things complicated in a dozen ways.

Colin passed two plainclothes guards stationed outside the suite. They nodded as he approached, a casual sort of acknowledgment more fitting for tour guides than trained security. Their presence was meant to be reassuring, but with no weapons visible and the door behind them still intact, it mostly gave the impression that they were there for show.

He returned the nod without breaking stride and came to a stop in front of the reinforced door. It was heavy, the kind designed more for containment than comfort with the thick steel frame, magnetic locks embedded in the seams, and an external console mounted just beside the handle.

Balancing the tray of food in one hand, Colin reached over with the other and tapped in the override code. The keypad beeped, a dull chirp of confirmation, followed by a short pause as the internal systems ran their check.

There was always a delay, which was thirty seconds by design. A small warning light on the other side of the door would be blinking now, giving the occupant time to prepare for a visitor or decline entry entirely. A switch inside could cancel the request, if needed. Privacy protocol. Sensible, in theory.

Colin waited. The corridor was quiet except for the distant hum of ventilation and muffled clatter from the elevator shaft behind him. A moment later, the door gave a low, mechanical groan as the magnetic locks disengaged one by one. Heavy bolts pulled back with a sluggish clunk, and the entire frame seemed to settle slightly as the pressure released.

He shifted the tray in his grip, adjusted his footing, and pushed the door open.

The room was still.

Too still.

He stepped inside, scanning instinctively. The lights were on. The bedding was untouched except for a shallow indent near the edge of the mattress. No broken window, no overturned furniture. The bathroom was empty. Closet, clear. The air inside was cool and undisturbed.

The room had the uncomfortable tidiness of somewhere recently vacated. No signs of struggle. No signs of anything, really.

Dragon's voice came through his earpiece, dry and even. "Huh."

Colin checked the room again, slower this time, opening drawers and scanning corners. Nothing. It was as if the occupant had simply… drifted away.

"I have to say, Colin," Dragon added, "you are not making a strong case for your continued employment."

"I just got here," he growled.

He turned and stepped back into the hall, locking eyes with the two guards. "He's not in the room."

Both men straightened immediately. One moved to the door and looked inside for himself, eyes darting around the room. "That's not possible. We've been here since seven. He was in there when we checked in. Opened the door once or twice to chat. Other than that, he hasn't left."

Colin nodded slowly, voice calm. "All right. No need to raise the alarm yet. Let's keep this quiet until we know more."

He turned and headed down the corridor, projecting the steady calm of a man in control. Once he rounded the corner, he let out a breath.

"Dragon," he said under his breath.

"Already looking," she replied. "He was definitely in the room at eleven thirty-four. Then, a minute later… gone. No alert triggered. No exit logged. Going through the entrance footage frame by frame now."

As he walked, Colin's eyes caught something on the emergency stairwell door. It was a faint, greasy handprint just at shoulder height. He paused, crouched slightly, and studied it. Smudged. Recent.

"How did they not hear him leave?" he muttered.

Then it clicked. The hallway outside was full of sound. Welding torches, power saws, construction equipment grinding and clattering just outside the building. The noise was constant, layered, and loud enough that even Colin, trained as he was, had trouble picking out individual sounds.

"He waited," Colin said aloud. "Opened the door for a casual chat, timed the exit with the construction noise, and slipped out before it shut again. Used the stairwell and synced the door opening with the ambient noise outside."

If Velocity were still alive, even he might have raised an eyebrow at the sheer speed it would have taken to slip past trained guards without so much as a flicker of motion catching their eye. That kind of precision wasn't just fast, it was coordinated. Deliberate. Timed down to the second.

Colin felt a tight pang in his chest and, for a brief moment, let it slow him. Robin would have laughed. Called dibs on racing the cape the moment he saw the footage.

In his ear, Dragon gave a soft, appreciative hum. "You know," she said, "for someone who dresses like a discount mascot, he's got pretty good instincts. That was clean."

Colin shook the thought off and focused. "You think he left the building?" he asked, already piecing together the outline of an apology in his head.

He pictured Director Piggot, seated behind her desk, arms folded, silent just long enough to make it sting. She had a way of locking in on your weak points with no effort, like lining up a shot without even lifting the rifle. Colin might as well have been a tin can sitting on a fence.

"Fortunately for your career," Dragon said, her voice a touch brighter now, "he hasn't left the building. I've got eyes on him. He's in the cafeteria."

Colin stopped walking. "Now?"

"Now," she said. "I missed him at first. No cameras in the room itself, obviously. Privacy protocols. I only started checking the shared zones once you confirmed he was gone."

There was a pause on the line, brief but deliberate, and then her voice softened with a quiet sort of cheer.

"And yes, he's just eating. Fries and pudding, looks like. He hasn't tried to leap out a window or commandeer a patrol vehicle. Yet."

Colin exhaled. She always could read him.

Dragon went on. "He's sitting alone, by the vending machines. Just calmly eating his way through a tray of cafeteria food like he's on his lunch break."

Colin drew in a breath, squared his shoulders again, and resumed walking. "All right."

He rode the elevator down and stepped into the cafeteria, where the atmosphere hit him like a wall.

It was packed, noisy, warm, and chaotically alive. The kind of institutional space that hadn't been designed to handle this many people at once but had no choice. The sound of dozens of conversations bounced off metal fixtures and tile floors, creating a low roar layered with the occasional shout or bark of laughter.

The smell was the first thing to really land: something that might have started life as curry, overcooked vegetables swimming in steam trays, processed meatloaf smothered in gravy, and fryer oil that had clearly retired days ago. There was also the sharp bite of instant coffee, faintly burnt, and probably brewed before sunrise.

Long folding tables filled most of the space, lined up in rows like a deployment field. PRT personnel took up most of them, some in full tactical gear, others in wrinkled undershirts or half-unzipped field jackets. A few still had mud crusted on their boots or grime smudged on their faces, which may have been holdovers from the night shift. That, or, he hedged, maybe they were just too tired to care.

In one corner, a cluster of Protectorate members, including part of his team, had claimed a table of their own. Dauntless was gesturing mid-story, using his fork as punctuation while Miss Militia nodded along. She hadn't touched her food. Triumph, seated across from them, laughed a little too hard at something and choked briefly on his rice. He waved off the concern with a thumbs-up and reached for his crutches without missing a beat. The thumbs-up had sparked a wave of laughter down the table as others mimicked the gesture.

On the far side, a dozen or so Wards sat, trying not to draw attention. Kid Win slouched over a gadget the size of a paperback, poking at its screen with an absent expression. His lunch sat untouched. Clockblocker was leaned back in his chair, arms folded, arguing loudly with someone out of sight. Judging by the tone, it had something to do with movie rankings or the latest cafeteria disaster. Weld kept the peace at the table between the locals and the newcomers, careful to avoid touching any of the cutlery himself as he put in a word every once in a while to keep things moving smoothly.

Colin stepped forward, awkwardly nodding to the cafeteria servers as he passed. One of them squinted at the tray in his hands. It was the same tray Colin had walked out with ten minutes ago. Still full. Still untouched. He didn't stop to explain.

His eyes swept the room. And then—there.

Tucked away at a corner table near the vending machines, legs stretched out, sat the man in question. Saitama looked like he'd wandered in from the wrong floor of the building. He wore gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that had clearly come from the PRT's lost and found pile. His feet were up on the bench beside him. He was eating pudding with slow concentration and reading the back of a ketchup packet like it was a novel.

A few tables over, a small group of troopers sat together, hunched over trays of food, their voices low and steady. None of them looked in his direction. If they recognized the man sitting in the hoodie and sweatpants, they gave no sign.

The man of the hour who had ended years of fear and devastation with a single strike, and here he was, blending into the background like he was just another off-duty contractor grabbing lunch.

Colin felt a dull pressure start to build behind his temple, the early warning of a headache he didn't have time for.

Dragon's voice came in dry through his earpiece. "Told you. Cafeteria."

Colin sighed. "Next time, we lock him in a vault."

He adjusted his grip on the tray and started walking.

"I found you," he said, stopping at the table.

Dragon let out a soft sound in his earpiece, somewhere between a sigh and a tut. "Oh, Colin."

Ah. He did sound like a parole officer.

Not that he had a better job title. Handler? Liaison? Chaperone? Babysitter?

Saitama looked up with a squint, blinking a few times. He tilted his head slightly as if trying to recognize a half-remembered face. Even without the helmet or halberd, Colin was wearing his usual colors: deep navy, steel trim, PRT badge visible but low-profile. Familiar, if you were paying attention.

After a second, Saitama raised one hand lazily in greeting.

"Yo."

Colin set the tray down across from him and sat stiffly, adjusting his seat. The cafeteria benches weren't designed for comfort, much less for armor.

Saitama glanced at the tray and gave a faint smile. "Nice. You got the good noodles."

"They're not for me," Colin said flatly.

"Oh." Saitama didn't ask who they were for. He just went back to eating his fries, unfazed.

Colin studied him for a long moment. The way he leaned back, legs stretched out under the table, slowly chewing like there was nowhere else in the world he needed to be. No tension in his shoulders. No anxious glance toward the door. Not even the faint edge of restlessness that followed most capes.

He just looked… content.

Colin narrowed his eyes slightly.

Did he have any idea what he had just put his blood pressure through?

He cleared his throat. "You remember my name, right?"

Saitama looked up again, brows drawing together slightly. "Why wouldn't I?"

He didn't elaborate. He just looked at Colin for a moment, then back at his tray and picked at his fries.

A few seconds ticked by.

Someone apologized after bumping into another person by the door.

Colin frowned.

"So… what is it?"

Saitama looked up, blinked, then brightened and snapped his fingers.

"Armchair…?"

Colin didn't blink.

"Armsmaster."

A beat.

"Ah," Saitama said.

Then back again to the pudding.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

The clatter of plates and chairs echoed from deeper in the cafeteria.

Somewhere behind him, someone dropped a fork.

Dragon's voice came in faintly, exasperated. "…like watching two calculators try to have a conversation."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

A polite cough interrupted them.

Both men looked up to see a woman standing beside the booth. She wore a simple blouse and a long skirt, her jacket slung over one arm, though a half-mask still covered the lower half of her face. One sleeve was pinned up neatly at the elbow, the arm beneath wrapped in a thick white cast scribbled with half a dozen names and a few off-color drawings.

"Miss Militia," Colin said, straightening in his seat. He managed a small, genuine smile. "Good to see you back on your feet."

Hannah lifted her cast and gave it a slow wiggle. "Barely. But I'm upright again, so I'll take the win." Her eyes dropped to the VIP, then back to Colin. "Didn't mean to intrude."

"You didn't," Colin said, a little too fast. "Would you like to sit?"

She gave him a faintly amused look, catching the eagerness in his voice, and slid into the booth beside him. She adjusted her position carefully, keeping the cast propped on the table's edge. "Sure. This looks like the quiet end of the cafeteria."

"Yo," Saitama said with a lazy wave, still holding his spoon

She nodded politely, her eyes briefly taking in his hoodie and sweatpants before turning back to Colin. Her voice dropped slightly.

"Dragon flooded my phone. So, this is your special assignment?"

Colin exhaled. "Yeah."

Saitama scraped the last of his pudding, staring at the empty corner with mild disappointment.

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "Fun."

Colin gave a dry smile.

For a few seconds, none of them spoke.

Just the ambient noise of the cafeteria around them: the clatter of cutlery; a burst of laughter from the Wards' table as someone held out a triumphant thumbs-up, with others at the table either joining in or clapping along; and the mechanical hum of vending machines behind them. Saitama tilted his head, eyes locked on a snack stuck behind the spiral inside one of the machines.

Hannah adjusted her seat and gave her cast a light tap on the edge of the table, the sound muffled but deliberate. "So. What's the verdict on the Dockworkers' Association? Did they land the Boardwalk cleanup?"

The tone was casual, but Colin caught the intent.

Bait and reel, then.

"City Council's trying to fold them into the recovery package, make it official," he said, his voice a clear baritone. "But it's hung up in the usual mess. Federal money hasn't cleared, and no one wants to commit until the checks start landing."

Hannah made a low, thoughtful sound, giving the moment just enough air for their quiet companion to chime in if he felt like it. He didn't. He was still focused on the vending machine, now nudging the base with the toe of his shoe.

"Wouldn't hurt to lock in the locals before some contractor from out of state slides in and undercuts the bid," she said.

"They're staying patient," Colin replied. "Met the hiring rep last week. Guy looked like he hadn't slept in a year, but sharp. A Daniel, I think. Knows exactly how far he can lean without tipping things over. If the numbers line up, they'll get it. I think he's just waiting for the city to realize how badly they need people who already know the terrain."

Hannah nodded. "Smart play. Nice to keep the work here. Give the neighborhoods some buy-in."

No bite.

She gave a small deliberate pause before shifting gears. "What about the Wards?"

"Rotating patrol shifts," Colin said, keeping half an eye on the VIP across from him. Their guest had finally given up on the vending machine and returned to nursing a second juice box he'd somehow acquired. "Not ideal, but they're filling gaps where we can't. We're running at fifty-two percent efficiency right now. A good chunk of that's reinforcements from out of town, and most of them aren't familiar with the local layout. Slows things down to get every one up to speed."

Hannah's brows lifted slightly. "Emily still pushing for more?"

"She filed formal requests with Boston and with the standing team out of New York," Colin said. "But everyone's strapped. No one wants to lose resources when there's even a rumor of more trouble."

"She's pushing while we still have political capital," his second-in-command said. "Smart."

Colin nodded. "It helps that the mayor's cooperating. There's still momentum."

Across the table, Saitama carefully stacked his trash on the tray, neat as a puzzle, seemingly uninterested in jumping in to their conversation. The more they tried to learn about him, the more elusive he seemed.

Hannah glanced sidelong at Saitama, then back to Colin. "Still feels like we're holding our breath. Like everyone's waiting for the next shoe to drop."

Colin gave a quiet nod. "They are. No one's saying it out loud, but… yeah. Everyone's watching the sky."

No reaction at all from what was rapidly becoming their third wheel.

"And we're stuck with the guy who broke the tide," she said, a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. Her tone was light but the question remained whether the other Endbringers would keep to their usual pattern or shift to compensate for the one they lost.

Saitama glanced up briefly, then returned to his silent study of the vending machine again.

Colin didn't comment. At a certain level, he understood the unease. No one really knew what came next. For years, the idea of beating an Endbringer had been theory; something you said to rookies to keep morale up. He had made plans for that moment. Contingencies. Dangerous ones. His own designs had centered around isolating Leviathan, forcing him into a disadvantage, pressing the attack until his halberd broke through and Leviathan lay slain under his boot.

It had been ambitious.

It had also, in hindsight, been suicidal.

The nanothorn array proved almost useless during the fight. The blade did not even penetrate Leviathan's inner layers. If he had followed through with the original plan to sabotage communications, sacrifice villains to wear Leviathan down, breaking their truce, and press the attack alone, the results could have been much worse.

In more ways than one, he might have died. He found it hard to admit to himself… but he had lost sight of who he was. Who he'd been.

Across the cafeteria, a group of PRT troopers gathered their trays. One walked with a limp, another had a compression bandage wrapped under their jacket sleeve. Their conversation was quiet.

Hannah followed Colin's gaze and nodded toward the soldiers. "How's triage holding up?"

She cast another line.

"We've stabilized," Colin replied. "But it's patchwork. No big-name healers on rotation other than Panacea. The second-floor admin wing's been converted into temporary med space. Barely enough room for stretchers, but it gets the job done."

She nodded, "Hm. Patrols?"

"Patrols are solid, but the academic side's a mess," Colin said. "Vista's covering nearly two shifts a day. Weld's still helping out, even though his rotation ended last week."

Hannah gave a small, knowing smile. "Nice kid."

"He is," Colin agreed. His smile came without effort. Weld could be intense at times, too serious for his own good, but in those moments Colin often saw something familiar. A younger version of himself, maybe. The same drive. The same weight of expectation, self-imposed or not. Very all or nothing.

Across the table, Saitama shifted in his seat. He adjusted the hood slightly, then leaned over to pluck a third juice box from a nearby tray someone had left behind. He poked the straw through the foil top and took a sip.

"He's not biting," Dragon said in Colin's earpiece.

Hannah gave Colin a sidelong glance. There was a trace of humor in it. We gave it a shot, she seemed to say. Subtle didn't seem to work on Saitama. Should they try to be straightforward?

Colin gave a slight nod back.

She set her cast gently on the edge of the table, adjusted her seat.

"I was there, you know," she said, her voice light but purposeful. "I saw what you did."

There was a pause where no one answered. Eventually, the hooded man noticed the lull and realized someone had spoken to him.

Saitama looked up, blinking. "Uh, where?"

Hannah tilted her head. "Leviathan. When you ended the fight before most of us even knew what was happening. You saved a lot of lives. It reminded me a little of Hero, believe it or not. The way it all stopped. It stuck with me."

Saitama blinked once, then gave her a slightly squinted look, like he was just now realizing she might have been there too. He gave a small shrug.

"Oh. That."

He said it the way someone might respond to being thanked for passing the salt.

Saitama gave a short laugh, almost sheepish. "You know, when you said that, it reminded me of someone. Kinda strange hearing it from someone else."

"Friend?" Hannah asked.

"Sort of. My disciple. He's a nice kid. Gets intense, though. Likes to go all-in as soon as anything starts. I don't tell him, but he reminds me of me when I was starting out."

Across the table, Colin and Hannah shared a look. It lasted a second, maybe two. She raised her brows slightly. Colin gave a faint nod in return.

"I get that," Colin said.

Then something about what he said struck him. Reminded him of something else.

His expression shifted. He glanced down for a moment, then looked back at Saitama.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask."

Hannah sat back a little, catching the change in his tone. Her expression settled into something more neutral.

"When the fight started, we noticed something. At first we thought maybe your power ramped up over time, like one of our local villains, Lung. But I've reviewed the footage. Read every report, including those from two of our local villains."

He paused briefly.

"You were holding back. You could have ended that fight the moment it started."

Saitama tilted his head slightly. There was no visible reaction. He just sipped from his juice box, set it down, and nodded once.

"Yeah," he said. "That sounds right."

"Colin, wait." Dragon's voice came through his earpiece, sharper than before. She had known him long enough to recognize when his patience was about to give out.

Armsmaster's hand came down hard on the tabletop. The sound cracked across the cafeteria like someone had dropped a tray. Hannah flinched beside him, startled, and her free hand shifted beneath the table. There was the telltale click of something small and metallic. A baton, probably. She didn't extend it, but it was there. Just in case.

Saitama looked over, putting down his drink. A crease had formed between his brows. Not confusion. More like concern.

A few of the nearby troopers and staff turned their heads, curious but wary. Across the room, the Wards paused mid-conversation, but none of them got up. Those who were local knew Armsmaster well enough to stay put and keep the others from escalating.

Armsmaster leaned forward. "We lost someone during the chase." His voice was rough, tight with anger. "Velocity. Solid on recon. Better on response. Got caught in an explosion after Leviathan redirected a flame-based attack into a tanker. Ignited a gas line. Took out a block and him along with it. Water slowed him down too much."

Miss Militia's expression shifted, subtle. She didn't look away from Armsmaster, didn't say anything either. Just watched him.

Saitama had gone quiet. The usual slackness in his face was gone. He gave a small nod, his attention focused now.

Armsmaster's jaw tightened. "You could've ended it. Before that happened. You knew what you were capable of. So why didn't you do it?"

Conversations near them picked back up, trays clattered, and the hum of vending machines filled the silence. People went back to eating, talking, and moving on. It seemed Saitama had gone unrecognized.

Saitama looked down at his tray, and pushed it aside. He let out a breath. "I said something like this to my disciple once," he began. "Most of the time, I show up late. Not proud of it. Just happens. Even when I get there early or on time, there's still damage. Something almost always goes wrong. I don't fix everything." He gave a small shrug. "I've got a reason for how I do things, but I don't think it's the kind people like."

There was silence as two people walked by their table, enjoying a conversation. The glass door shut behind them, and they parted ways. One stayed behind and waved goodbye at the other, who jogged out of sight through the corridor with a laugh.

"A word of advice." Armsmaster leaned forward slightly, his tone firm. "Don't play games with people's lives. Others might have to live with the consequences of your decisions." He paused. "And some don't even get that."

Of all the blows he'd taken since the fight with Leviathan began, it was that final one that caused a reaction in the hooded man. Saitama had taken damage.

Saitama didn't reply. He just leaned back and let the quiet stretch out.

Around them, the cafeteria slowly settled. Forks scraped against plates, someone sneezed near the vending machines, and a janitor muttered under his breath while mopping up a spilled drink in the corner. Triumph passed by on his crutches, nodded their way, and kept moving.

Minutes passed.

Colin finally looked back at Saitama. "You staying?"

Saitama glanced toward the food line, where the options were starting to dwindle. "Might get another bite."

Colin let out a breath. The frustration had faded to something manageable. He slid his tray across the table. "Take mine."

Saitama blinked, surprised. "You sure? You didn't even touch it."

"I'm sure," Colin said, giving a faint smile.

Saitama cracked the chopsticks apart and tucked into the noodles, pleased enough to eat in silence.

After a while, Hannah stood. She offered Colin a nod, gave Saitama a polite smile, and made her way out of the room. Not long after, Dragon's voice returned in his ear, distant and clipped. Something about a situation in the northeast. Possible activity from the Fallen. She signed off quickly, her tone already halfway into the next crisis.

Colin stayed where he was, arms resting on the table, listening to the occasional slurp from across the booth.

"For what it's worth," he said, still facing forward, "I'm glad you showed up. Late or not. You saved more than lives that day. I didn't see it then, but I was about to make a serious mistake."

Saitama looked up and gave a small nod. "It's cool."

A pause settled between them.

Colin tapped his finger against the table once, thoughtful.

If he had a talent for anything outside of engineering and tactics, it was saying the wrong thing at the worst possible time. Came to him as naturally as breathing.

Conversations like this weren't his strong suit. But Dragon would ask how it went, eventually. Piggot would expect a debrief. And maybe this was the closest he'd get to the kind of common ground Dragon kept nudging him toward.

He sighed softly and let the corner of his mouth lift. If nothing else, maybe she'd get a laugh out of it.

"So," Colin said, "your disciple. What's his story?"

Saitama perked up a bit. "Genos?"

He leaned back slightly, still chewing, then grinned. His hood fell back, and Colin squinted at the glare.

"Arms…master, right?" Saitama asked.

Colin nodded, too distracted rubbing his eyes behind his mask to realize that he hadn't needed to correct the other cape. Not until Dragon brought it up later.

"Well, first thing you should know is, the guy's got more metal than sense. And I mean that literally."