Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was always something about the night, something both alien and familiar, like a melody half-forgotten but still haunting the back of one’s mind. A kind of silence existed here, not the brittle stillness of a tomb, but a velvet quiet that pressed against the skin, saturating every sense. For those who rarely lingered under its watchful gaze, the night was not peace but peril — a slow, creeping terror that gnawed at the edges of their composure. Humanity had not discovered fire for warmth alone. They had conjured it as a ward against darkness, against that which slithered beyond perception. The unknown was frightening enough in daylight; cloaked in pitch, hidden from every sense, it became a primal terror. Even when logic whispered that nothing was there, the body’s instincts betrayed its reason, muscles tightening, heart pattering in anticipation of a predator that might never come.

If Hell were anything more than myth, I had long suspected it would not be all flame and torment. No, Hell would be empty and dark — a void without walls, a space where one’s fears multiplied and turned inward, echoing forever against nothingness. I turned my eyes skyward, toward the cold lantern of the moon. It hung heavy and full above me, bathing the world in a light that was pale yet steady — a fragile bulwark against the ink of night. Its glow became my anchor, my guide, my solitary companion as I worked.

The stars sprawled across the heavens like grains of salt spilled across black velvet. I scanned them automatically, searching for Polaris to gauge the time. Exactness wasn’t critical tonight. For the ritual I planned, intent mattered more than precision; will outweighed the ticking of any clock. Magic, after all, was not only a discipline of formulas and arcane laws. Beneath the rituals and sigils, its most actual essence was will — the ability to reach out and seize the weave of reality, shaping it through sheer conviction. The greatest of our kind, the masters whispered about in reverent tones, could cast without implements or incantations, shaping miracles with nothing but a flicker of thought. I had once seen a wizard lift a hand and, with no word or staff, reduce his enemies to silence — not death, not destruction, simply absence. That kind of power was true terror. It was also something I had never come close to touching.

I exhaled, slow and controlled, a visible stream of breath in the chill air. I hated this place — hated being stranded in a world not my own. When a madman tore open rifts between realities, I had been one of the unlucky ones dragged into the chaos. My research here had revealed the culprit’s name: Professor Haywire. A self-styled supervillain, of course. They always were. Whatever his delusions of grandeur, the man had left me marooned.

I crouched again and extended my senses. The colors bled and dulled as my spell took hold, sharpening my night vision at the cost of vibrancy. Sound stretched farther, too, like invisible tendrils probing the dark. After a few heartbeats, I examined my handiwork. On the cracked pavement before me lay a chalk-drawn pentacle, encased in a perfect circle — or, instead, a hula hoop packed with salt. Ridiculous, perhaps, but drawing a flawless circle five times over would have been madness. The hoop was simply practical. This was my fifth and final circle tonight. The other four already stood ready across the Bay, each a node in a greater whole.

This spell was dangerous. Typically, a coven would attempt something like this — a ritual that requires focus, precision, and shared strength. But I had no one. I’d erred on the side of extreme caution. Overkill, perhaps, but I refused to risk innocent lives. A single circle should have been enough to push a single soul between worlds, at least in theory. Five interlinked circles, feeding and focusing my will, would hopefully prevent any disastrous backlash. Hopefully, I doubted I could destroy all five at once if something went wrong.

I closed my eyes. Deadening one sense always sharpened the others; with each sense cut off, concentration multiplied. In darkness, I reached inward. There it was: my Will — the core of me, the extension of my self into the bones of the world. I dipped my hand metaphorically into that primal current, feeling it surge like molten light under my skin. “Tirion Lómië,” I whispered. The words were not an incantation but an invocation — a mantra. Transcend limits. The phrase steadied me, reminded me of the dream that had first driven me to magic. That with nothing but knowledge and will, a mortal could touch the domain of gods, if only for an instant.

I drew deeper. My staff creaked in protest under my tightening grip, the carved wood grounding me as I pulled more and more of myself into the work. “Lindë úva,” I intoned softly. My voice was steady — it had to be. Emotion warped magic like a mirror bent out of shape. “Lindë úva,” I spoke again, louder, siphoning power from the five circles in unison.

When I opened my eyes, lightning crawled across the edges of my vision — not striking, not yet, but coiling within the circle like a serpent penned in glass. Good. It was holding. I inhaled once, deep and slow, then thrust my arm forward, fingers splayed. My voice broke into a roar. “Lindë úva!” Three was always the number. Spoken thrice, the phrase became a blade rather than a whisper.

The world answered. A thunderclap cracked the night as lightning struck within the circle, only feet from me, contained but violent. Then again. Then again. My spell shuddered under the weight of what I had summoned—the air split with a jagged seam of wrongness — a fissure in reality itself. I cut off my will immediately, severing the flow, but the lightning did not stop.

Panting, I clutched the staff with both hands, my body trembling. The crack faded, yet above each of the five circles, lightning continued to fall, hammering at the center of each pentacle in perfect synchrony. This was bad. Very bad. Even if my circles held, this display would draw attention like moths to a flame.

I tried to move, to stand, but my body rebelled against me. My legs folded beneath me, and I fell sideways, my arm barely cushioning my head. Pain flared sharply in my ribs where a rock dug into my side. My triceps burned where the pavement scraped skin away. The last bolts of lightning fell as my vision went black. I hadn’t intended—

I awoke to pain. Not just pain but an immense, pulsing migraine, like the weight of Alexandria herself pressing onto my skull. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as though my own blood sought to deafen me. Opening my eyes was like staring into a thousand needles of white light. I shut them again immediately, cursing myself. Deep breaths. In. Out. Again. Again.

Slowly, I tried again. This time, the pain was duller, the fluorescent lights overhead still harsh but tolerable. My vision swam, then steadied enough for me to recognize my surroundings: a hospital room. The sharp tang of antiseptic filled my nose. An IV trailed from my arm, dripping clear fluid into me. I craned my neck to see the bag, but the label was turned away. Whatever they were giving me wasn’t working on the ache clawing at my bones. I felt like I’d been struck by a truck.

The curtains were drawn, the room anonymous. BBGH or Medhall, I guessed. Hopefully not the latter — I had no desire to limp through Nazi Central just to get home. Pulling back the sheets, I released a breath of relief: no catheter. Small mercies.

I scanned the room, finding no one waiting. Not surprising. My hand fumbled for the call button just out of reach. After a few tries, I pressed it. A young nurse entered soon after, visibly relaxing at the sight of me awake.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said.

“Yeah,” my voice was a rasp. “Where am I, and how long have I been here?”

“You’re at Brockton General. You’ve been here a few hours. Panacea stopped by about an hour ago. Looks like just severe exhaustion — a miracle, frankly, that you’re awake already.”

I chuckled and immediately regretted it. My whole body ached as though I’d been cooked from the inside out. “So when can I get out of here?”

Before she could answer, someone else entered.

The shift in the room was immediate — a new weight, a new presence. The woman wore green fatigues tucked into heavy combat boots. An American flag bandana hid the lower half of her face. A hero. This had just become complicated.

“We need to ask you a few questions before you leave, sir.” Her voice carried an accent I couldn’t place, somewhere between the Mediterranean and the Middle East.

I adjusted the bed so I could sit up. The motor whined and burned out halfway, leaving me propped awkwardly. No surprise. Magic and technology never mixed well — the curse of being a wizard.

I drew in a calming breath. “Go right ahead. Ask away.”

She nodded at the nurse, who slipped out, shutting the door.

“I’m Miss Militia, Protectorate East-Northeast.” She left unsaid what was obvious — that they’d found no record of me anywhere—a clever tactic.

“I’m Xander McClaine,” I replied, giving only what I must. I hated interrogations. They always made me feel small.

Miss Militia sat beside the bed, relaxed but deliberate. She didn’t take notes, which eased my tension. Maybe this wasn’t a prelude to charges. I could see the shape of her smile in her eyes above the bandana. “It’s nice to meet you, Xander. Can you tell me where you’re from?”

Straight to the heart of it. “Not from here.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Mr. McClaine, please be specific. The ID in your wallet doesn’t match anything in Maine’s database. In fact, it’s got more security features than anything we’ve ever issued.”

My shoulders slump so much for staying off the radar. “I’m not from Earth Bet. Don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m here now, and trying to get back.”

She took it in stride. “Earth Aleph then?”

I nodded. It was as good a shorthand as any.

“Been trying to get home for two weeks,” I said.

Miss Militia leaned in, eyes sharp. “How have you been trying?”

I flinched internally at the slip. “Techniques from back home.” Weak, but all I’d give. She didn’t press, just held my gaze until I looked away first.

“Mr. McClaine,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with authority. “We’d like you to come to headquarters to answer a few questions on record. You’ll be treated well. We want to help.”

I stared at my hands. I didn’t have much choice. My funds were nearly gone. If nothing else, perhaps the government could offer something in return. “If they’ll discharge me, I’m willing to talk there.”

“Good.” She rose, already moving to make it happen.

Miss Militia stepped out of the room, her boots thudding softly against the linoleum as the door clicked shut behind her. The silence that followed was more profound than before, more complete, as if the walls were listening now.

I leaned back against the stiff hospital pillow, grimacing as the worn stuffing offered about as much support as a pile of wet newspapers. My fingers traced the edge of the IV port, the plastic cool against my skin. I could feel the dull rhythm of the drip echo faintly through my veins — sterile, synthetic life being pumped into me like I was a machine being rebooted.

Exhaustion hung on me like a lead cloak, but I didn’t let it pull me under again. Not with people watching. Not in this world.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. This time, it wasn’t Miss Militia but a pair of nurses, one of whom looked about five minutes out of college and the other who wore the weathered calm of someone who’d seen people die too often to flinch anymore. Between the two of them, I was unhooked from the IV, checked for responsiveness, and handed a clipboard full of paperwork I barely skimmed before signing.

“Discharge approved,” the older nurse said simply, tearing off the top sheet with a practiced flick. “You’re all set. Try not to push yourself too hard — you were damn close to burning out completely.”

“If only I had a nickel for every time I heard that,” I muttered under my breath.

They didn’t laugh.

I stood — slowly. My legs trembled under my weight like newborn colts. My vision swam, a haze edging the corners, but I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. One hand found the edge of the bed, and the other gripped the staff they’d propped in the corner. The moment my fingers closed around the familiar carved wood, I felt it — the faint hum of connection. A piece of home. A piece of me.

When I stepped into the hallway, Miss Militia was already waiting. Her posture was relaxed, but I could feel the alertness coiled just beneath her skin. The American flag bandana still masked her mouth, but her eyes assessed me in a single glance, cataloging every weakness and twitch.

“You good to walk?” she asked.

“I’m good to move,” I said, not quite lying.

She nodded and turned, leading the way. I followed, staff lightly tapping the floor as we moved through the hospital’s quiet wing. We passed a couple of nurses, a janitor buffing scuffed tile, and a man in scrubs arguing softly into a phone. No one paid us much attention. That was a surprise — I’d half expected armed guards or handcuffs, maybe both. But there was nothing—just footsteps, echoing down sterile corridors.

Outside, the world was awash in early dawn. A faint blue hue crept across the sky, fading the stars and softening the edges of the night. Streetlights blinked overhead, their harsh white glow competing with the gentle approach of morning. The air smelled of rain that had never quite fallen, heavy with ozone — and something else.—the lingering, scorched tang of magic.

I stopped at the curb as a black SUV pulled up. Tinted windows. Government issue, or close enough. Miss Militia opened the rear passenger door and gestured for me to enter.

“Trust exercise?” I asked dryly.

“Call it a courtesy,” she replied. “You walk in of your own free will, or we make things… harder.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender and slid into the backseat. The leather was cold against my skin, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil and old coffee. A second later, Miss Militia climbed in beside me, followed by a low clunk as the locks clicked into place.

We drove in silence for several minutes. The driver — a clean-shaven man with a build like a brick wall and eyes that didn’t miss a thing in the rearview mirror — kept his attention fixed ahead. He didn’t speak, and neither did Miss Militia. I stared out the window, watching Brockton Bay slide past in fragments.

This version of the city was familiar, yet it felt unfamiliar. The architecture was the same — squat brick buildings, peeling paint, narrow alleyways like veins between concrete organs — but there was something in the atmosphere that was... off. The people moved with a nervous energy, a tension just beneath the surface. Every street corner had a camera. Every rooftop bore a shadow too still to be natural.

This place wasn’t just different from my Earth. It was warped, as if someone had taken the blueprint and redrawn it with a trembling hand.

Eventually, we turned off the main road and passed through a checkpoint — steel gates rising like the jaws of some great beast. Two PRT agents with rifles stood watch, their helmets smooth and featureless. One scanned the license plate. The other scanned me. I felt the tingle of something magical — no, paranormal — brushing against my skin like cobwebs.

A moment later, the gate opened. The SUV rolled forward into a private lot beneath a looming government facility.—grayconcrete. No windows. If a prison and a fortress had a child, this would be it.

We parked, and the driver stepped out, opening the door for us. Miss Militia motioned again, and I climbed out. My knees protested, but I didn’t show it.

Inside, the building was cold and sterile, with hallways lined in reinforced polymer and steel. The light fixtures buzzed faintly overhead, casting pale illumination with no warmth. We passed through three checkpoints, two biometric scans, and what I think was a low-level psychic filter that made my teeth itch.

Eventually, we came to a door marked simply: INTERVIEW ROOM 3.

Miss Militia opened it and gestured for me to enter. I did. The room was simple: a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a camera in the top corner, blinking red. No mirrors. No intimidation tactics. Just cold efficiency.

I sat. She sat across from me.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I rested both hands on the table, one atop the other, fingers twitching occasionally with the echoes of spent magic. She was younger than I’d guessed, late twenties maybe, but her eyes were older — the kind that had seen too much and kept seeing anyway.

“Xander,” she said. “This isn’t an interrogation. We’re not trying to threaten you or hold you against your will. But I need you to understand something.”

I waited.

“You used power last night that doesn’t match anything we’ve cataloged,” she continued. “No parahuman signature. No classification. And it nearly destabilized a section of the city grid with electromagnetic feedback. Five separate emergency calls reported lightning strikes — each perfectly timed.—no natural explanation. Our first assumption was a Master or Stranger power in play. Then Panacea ruled out brain damage. So here we are.”

I exhaled slowly, tension creeping back into my shoulders.

“We need to know what you are,” she said finally. “Not because we want to lock you up. But because something bigger may be coming through next time. And we can’t afford to be blindsided.”

My throat was dry. I spoke slowly, choosing each word like it might explode in my mouth.

“I’m not a cape,” I said. “I’m a wizard. Not a title, not a joke. I don’t shoot lasers or bend metal with my mind. I work with reality. I reshape the world through will and ritual. What you saw last night was me trying to go home through one of the few methods I could think of that wouldn’t level a square mile of city in the process.”

Miss Militia stared at me for a long time. Then she said, “Show me.”

Silence.

Then I reached into my coat and pulled a small coin from my pocket — silver, etched with a rune that pulsed faintly in the overhead light.

With a flick of my thumb, I spun it across the table.

As it turned, shadows bent unnaturally around it. The camera in the corner sparked once, then went dead. The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees instantly.

Miss Militia didn’t move.

The coin fell flat.

I watched the coin settle on the table — a perfect circle of etched silver that pulsed faintly with power. No tricks. No sleight of hand. Just a fragment of what I was. What I am.

The hum of the room changed—a subtle shift in the air pressure, like the space itself was holding its breath. The fluorescent lights above flickered, a hesitant stutter, before steadying again. The camera in the corner crackled once — not destroyed, but clearly disrupted. The rune had done its job.

Miss Militia didn’t move at first.

Her eyes dropped to the coin, then back to me. Her face didn’t change, but I could feel the shift behind her eyes — a flicker of unease, a recalibration.

Still, she didn’t buy it.

“You expect me to believe that was magic and not a parahuman ability?” she said finally, her voice calm, almost conversational, but with that thin steel thread running just beneath the surface.

I shrugged, slow and deliberate.

“You asked me to show you. That was the mildest demonstration I could manage without turning this room inside out. Or shorting out every circuit in the building. Believe me — I’m being considerate.”

“Coin tricks don’t impress me, Mr. McClaine.”

“That wasn’t a coin trick,” I replied. “That was a ward of consequence. An anchoring glyph, hand-etched in blessed silver, tuned to a fragment of my will. It disrupts passive surveillance and minor psychic residue within a five-foot radius. It’s meant for privacy. And mild deterrence.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, is it deterring?”

“Things that you notice when you’re being watched,” I said. “Things that watch you back.”

That gave her pause. Not confusion — this wasn’t a woman who got confused easily — but calculation. I could see her mind working behind her eyes, trying to fit my statements into her framework of the world and sorting them into boxes. Powers. Triggers. Tinker tech. Psychological anomalies. Stranger effects. But magic didn’t fit. Magic refused to accommodate.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table, fingers interlaced.

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I take you seriously. That what you just did wasn’t a parlor trick or a Tinker’s toy. Explain it. In words I can take back to Director Piggot without getting laughed out of the building.”

I let out a slow breath and sat back in the chair, fingers drumming on the table beside the coin. The hum of it had faded — a heartbeat gone still.

“Magic,” I began, “is not a mutation. It’s not a byproduct of trauma, genetics, or science. It’s an ancient language. Older than speech, older than writing. It’s the act of imposing will onto reality — not requesting, not coercing, but declaring. It’s the belief that thought, sharpened and shaped, can rewrite the laws of the universe.”

I could feel her skepticism rising again, but I pushed on.

“I didn’t get this power from a trigger event. I learned it. Like a language. Like math. Endless study. Years of burning away weakness and ego and assumptions until I could touch the raw stuff of creation and not go mad from it. Most people don’t even see it. It’s like trying to describe color to someone born blind.”

“You sound like a cultist,” Miss Militia said, evenly. “Or someone who spent too long alone.”

“I’ve been both,” I replied without bitterness. “But that doesn’t make me wrong.”

She considered me for a moment longer, then stood. Slowly. Walked over to the wall where a panel was embedded just beneath the camera.

She tapped it once.

A thin metallic click, and a drawer slid out with a low hiss of pressure. From it, she retrieved a narrow strip of black plastic and metal — a standard PRT analyzer slate. I recognized it, vaguely. A device designed to measure parahuman emissions, signatures, temperature shifts, electromagnetic interference, and the like.

She stepped forward and held it a foot above the coin. The display blinked to life — a soft, mechanical chirp filling the room.

A graph spiked.

Then spiked again.

Then flatlined.

She frowned.

“Power spike, then dead air. Like something scrambled it.”

“Not scrambled,” I said. “Redirected. It didn’t like being watched.”

She looked at me sharply. “It?”

I met her gaze. “Magic isn’t a tool. It’s not inert. It reacts. It listens. Every spell, every rune, every circle is a conversation with something older and more dangerous than you or I could ever understand. You want to use it safely, you treat it with respect.”

Miss Militia was silent. The machine in her hand beeped again, then powered down, unable to get a lock.

She returned it to the drawer and turned to face me again, arms crossed.

“You’re not lying,” she said finally.

“No,” I said. “I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”

“And these circles — the lightning strikes — they were part of a ritual?”

I nodded. “Five focusing circles. Linked at specific sites around the bay. Each reinforced with sigils of binding and protection. I intended to concentrate the residual leylines of this world — or your world, I suppose — into a singular aperture. A doorway home.”

“And you thought this wouldn’t cause attention?”

“I took every precaution I could. The salt circles were reinforced. The power was contained. I staggered the activations to prevent a simultaneous surge. It should have worked.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No. Something pushed back. Hard.”

Miss Militia’s expression darkened. “Something on our side?”

I hesitated. That was the problem. I didn’t know.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Or something between worlds. A guardian construct, maybe. A threshold warden. Some dimensions don’t like being bridged. That’s the reason it is forbidden to breach the outer gates; there are things far older and powerful that are locked away for our protection.”

“That’s comforting,” she muttered.

I offered a tired smile. “Welcome to my world.”

She didn’t return the smile, but she sat back down.

“This… is going to take time. I can’t promise that the higher-ups will take this at face value. None of them believes Earth Aleph has magic, let alone another reality bleeding it into ours. They’ll want to run tests. Interviews. Background checks.”

“Background on what, exactly? My life back home? My high school GPA? Whether I paid taxes before being yeeted across the multiverse?”

She didn’t laugh, but her eyes softened—just a fraction.

“Look,” she said, more gently now. “I’m not trying to screw you over. But you dropped lightning on five parts of the city in less than ten minutes, with no known Tinker rig, no support crew, and no official registration. You’re lucky I’m the one sitting here and not Armsmaster. Or Piggot.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“But if you’re telling the truth… if you really are from another world, and you’ve been trying to get back… then we might be able to help you. Not fast. And not without oversight. But help, nonetheless.”

I studied her for a moment. The shield was still up — calm, measured, professional — but the edges of it were fraying. She believed enough to consider the rest. That was more than I could’ve hoped for.

“And in return?” I asked quietly.

Miss Militia didn’t hesitate.

“You help us understand what you are, what you can do. And whether or not anyone else might come through the way you did.”

There it was. The catch. Always a catch.

I looked down at the coin.

The rune pulsed once, then went still.

“I can agree to that,” I said finally. “For now.”

Miss Militia gave a slow nod.

“Then let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

The chamber smelled like steel and ozone. I didn’t need to look to know that there were at least three cameras pointed at me, and probably a couple of hidden microphones as well. They’d want a clean recording of whatever I did. The problem was that magic didn’t play nice with tech. If I pushed too hard, their toys would fry.

“Basic demonstration,” Miss Militia said. Calm, professional, watching me like a handler watching a bomb-sniffing dog. “Something controlled. No collateral damage.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “But don’t blame me if your electronics start coughing.”

I set my staff against the wall — no need to spook them with theatrics — and pulled a simple silver coin from my pocket—a focus. A crutch, really, but it helped channel my will without splattering it everywhere.

I closed my eyes, drew in a slow breath, and whispered a word of power. The syllable vibrated in my chest like a struck bell. Heat sparked across my fingertips as I poured will into the coin.

The cameras above gave an unhappy pop, one after another. Sparks dropped like angry fireflies. The overhead lights dimmed, then flickered, settling into a sullen glow.

When I opened my hand, the coin hovered an inch above my palm, spinning lazily. Arcs of static crawled across its surface, snapping and spitting blue sparks that bit at the air.

That was the showy part. The hard part was keeping it contained. Magic wanted to spread, to ripple outward, to twist itself into everything it touched. I forced the sparks to circle the coin in a tight halo instead of lashing out toward the walls. My knuckles turned white from the strain.

Behind the one-way glass, someone swore, muffled but audible.

Miss Militia didn’t move, but her eyes flicked up at the ruined cameras, then back to me.

“That isn’t a parahuman signature,” she said quietly.

“Nope,” I rasped, sweat prickling down my spine. “This is me. Willpower, shaped and shoved into the world until it listens. Call it magic, call it crazy, but it works.”

I snapped my fingers, breaking the flow. The coin dropped into my palm with a heavy clink. The lights flickered again, then steadied.

Every nerve in my hand buzzed like I’d been gripping a live wire. My head pounded — that familiar ache that came from pushing just a little too much, too fast. I clenched my jaw and pocketed the coin before they saw the tremor in my fingers.

Miss Militia studied me in silence for a long moment. Then:
“You didn’t want to do that,” she said.

“Because every time I do, it feels like I’m sticking my hand in a meat grinder,” I shot back. “Magic isn’t cheap parlor tricks. It takes something out of you every time. And if you screw it up, the backlash makes sure you regret it.”

The intercom above us crackled. “Miss Militia. Director Piggot wants you in Control. Now.”

Her gaze stayed on me for a beat longer, unreadable, then she nodded toward the door.

“This conversation isn’t over.”

Piggot’s office was as stark as the woman herself: no knick-knacks, no family photos, no softness. Just files stacked with military precision and the faint chemical tang of coffee burned too long on a hot plate.

She didn’t bother with small talk.

“You destabilized one of my testing chambers.” Her voice was even, but heavy with restrained irritation. “Three cameras down. Two microphones fried. My tech team estimates ten thousand dollars in damages, and that’s before we factor in recalibration.”

I winced. “Yeah, that happens. Magic and electronics don’t get along. You can thank the resonance between—”

“I don’t care about the explanation,” she cut in, sharp as a scalpel. “What I care about is whether it will happen every time you breathe inside my city.”

I bit my tongue. She wasn’t exaggerating — the field of static I carried around with me was enough to make elevators nervous.

“Short answer? Yes. Unless I work at it. And even then…” I spread my hands. “Let’s just say cellphones near me tend to have short, tragic lives.”

Piggot’s frown deepened. She tapped a pen against the desk once. “Then you are an infrastructure threat. Brockton Bay is already a fragile ecosystem: gangs, parahuman violence, and industrial decay. If you add a walking electromagnetic pulse into the mix, that’s not an asset. That’s a liability.”

I leaned forward. “And yet, here I am. Alive. Not a cape. Not a parahuman. Something different.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Different doesn’t mean useful. Miss Militia claims you generate lightning, fire, and kinetic force. Parahuman powers, in every measurable sense. If you insist this is ‘magic,’ then explain it. In terms that matter to me.”

I hesitated, then pulled the silver coin back out of my pocket and rolled it across my knuckles.

“Magic is will made real,” I said slowly. “Belief and focus. Think of it like… hacking reality. The world operates according to rules, much like code. Most people just use the interface. I dig into the raw strings underneath and shove my edits in.”

Her pen stilled. Her gaze was a scalpel again. “And anyone could learn this?”

“In theory. In practice?” I gave her a flat look. “No. Too much training, too much danger. It’s like asking if anyone can do brain surgery while juggling chainsaws. Sure. Doesn’t mean they’ll live to finish the attempt.”

Piggot sat back, expression unreadable. “So what you’re telling me is that this—” she gestured vaguely at me, the coin, the lingering static in the air— “isn’t unique. Just rare.”

“Exactly.” I pocketed the coin. “Where I come from, there are whole traditions. Old ones. Wizards, shamans, priests. Each with their own tools and methods. And all of us have to respect the same rules: magic has a cost, magic leaves a footprint, and magic attracts attention you don’t want.”

Her eyebrow twitched. “Attention.”

I didn’t smile. “From the wrong side of the looking glass. You have your Endbringers, your S-class threats. Where I’m from, we have the Nevernever. Spirits, fae, predators that think humans are a snack and a half. Trust me — you don’t want to ring their doorbell.”

For the first time, Piggot’s composure shifted — not much, but enough that I caught the way her fingers tightened on the desk.

“You’re saying there are… entities. Capes we don’t know about. Off the books. Hidden.”

“Not capes.” I shook my head. “Not parahumans. Things older than parahumans. Older than humanity. And if they figure out there’s a new world to crawl into, they’ll come running. That’s why I keep the fireworks to a minimum. Why don’t I like doing big rituals here? It’s not just draining for me. It’s a beacon.”

The silence in the room grew heavy.

Piggot finally exhaled through her nose. “So if what you’re saying is true — if this is more than just another power set — then your very existence here represents an unquantified strategic risk.”

“Pretty much.”

She leaned forward, gaze like iron. “Then you understand why I can’t afford to treat you as just another cape. I can’t let you run free. If your ‘magic’ destabilizes my city, if it invites an external incursion, then you will be contained. Permanently.”

I swallowed hard. She meant it. No bluff, no hesitation. Just cold, military calculus.

“Director,” I said carefully, “you have two choices. Cage me, or work with me. But if you cage me, you won’t be ready when the real monsters decide to take a bite.”

Her stare lingered on me like a weight pressing down. Then she tapped her intercom.

“Summon Armsmaster. We’re revising containment protocols.”

Piggot leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze unflinching. “Let’s establish terms. The PRT classifies capes by function. Blaster. Shaker. Brute. Mover. Stranger. Thinker. You know the list.”

I shrugged. “I’ve picked up some of the lingo. Not really how we categorize things back home.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “It’s how we do it here. So. You throw lightning. That’s a Blaster power. You disrupted our electronics. That could be Shaker. You claim you can strengthen objects with runes — Brute or Tinker analogues. Which is it?”

“None of the above.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That isn’t an answer.”

I exhaled slowly, fighting down the urge to be a smartass. “Look, you’re trying to fit a square peg into round holes. Magic doesn’t do categories. It’s willpower plus imagination, bounded by discipline and a lot of sweat. It’s not one thing. It’s… flexible.”

“Flexible,” she repeated, voice dry as dust. “That word is a problem. Flexible means unpredictable. Unpredictable means uncontainable. And that makes you a threat.”

My jaw tightened. “So what do you want me to say? That I’m a Blaster-12 with a side of Shaker-6? Magic isn’t about raw numbers. It’s about tradeoffs. You want lightning? Sure. But it costs me. You want shields? Fine. I can hold them for a while, then I collapse. You want long-range rituals? That takes days of prep and a blood sacrifice or three. Nothing’s free.”

Piggot’s gaze sharpened at that. “Blood sacrifice?”

I grimaced. “Not people. Never people. But life force has weight. You want to punch through the walls of the world? You need leverage. And the universe doesn’t take checks.”

For the first time, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes — not fear, not exactly. Calculation. “So you’re saying your abilities scale with preparation and cost.”

“Exactly.”

“That makes you closer to a Tinker,” she said, half to herself. “A Tinker without blueprints. Which is worse?”

“Worse?”

“Tinkers are at least predictable,” she said coldly. “We catalog their specialties, we restrict their resources, we limit their output. You’re claiming you can improvise effects across multiple classifications as long as you ‘pay the price.’ That puts you in the category of parahumans we dread most.”

“Which category’s that?” I asked, though I already had a guess.

She met my eyes, steady and unblinking. “Unclassifiable.”

The word hung in the air like a death sentence.

Before I could answer, she continued. “You mentioned ‘attracting attention.’ Define that.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Every time I throw weight into a spell, it’s like ringing a dinner bell. Things notice. From the Nevernever.”

She tapped her pen. “Explain the Nevernever.”

“Short version? Parallel reality. Layers of it. Some are wild and empty, some not. It touches every world, every place, every when. And there are… things that live there. Spirits. Fae. Predators that make your Endbringers look polite at dinner parties.”

Piggot didn’t blink. “You’re telling me there’s an unmonitored, hostile parallel dimension that can reach into my city if you push too hard.”

“Yep.”

“And this dimension is populated by hostile entities.”

“Not all hostile. But enough that it’s a bad idea to leave the doors unlocked.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “So in addition to being unclassifiable, unpredictable, and a walking hazard to electronics, you represent a potential breach vector for hostile incursions. Does that sound accurate?”

I spread my hands. “When you put it like that, I sound like a nightmare. But I try not to screw up, okay? I know the risks. I’ve lived them. Where I come from, we had entire organizations dedicated to keeping magic under wraps, keeping the worst things contained.”

“And what happened to them?” Piggot asked, tone sharp.

“They fought. They bled. Some died. But the world kept spinning.”

“Not good enough.” Piggot leaned back, voice cutting like glass. “This isn’t your world. We face Endbringers every few months. We face S-class threats that annihilate cities in hours. The only reason civilization holds together is control. Classification. Containment. If you won’t fit our boxes, then you’ll be placed in one of them anyway — even if that box is concrete and steel.”

The silence after that was heavy, broken only by the faint buzz of the lights.

Finally, I said, “You’re not wrong. But if you try to lock me up, you’ll lose the one guy who actually knows how to fight the kind of monsters I’m talking about. And when they come knocking, you’ll wish you had me on the field.”

Piggot’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth — irritation or amusement, hard to tell.

“Armsmaster will want to hear this,” she said flatly. “You’ll repeat every word for his report. And if I catch so much as a hint that you’re withholding information, Mr. McClaine…” She let the pause stretch, heavy as an executioner’s axe. “…you won’t see daylight again.”

I let out a little sigh, my exhalation clearly aggravating the woman across from me. Good. She’s being a self-righteous bitch. “Director,” I started by using her formal title. See? I could at least pretend to be nice, progress. “The thing you don’t realize here is that even without me pushing these creatures from the Nevernever, they could still come. Then all you would have done is lock away the only person in this reality that knows how to deal with these sorts of things.” 

“Don’t patronize me. I don’t need you to remind me of the risks we face — I’ve seen more than my share of ‘unstoppable’ threats, and most of them looked just as indispensable at first glance. Then they slipped, lost control, or decided the rules didn’t apply to them. You want me to believe you’re different?” She leaned forward, voice sharp and dry. “Prove it. Show me results, show me restraint, and maybe — maybe — I’ll consider that you’re not just another liability dressed up as an asset. Until then, don’t mistake your knowledge for immunity from oversight.” I hung my head. People never seem to learn.

“You are a problem,” she said evenly. “And problems that threaten my city do not leave these walls.”

She meant it. Every clipped word carried the weight of authority. I could see the shape of her mind — a woman who turned people into lines on a chart, threats into boxes to check, numbers to balance. For her, I wasn’t a man. I was a liability with a pulse.

Then the world hiccuped.

The lights overhead didn’t flicker like bad wiring — they throbbed, as if every bulb inhaled and exhaled in unison. For a half-second, the room dimmed to black, then blazed back to bright, and every shadow stretched long across the floor like oil slicks crawling for the door.

My stomach dropped. That taste was back — metallic and cold, like blood on ice.

“Oh, hell.”

Piggot’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Something noticed me,” I muttered, half to myself. My hands were already moving, patting my coat for anything I could use. “This isn’t me. Not directly.”

The air chilled, sharp enough that frost bloomed along the windowpane with a crackling hiss. The water in Piggot’s coffee mug trembled before bursting outward, steaming in the cold. My breath became visible, each exhale curling like smoke.

Then came the whispers.

They weren’t loud. They weren’t words, not exactly. Just a low susurrus, a chorus of voices layered too deep to parse, like hearing twenty conversations behind a wall in a language you almost recognized but couldn’t understand. They pressed against my skull, gnawing at the edges of thought. My teeth ached.

Piggot’s hand dropped under her desk. When it came back, it was holding a pistol. “Explain.”

I barked a bitter laugh, because it was either that or panic. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

The far wall split.

A thin glowing seam traced itself across the plaster, hairline at first, then jagged and pulsing like a wound in the world. Darkness bulged against it, pressing outward, shapes writhing behind the fracture. Too thin, too long, moving with the liquid weight of smoke that somehow wasn’t smoke. The whispers swelled louder, scraping against reason.

Piggot’s knuckles whitened on her pistol grip.

“Nevernever breach,” I snapped, forcing my voice steady. “Something’s sniffing its way in.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away from the wall, but her eyes flicked sideways to me. “Contain it.”

Easy order. Not so easy in practice.

A limb pushed through.

It was black and jagged, like obsidian sculpted into a spider’s leg, each joint bending wrong. Frost trailed where it touched the air, and the metal bolts in Piggot’s desk shrieked as the thing’s presence warped them slightly out of alignment. The whispers spiked into something like a low, hungry laugh.

I didn’t think. Thinking was a luxury.

My hand dove into my coat and closed around a silver coin etched with runes. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. The hair on my arms stood straight as the limb scraped against the wall, widening the breach. A second limb followed, barbed and dripping something viscous that hissed where it hit the floor.

“Paper,” I muttered, lunging for Piggot’s desk. She recoiled slightly as I yanked a file folder open, scattering reports across the floor. I slapped one sheet flat and carved a crude circle into it with my thumbnail, muttering an old word that tasted like rust on my tongue.

The paper flared. Orange light burst outward, a circle of fire hanging in the air between us and the breach. The limb struck it — and recoiled, like an insect hitting glass. The impact rang like a church bell inside my skull. My teeth rattled.

The whispers turned to a screech, furious, echoing across both sides of reality. The light guttered, shuddering under the weight of something vastly stronger than my hasty scrawl.

I gritted my teeth and shoved more will into it. Magic wasn’t clean. It wasn’t polite. It was shoving your soul into the gears of the universe and forcing them to turn your way. Heat surged under my skin, burning down my arms into the paper. The circle held, but it bent inward, flexing like a rubber band that had been stretched too far.

The second limb lashed at the barrier, spines scraping sparks across the glowing line. My nose began to bleed.

Piggot, to her credit, didn’t scream or run. Her pistol was still leveled, her voice sharp as a whip: “What is it?”

“Hungry,” I ground out, fighting to keep the circle steady. My muscles shook with the strain, like I was holding back a truck with nothing but my bare arms. “Just hungry.”

The breach widened further. I caught glimpses now — shapes moving in the dark behind it, faceless and eyeless, yet watching and always watching.

The paper burned halfway down in my grip, black ash crumbling onto the desk. My vision swam. Too much, too fast.

“Guns won’t help!” I roared as Piggot took a step closer, weapon tracking the breach. “It’s not here, it’s trying to be here!”

The circle wavered, nearly snapping. I felt my knees hit the floor. The world tilted, pressure drilling behind my eyes. Desperation clawed up my throat.

I whispered a second word — harsher, older. It ripped through my vocal cords like barbed wire.

The circle flared white-hot. Fire roared across the paper, consuming it entirely. The light ballooned outward into a flash that seared the room. The breach slammed shut with the sound of tearing metal, the limbs recoiling into the dark. A final hiss of whispers echoed, then cut off.

Silence.

The frost melted instantly. Water ran down the windows in streaks. The only smell was scorched paper and the copper tang of my own blood.

I collapsed against the desk, coughing, the last blackened scrap of paper falling from my fingers. My hands shook uncontrollably, the tips of my nails blackened as if they’d been burned.

Piggot lowered her pistol slowly, her face unreadable, though her eyes betrayed the first crack — not fear, but recalculation.

“You said this would happen,” she said, her voice flat but quieter than before.

I wiped blood from my upper lip with a trembling hand. My throat burned raw, every word a rasp.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “And that was just a scout.”

Piggot’s jaw tightened. Her gaze lingered on the wall where the seam had been, then cut back to me.

“Containment protocols,” she said coldly. “Effective immediately.”

And for the first time since I’d met her, I saw something new in her eyes.

Not disdain.
Not dismissal.
But the grim, dawning realization that her neat little boxes and charts had no space for this.

Chapter Text

The steel table vibrated faintly under my hands. Not real vibration — more like resonance, the echo of power running beneath it. My palms itched. My lungs still felt too tight.

The whispers scratched at the edges of my mind, like claws on the other side of a door. Not words, not exactly. But pressure. Hunger. Awareness.

I wasn’t going to let them in.

I dragged my finger across the tabletop. Even that much motion was like hauling stone, my body trembling with exhaustion. A circle. Imperfect, shaky, but complete. I pressed a shard of will into it, gritting my teeth against the pain as the air around me shifted.

The line glowed. Faint orange, ember-light.

The whispers fell back. Not gone, but pushed away — like a tide pulling from shore.

Relief made me sag, forehead resting against the table’s cold steel. My ward pulsed gently in the dust, a child’s night-light holding back a sea of teeth.

“Hold,” I whispered. My voice was cracked and raw. “Just… hold.”

The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on.

On the monitor, Xander sat hunched over the steel table, staring at the faint circle he’d just drawn. The damn thing was glowing. Not flashy, not storm-of-lightning theatrical. Just a steady ember pulsing in time with his breathing.

And it was working. Whatever was pressing in before? It had stepped back. Even I could feel it — the pressure in the air gone, like a weight lifted.

Piggot’s jaw tightened. Armsmaster was already muttering something into his comm, his visor scrolling with readouts.

I didn’t care about the data. I saw the kid.

“Look at him,” I said, louder than I meant to. Heads turned. “He’s not a weapon. He’s not some doomsday trigger waiting to go off. He’s a scared teenager in a chair, holding back… whatever the hell that was… with nothing but chalk dust and sheer stubbornness.”

Piggot’s eyes cut to me, sharp as knives. “He destabilized five districts, Assault. We had lightning storms triangulated across the Bay. Our grid nearly collapsed.”

“And then he stopped it,” I shot back. “You saw the feed. He cut himself off before it went nuclear. And right now, he’s sitting in a room with nothing — no staff, no gear, no backup — and he’s still holding the line. Tell me how many capes you know could do that.”

Piggot’s nostrils flared. She didn’t like being challenged in front of the room. Tough.

“He’s dangerous,” she said, low. “Unpredictable. We don’t know what his limits are.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But we know his choices. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t try to break containment. He’s keeping the danger on that side of the circle. That’s not someone out of control. That’s someone fighting tooth and nail to stay in control.”

Armsmaster finally looked up. “Intent doesn’t mitigate hazard.”

I turned on him. “Tell that to Battery. Tell it to me. How many times do we throw ourselves into situations knowing the hazard curve’s off the charts, but we do it anyway because the alternative is worse? That’s what he’s doing. Alone. Without armor, without backup, without even knowing this world.”

Piggot opened her mouth, but I cut her off.

“You want to call him a liability? Fine. But you’re not watching the same feed I am. I see a guy who’s terrified and still keeping the wolves at bay. You put him in a box and treat him like a bomb, you’ll get the bomb you’re scared of. You give him trust, give him support—”

I pointed at the screen, jabbing my finger like I could punch the point through. “—and that circle he’s drawing to survive? He’ll draw it for us. For this city.”

The room went quiet again. Piggot’s glare could’ve stripped paint, but I didn’t flinch. I’d been yelled at by worse, and Battery would’ve smacked me upside the head if I stayed quiet here.

Piggot finally turned back to the monitor, her voice cold. “Isolation stands. Containment protocols are doubled. If you want to write your defense of him, Assault, do it in a report. But until I say otherwise, he stays in that room.”

Her tone said the matter was closed.

But as I looked at the monitor — at Xander, pale and trembling, eyes locked on the faint glow of his little ember circle — I didn’t feel like it was closed at all.

I felt like the only reason the shadows hadn’t crawled out of that room yet was because one stubborn wizard was refusing to let them.

And I wasn’t going to let him do it alone.

The debrief room emptied like someone had pulled a plug. Techs filed out fast, no one wanting to linger under Piggot’s gaze. Armsmaster disappeared in his usual silent, efficient way, visor already scrolling with schematics for whatever “containment protocols” he was designing.

I stayed seated because leaving felt like conceding.

Battery caught me on the way out. Not with words, not at first — just a hand on my arm, firm enough that I stopped. Her expression was neutral for the cameras, but her eyes… sharp, worried.

We walked in silence down the hall, through two security doors, until we found one of the side corridors with no lenses watching. Only then did she speak.

“You picked a hell of a time to make a stand.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Somebody had to.”

“Assault—” Her voice carried that edge she only used when she was balancing irritation with affection. “You went toe-to-toe with Piggot. In front of her entire staff. You know how that looks.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like someone in the room had a pulse.”

Her sigh was long, practiced. “I’m not saying you were wrong.” She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “But you painted a target on your back. On ours. Piggot doesn’t forget when people go against her, even if they’re right. Especially if they’re right.”

I shrugged. “Not the first target I’ve painted. Won’t be the last.”

“That’s not the point.”

Her voice softened, just a touch. “What if you’re wrong about him?”

That one hit. I looked at her, really looked. She wasn’t angry. She was afraid. Not of Piggot, not even of me getting benched — but of Xander.

I shook my head slowly. “You didn’t see what I saw. He was holding the line, Batts, and not pushing, not striking out — holding. I’ve been in fights with guys who couldn’t keep their powers in check if their lives depended on it. He’s not like that. He’s choosing. And that means something.”

The battery didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers hidden in the wiring.

Finally, she said, “You sounded like you were recruiting him.”

“Maybe I was.”

Her eyes snapped back to me. “That’s insane. We don’t even know what he is. He’s not a parahuman, he doesn’t fit the framework, he could—”

“Yeah,” I cut in gently. “He could. Or he could be exactly what this city needs. Someone who sees the monsters in the dark and doesn’t run. Someone who fights them back with nothing but will.”

Battery studied me for a long moment, the kind of silence that stretched out like a wire ready to snap.

Then she pushed off the wall, straightened her shoulders, and gave me that half-smirk I’d fallen for years ago. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Part of my charm.”

Her smirk faded as quickly as it came. “Just… be careful. Piggot’s already watching him like he’s a live grenade. Don’t give her a reason to think you’re pulling the pin.”

I nodded, more sober than I wanted to be. “Fair enough.”

We started walking again, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space between us.

But even as we left the secured corridor, I couldn’t shake the image of Xander hunched over that glowing circle, keeping the shadows at bay alone.

And I knew I wasn’t done fighting for him. Not by a long shot.

The circle held.

Not much, not strong, but it was there. A weak ember scrawled in dust and stubbornness.

I stared at it until my eyes burned, willing it to mean safety.

It didn’t, not really. Wards were about as strong as the caster’s will — and my will was running on fumes. The whispering had stopped pressing in, but it hadn’t gone. It was patient. I knew I couldn’t sit here forever.

That’s what scared me most. Not the claws, not the skittering shadows in the frost, not the screaming when the breach opened — the patience.

Monsters with patience were never good news.

So. Think.

What did I know?

I closed my eyes, reaching back through training, books, Watcher’s Council briefings I’d half-dozed through because I’d thought “Hellmouth theory” sounded like filler between apocalypse patrols.

The breach hadn’t been random. It had worked through. That scream hadn’t been rage. It had been… frustration like something banging its head against the glass when it couldn’t quite break in.

Too many limbs. That stuck with me. The flicker I caught before the feed cut wasn’t some convenient two-legged demon in a spiky loincloth. It was angles that didn’t fit, shadows that bent the wrong way—limbs, plural, and not all jointed right.

Not a vampire. Not a ghoul. Not even close.

I sifted through mental index cards of Things That Go Bump, tossing them aside. Spider-demon? Wrong resonance. Wendigo? Too much hunger, not enough patience. Outsiders—

I froze.

No.

Couldn’t be.

I’d heard the word whispered once by Harry when he thought I was out of earshot, his voice tight like he’d swallowed a lemon. Outsiders weren’t supposed to be real. They were the stories wizards told each other to remind themselves why the Laws of Magic mattered. The monsters outside the universe. The things that weren’t invited to creation but pressed against the walls anyway.

But if one was real…

I opened my eyes and looked at the ember-circle again. My breath came quick, ragged.

“Outsiders,” I whispered, the word tasting wrong, heavy. “Goddammit.”

If that was what had tried pushing through, then the breach hadn’t just been a flare-up. It had been a knock. And I’d answered.

Which meant the thing out there now knew me.

And worse — it knew I could hear it.

The whispering scratched faintly at the back of my skull, like claws on glass. Softer this time. Almost… friendly.

I shuddered and pressed my palm flat against the glowing circle, feeding it what little strength I had left. “Not tonight, buddy. Not ever.”

The ember flared slightly. Enough to push the whisper back into silence.

But silence wasn’t victory. Silence was just… waiting.

And in that silence, my own thoughts started turning on me.

How long could I keep this up?
How many circles before I slipped?
And when I slipped… would it claw its way through me?

I laughed weakly, a sound too close to a sob. “Congratulations, Xander. You’re officially the idiot who answered a cosmic butt-dial.”

The circle pulsed again, fragile and trembling. I held on anyway.

Because that’s what I did, hold the line.

Even if I had no idea what I was holding against it.

The ember-circle trembled, pulsing in uneven beats now. My will was a frayed cord, the glow flickering whenever my focus slipped.

I shut my eyes and forced myself to breathe slowly. In. Out. Don’t give it cracks. Cracks were doors.

That’s when the whisper changed.

Not just scratching anymore. Words. Slipping through like oil through cloth.

You are… clever… little fire.

My stomach lurched. I pressed harder against the ward, knuckles white. “Don’t talk.”

Not talk. Offer. Trade.

Its voice wasn’t one voice. It was layered, echoes from directions that didn’t exist. A chorus of wrongness, like a choir singing a note none of them agreed on.

You suffer. You break. We can… ease. Shelter. Strength.

My throat tightened. God help me, part of me wanted to listen. To just… stop shaking. To let the warmth I could almost feel behind those words slide in and make me whole again.

I clenched my jaw so tight it ached. “You want in. That’s all. You don’t care about me. You don’t even get me.”

We know you. We see you. Alone. Cast aside. Not hero, not warrior. Jester. Broken tool.

The words slithered under my skin like ice water. Every insecurity, every joke I’d cracked to keep from screaming — it had all the material it needed.

But we can fix. Fill. Make you more than a shadow of a blade—more than a failure of line.

My breath hitched. I wanted to scream. Instead, I leaned over the glowing circle and spat onto the steel, my saliva sizzling as it hit the ward’s edge.

“Save the sales pitch,” I rasped. “I’ve already danced with devils. Guess what? They stepped on my toes. Hard pass.”

The whispers recoiled, hissing in tones too high for human ears. The air grew thick, heavy, the walls groaning faintly as if something pressed against them from the outside.

Refuse…?

“Damn right I refuse,” I snarled, sudden fire sparking in my gut. I was too tired to be brave, so I let anger carry me. “You don’t get me. You don’t own me. And you sure as hell don’t get to crawl inside my head and play therapist. I’d rather burn out in this box than let you ride shotgun.”

The ember-circle flared, brighter than it had all night, answering the spike of my will.

The presence howled, more felt than heard. The steel table rattled, frost chasing itself across the floor for an instant before vanishing.

Then — silence.

Not the patient kind. Not the waiting kind. Just… silence.

I slumped back in the chair, panting, every muscle trembling like I’d run a marathon in full armor.

“Yeah,” I muttered, voice ragged. “That’s what I thought. Can’t take no for an answer, huh? Tough luck, buddy.”

The circle pulsed dimmer now, steady but weak. It wouldn’t last long. Neither would I.

But it had held.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Right in the middle of a room wearing its battle wounds like badges, I stood solo - an uninvited player in a world geared for chaos. The air, once heavy with turmoil, had become unsettlingly calm, as if it was waiting with baited breath. It carried the sharp tang of ozone, mixed with the iron tang of blood – it hung around like an unwanted guest that wouldn't leave. My hands felt like lead from holding up a protective shield way too long and finally found rest on the table's cool surface – wordlessly framing my bout with whatever force had been lurking. Across the room, a camera – patient observer to our power skirmish – clicked back into place, stitching itself whole after being smashed to bits. Letting my forehead meet the chill of metal beneath me sent an all-too-clear message: here I was, both trespasser and prey in a world not quite ready for a reality check.

My eyelids refuse to stay open, fluttering shut every couple of seconds. The room's harsh fluorescent lighting only magnifies the raw exhaustion threading through my nerves, and my body is running on nothing but spite and stubbornness. Sleep? That's for the weak, or at least for those not being forcibly held in some paramilitary stronghold. I'm about three layers past tired and one layer away from hallucinating. Not that it matters, because the only thing worse than being trapped in a hostile interrogation cell is knowing that your mind is about to turn against you. I press my fingertips against my temples, massaging the tension furrowed there in an attempt to stave off the incoming migraine.

It doesn't help that the brief struggle for survival, the explosive battle of wills and powers, still lingers in the air. The wet-copper stench of blood, the smoldering tang of ozone, and the ghost of fear—or fuck, maybe victory?—clings to the walls like an afterimage. For a second, I almost convince myself that the shattered camera has eyes, taking in every second of my slow breakdown for some faceless analyst to pour over. I glare at it, daring the lens to do something, anything, but it refuses to play along. It just sits there, lazy and relentless, like the rest of this place.

My leg won't stop bouncing. I drum my fingers on the edge of the table, a staccato rhythm to distract myself. Each tap echoes around the empty room, accentuating the isolation. Screw this. I'm tired of waiting. Tired of feeling like a hunk of meat waiting for the blade. Without a second thought, I push back from the table, the chair scraping a discordant screech across the polished floor. It's not an escape attempt, just a declaration of autonomy. I pace the length of the cell, hands clasped behind my head, breathing in slow, deliberate beats until the restless energy begins to burn itself out.

I need an anchor—something to keep me from drifting into the deep end. Breathing exercises, the kind Father Forthill used to teach the foster kids, come back like muscle memory. Four counts in through the nose, hold, eight counts out through the mouth. Repeat. On the fifth cycle, I let myself sink all the way to the floor, cross-legged, staff resting across my thighs. The staff's wood, scarred with runes and inlaid with a faint silver wire, hums in sympathy as my heartbeat slows. I close my eyes, shutting out the institutional grayness of the cell and pulling my consciousness inward, tunneling past the noise and static of my thoughts.

The first time I felt magic, it was like touching raw electricity. It left me breathless, awestruck, terrified, and totally addicted. Some kids get hooked on the adrenaline rush of reckless stunts or the numbing heat of cheap whiskey; for me, it's always been the rush of power that comes with bending reality to my will. Magic is freedom. Magic is validation. Magic is the universe's begrudging admission that, yes, I matter. Harry said I was a natural, that it came "too easy" to me, and he wasn't wrong. In a world where everything else was a struggle, magic felt like an open highway, the only place where I wasn't weighed down by my own scars or the expectations of others.

I exhale and draw the world's fabric in with my next breath. The air vibrates, subtle and warm, as if I'd slipped my hand into the machinery behind reality itself. The feeling starts at my core and spreads outward, like a magnetic field tuning itself to some ancient frequency. I open my eyes and raise my hand, palm up, fingers splayed. Concentrate. Focus. I picture a sphere, a radiant point of light—child's play, really, but it's always been my go-to. I could do it in my sleep, and sometimes I have.

The ball of light flickers into being, pure and uncut, hovering a few inches above my palm. It's not just illumination; it's the metaphysical equivalent of a middle finger to the universe, a statement that I am here, and I am in control, even if only for a second. The glow pulses in time with my breathing, rippling with little eddies of color and heat that swirl through the miniature sun like storm systems on a gas giant. It sheds no genuine warmth, but the energy is palpable, a presence that fills the cell with something alive and sharp.

I rotate my wrist, watching the sphere drift and bob like a helium balloon on an invisible string. At moments like this, I almost pity the mundanes who go their whole lives oblivious to the currents surging just beneath reality's surface. Almost. I remember what Harry said about "playing with your food," but the old man isn't here, and if I'm gonna survive being a hostage in one of the Parahuman capital cities of the world, I might as well get a little practice in.

Holding the orb steady, I send out a delicate tendril of Will, coaxing the shape to elongate and split. Light bends and refracts, forming a trefoil knot that spins lazily, casting intricate shadows across the walls. The patterns shift, hypnotic, and for a heartbeat, my mind stutters with the possibilities—a million new shapes, a million new rules to be written and broken. I lose myself in the act of creation, the rest of the world dissolving at the edges.

That's when I feel it—a twinge, a ripple, like heat lightning running along my spine. The magic doesn't just flow; it thrums, amplified, the air around my hands distorting as if I'd dipped them in molten glass. I blink, startled, and the orb pops like a soap bubble, scattering coruscating ripples of light across the steel walls. The afterimage burns behind my eyelids, and I'm left staring at my empty hand, a whisper of static buzzing in my ears.

Brockton Bay is different. It's not just the weirdly persistent damp, or the way everyone seems to carry a permanent chip on their shoulder. The entire city is saturated with a kind of interference —a metaphysical static that pushes back against traditional magic, then bends it in new and terrifying ways. When I first came here, Harry tried to warn me. He called it "thaumaturgical bleed"—the way parahuman powers, especially the big ones, warp the fabric of reality and make standard wizardry unpredictable. That "tinkertech" and "shards" and all the rest weren't just science gone mad; they were bleeding into the magical substrate, causing feedback loops and paradoxes that not even the White Council could explain.

I learned that the hard way. Simple wards went volatile, summoning circles reversed polarity, and once, a golem I'd built for practice gained independent sentience and recited Dr. Seuss for six hours straight. But that volatility was a gift, too. If you could ride the feedback, if you learned to use it instead of fighting it, you could perform feats that would make the Senior Council weep into their overpriced single malt. The trick was not getting vaporized by your own ambition.

I flex my fingers, feeling the lingering buzz where the sphere had hovered. My magic is more potent here, punchier, like someone swapped out my blood for Red Bull and nitroglycerin. But it's less stable, too. It requires a steadier hand, a sharper focus. If I'm going to survive the next round of parahuman interrogations, I'll need to be ready.

There's still so much I don't understand about the way magic mutates in this city, how it refuses to obey even its own rules the second you get close to a parahuman hotspot. There aren't textbooks on this stuff, and the White Council's field guides are about as helpful as an umbrella in a hurricane. I'm left with trial and error and the constant, looming sense that one of these days, experimenting is going to light me up like a roman candle. But that's the thing about curiosity mixed with desperation: it pushes you past the edge, even when you're not sure you'll make it back.

If I want to figure out why my magic misfires here—hell, why it sometimes overperforms and sometimes sputters out like a wet firework—I need to start thinking like the locals. Brockton Bay runs on a logic that's more like a patchwork hackathon than an elegant system. It's not just the wild parahuman powers or the janky tinkertech glued together by mad geniuses; it's the way the city's entire foundation is fundamentally altered by the presence of these so-called "shards." Harry would call it a metaphysical ecosystem, constantly evolving, constantly pushing its apex predators to be even crazier than the ones that came before. So if I'm going to survive here, I can't just adapt—I have to out-crazy the competition.

My last attempt at a portal home was what Harry would call "reckless to the point of catastrophic," but if there's one thing I've learned from my old mentor, it's that there's a thin line between catastrophe and breakthrough. The only reason I'm not a smear on the pavement is because—at the last second—I managed to snipe a feedback loop in the circle and ride the power surge instead of getting flattened by it. The memory of it is still fresh, like a sunburn on my soul: the rush of raw energy, the sensation of reality twisting around me, the screaming echo of Out-there-ness that nearly yanked me apart at the seams. And then, the sudden silence, the aftermath, the knowledge that I was still stuck in this world, and the Outsider on my tail hadn't managed to follow.

But the experiment wasn't a total loss. I learned something critical: the boundaries between universes here aren't just thin, the local infestations are actively gnawing them away. The "Outsiders" in this reality are smaller, weaker, but they're everywhere, like termites eating through the cosmic woodwork. In my home universe, it takes damn near an army to crack the walls and let something nasty through. Here? One decently motivated entity with a chip on its shoulder can start tearing holes without even breaking a sweat. That's both terrifying and—if you're resourceful enough—an opportunity.

It's clear that nobody here understands the fundamental rules of their own game. They've got their little fiefdoms—the Protectorate, the PRT, the gangs, the endless parade of cape cults—but none of them have figured out what's really at stake. They treat parahuman powers like "gifts," or curses, or whatever their brainwashed PR tells them to say, but they have no idea what it means to have the laws of the universe permanently bent around your skull. No idea what it means to have the whole of reality watching you like a hungry god. I do. And as much as I want to get out of this hellhole and back to my own world, I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's more to be gained by sticking around and learning how to play their game better than they ever could.

If there's a metaphysical arms race going on, I want to be the one holding the launch codes.

I lean back, letting the miniature sun orbiting my head spiral out and then collapse into a single, searing pinprick of light. The energy in the room shivers, and for a moment, it feels like the walls themselves are paying attention. I'm not here to survive anymore. I'm here to win. And if that means turning the city's own reality-warping physics against it, I'm game.

A single, extremely powerful Outsider might be easier to handle than an endless swarm of little ones, but only if you're smart enough to wield the proper leverage. In this world, that means getting to know the players, figuring out who's exploiting the cosmic loopholes, and then either outmaneuvering them or—if necessary—burning them down to the ground. The Council back home would shit their collective pants if they could see what I was up to, but that's their problem. Here, I'm my own authority.

I glance at the camera again, feeling the static charge of my ambitions gathering in the air. Let them watch. Let them take notes. By the time they figure me out, I'll be the one flipping the script.

And maybe, just maybe, if I can reverse-engineer what's broken about this universe, I can find the backdoor home. Or, hell, perhaps I'll decide I like being the big fish in a smaller, nastier pond.

Either way, the clock is ticking. And I'm not about to let some wannabe eldritch horror or PRT goon make the next move.

I let the pinprick of light wink out, leaving only the echo of its brilliance behind. Whatever comes next, it's my turn to set the terms.

I glance at the camera. The lens is back in place, and if I squint just right, I can see the faintest red dot glowing behind the glass. Someone's watching. Good. Let them watch.

I let the pinprick of light fade from my hand, knuckles still tingling from the feedback, and roll my shoulders to work the phantom ache out of my joints. The air's gone heavy, charged with the aftertaste of ozone and stubborn ambition. Just for the hell of it, I conjure another sphere—this one twice as big, twice as bright, hot white with a corona of spectral colors that chase each other like ferrets on amphetamines. It's showy as hell, but sometimes you have to remind the world—and yourself—just who's running the circus.

I send the luminous orb into orbit around my head, letting it drift in deliberate, lazy loops, tracing a wobbly solar system with me as the center of mass. The camera in the corner tracks every movement, red dot now pulsing like a heartbeat, and I grin up at it with the full wattage of my teeth. If Piggot thinks a reinforced cell and a few goons with tranq guns are enough to keep a wizard in line, she's in for a rude awakening. The little snitch eye on the wall gets a wink and a middle finger salute as I lean back into the cot, propped up on my elbows, basking in the synthetic sunlight of my own making.

That's when the pettiness hits me. Not anger, exactly—more a sense of cosmic mischief, the kind of mood where you want to stick a banana in the universe's tailpipe to see what happens. Harry always told me, "Don't pick fights you don't have to win, kid." But he also said, "Nobody likes a bully." And Piggot, with her ironclad protocols and passive-aggressive threats, is shaping up to be the world record holder for that particular event.

So when the camera's lens glints at me again, I give it a tired, theatrical sigh and mutter, "Hexus." The word flickers across my tongue like a spark plug firing. A minor curse, barely worth the effort, but I give it enough juice to make a point. Instantly, the temperature in the cell drops a few degrees—just enough for my breath to fog in the air—and the orb's light bends, warped by the sudden spike of magical interference. The camera makes an odd grinding noise, a mechanical hiccup that you only notice if you've been paying attention as long as I have. I watch with academic interest as a vein of frost creeps across the inside of the lens, fracturing the glass with a sound like distant chimes.

The red recording dot blinks once, twice, and then goes out for good. There's a satisfying "pop," barely audible, but it's enough to let me know the curse took hold. The machinery in the wall emits a thin, reedy whine—the death rattle of overworked electronics—before settling into a perfect, sullen silence.

That's what happens when you leave a tech-dependent city in the hands of people who don't respect the metaphysical. Parahumans here love their fancy toys, their tinkertech baubles, and their surveillance state, but magic is the original hack. Just takes a different kind of screwdriver.

I can almost hear Piggot's teeth grinding from here.

The downside is that this little stunt is going to cost me. I know how these things work: the second the feed cuts off, there'll be alarms, protocols, escalation. They'll send in a goon squad to check that I haven't melted myself into a puddle of wizard goo. Maybe they'll even bring out the A-listers—Assault, Battery, or one of those jumpsuited nutjobs with a fancy codename and an attitude problem. My reward for improvising a minor electronic blackout? A rapidly shrinking window of plausible deniability and a shitload of attention I don't need.

But I'm already committed. May as well enjoy the show.

Barely a minute passes before I hear the first faint siren, muffled by a dozen thick doors and the prison-grade walls. The emergency lights embedded in the ceiling flicker and switch to an angry orange, casting the cell in a sickly, flickering glow. I kill the magic around my head with a snap of thought—no sense in giving them a target—and go full passive, slumping back against the cot like a hungover college student after finals week.

Boots thunder down the hallway, getting closer fast. I can hear the distinct pattern of tactical movement: two pairs in front, one lagging, probably with a heavy shield. There's a moment of static crackle as the intercom tries to activate, then fizzles out, defeated by the curse. Score one for Team Luddite.

The door's lock cycles through a rapid-fire sequence of clicks before slamming open with enough force to rattle the frame. Three troopers in PRT armor flood the entryway, visors down, weapons leveled. I raise both hands, fingers splayed—a gesture universally recognized as "please don't tase me, bro"—and give them my best, most innocent smile. The leader is a woman, tall and built like a linebacker, her black ponytail visible even under the helmet. "Subject is secure," she barks, eyes never leaving my face. "Camera feed is down. Repeat, camera feed is down."

I try not to look smug. "Technical difficulties?" I offer, voice syrupy with false concern.

She doesn't rise to the bait, just motions for the others to sweep the room. They look under the cot, behind the toilet, even up at the ceiling, as if I might have squeezed myself into the HVAC ducts like a particularly ambitious rat. I stay where I am, still and compliant, but let my gaze follow the leader's every move. She's trying to look for signs of tampering, traces of whatever I did to fry their surveillance. But magic, unlike tech, doesn't leave fingerprints—just consequences.

"Sit tight, subject McClaine," she says, as if my options were anything but. "We're sending in a specialist."

I raise an eyebrow. "What, like a computer guy? Or is this where you call in the Ghostbusters?"

She doesn't answer, simply backs out of the room, motioning for the others to stand by outside the door. I can hear them whispering, debating the risks of getting any closer, as if I might explode if they break the perimeter. It's almost flattering.

The lights overhead buzz and flicker, then stabilize, but there's still a weird hum in the air—a sense of anticipation, like the room itself is holding its breath. I don't bother trying another spell; no point until I know who or what they're sending in to deal with me.

A full ten minutes pass. I start to get bored, so I practice flicking tiny sparks of light between my fingers, juggling them in the gloom. When the intercom finally crackles to life again—this time patched in from somewhere outside the building—the voice that comes through is unfamiliar. Male, smooth, and just a little too cheerful.

"Mr. McClaine?"

I pause, the sparks fizzing out. "Speaking."

"This is Director Piggot, we observed an anomalous event in your holding cell. At this time, we ask that you refrain from further… magical interference, as it has triggered a full evacuation alarm."

I smirk. "Sorry, Director. I tripped and fell, and my finger slipped. Won't happen again."

She ignores the sarcasm. "We will be sending in a parahuman liaison to communicate with you directly. For your safety and ours, please remain seated on your cot."

I almost laugh. "Isn't that what I've been doing this whole time?"

There's a pause, then a faint click as the intercom cuts out. Outside, I can hear the guards shifting, getting antsy. I get the feeling they drew the short straw for this assignment, and none of them are especially eager to see what a pissed-off wizard is capable of. The anticipation is almost as thick as the magic in the air.

I get up, stretch my legs, and sit back down right as the door cycles open again. This time, nobody in riot gear. Just a single, slender silhouette—unassuming, ordinary, wearing an oversized hoodie with the hood up. The face is obscured, but the posture is all confidence, like someone who's used to walking into rooms full of enemies and making them listen.

The kid—because that's what it is, just a kid—steps inside with hands in pockets, head cocked curiously at the three PRT guards who are now loitering in the hall like nervous chaperones at prom. The kid's eyes glint in the half-light, a strange, flickering silver that reminds me uncomfortably of my own.

He stops a few feet from the cot, looks me up and down, and says, "You're the wizard, right?"

"Last I checked," I reply, matching his energy. "Who's asking?"

He grins, all teeth and mischief, and shrugs off the hood. "They call me Clockblocker. But you can call me 'your ticket out of here' if you don't mind playing nice for a change."

I blink. The PRT sent a cape to negotiate with me? Either they were desperate, or they had no idea what kind of mess they were wading into. Probably both.

Clockblocker doesn't step any closer, but he doesn't flinch back, either. He rocks back on his heels with arms loose at his sides, the signature body language of every high school jock or class clown who's ever faced a principal's office—and won. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was bored. But there's a current to his posture, a careful geometry to the way he keeps one shoulder half-turned and his hands just visible at the edges of the hoodie pocket. It's all in the details.

The kid's face is unlined but not untested, and his eyes flick down to my hands every time I shift them, even fractionally. He's scanning my waist and sleeves, searching for signs of a trick or an edge, measuring risk with every breath. I recognize the look: it's the same fractured attention I wore in lockup, in group homes, in every shit-fest foster placement where a careless move meant waking up with new bruises and no dinner. Even the silver spark in his gaze puts me on edge. It's not just matching mine; it's dissecting it, trying to reverse-engineer how I tick.

Clockblocker breaks the silence first. "You're not what I expected," he says, casual as chips, but with a bit of tilt to the words that makes it a dare. "I thought wizards would be… older. Or, I don't know, more Gandalf-y. Instead, I get a dude who looks like he spends his allowance at Hot Topic."

I grin, because that's what he wants—to knock me off balance. "Bold words from a guy in pajamas," I shoot back, nodding at his uniform under the hoodie. "What's your power, clocking fashion disasters?"

He barely cracks a smile. "Funny. I've heard you've already caused three containment breaches in one night. They briefed us not to underestimate you." He leans in, just enough to make the guards twitch in the hallway. "But if you were going to make a move, you'd have done it already. So, what's the play?"

I raise both hands, palms open. "No play. Just vibing." I can feel the PRT guards' nerves through the door, one of them shifting his weight from foot to foot like he's desperate for a bathroom break—or a reason to storm in. The whole situation is a powder keg, and Clockblocker is aware of it. He's riding the tension, threading the needle between 'friendly' and 'threat.'

I study him right back. He's trying to read my angle, but he's not giving much up front. So I change tactics, lean in a little, and lower my voice. "Why send you? Why not just gas me out or send in the big guns?"

He shrugs, but there's a flicker of satisfaction behind the nonchalance. "You fried the cameras. Nobody's sure what you can do, so they sent someone hard to break." A little too proud, like he's been waiting to drop that line all day. "You can't magic your way out of a time-stop, right?"

I laugh, the sound loud and bright in the tiny cell. "Kid, you're adorable. But you should tell your boss to spring for better-than-Dell security cams."

He doesn't bite. "You're avoiding the question."

I meet his stare for a fraction of a moment to not allow a Soul Gaze, and for the first time, there's a tilt of respect in it. "You're right. I am." I consider telling him about the Thaumaturgy Bleed, the little accidents of metaphysics I keep finding in this city, but something tells me he's not ready for that. Or worse, he is.

The air simmers between us, filled with all the words we're not saying.

"So what's the plan here?" I ask, stretching out on the cot and propping my boots up on the frame like it's a barstool at my personal dive. "The big PRT play is to lock me up and hope I get bored enough to stay put? Or is this the part where you freeze me and take the world's most boring mugshot for your evidence wall?"

Clockblocker's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "If you already know, why ask?"

"Because I want to hear you say it." I make a show of examining my nails—chewed, dirty, and, as of five minutes ago, still sparking with afterimages of magic. "You're gonna freeze me. It's all you've got. But you and I both know that's a temporary fix at best. You can't keep me on ice forever. Not unless you're prepared to explain to the press why the PRT is storing minors in cryo like popsicles." I let the word hang there, cold and sticky.

He doesn't take the bait, but there's a flicker in his eyes—almost like he's amused by how the script's playing out. "You're a minor like me, all right, but you've racked up more property damage in twenty-four hours than some A-listers manage in a year. That's not a record to be proud of."

I snort. "If you wanted to nail me for property damage, you should've seen what I did to my last group home."

Clockblocker leans forward, the movement so casual it almost hides the way he's shifted his weight, measuring the distance between us with predatory intent. "I read the file. I'm not sure whether to congratulate you or be worried for the future of modern architecture."

I almost laugh. "If you think I'm a threat to drywall, you should see what happens when I get creative." I glance at the guards in the hall—one's tapping the side of his helmet, probably relaying every word back to whoever's running this circus. "But that's not what you care about, is it?"

He shrugs. "You're right. I don't care about the building. I care about the people inside it. Like the two EMTs you nearly gave a heart attack in the ambulance, or the squad you tripped up with those little light shows of yours."

"I didn't hurt them," I say, and mean it. "I'm not a psycho."

"But you could've."

It's a test, and I know it. He's looking for the crack in my armor, the hairline fracture where he can wedge in just enough doubt to make me blink first. I shrug, not giving him the satisfaction.

"So what now?" I press, drawing the conversation back before he can twist it. "You're gonna freeze me and drag me to juvie for… what, exactly? Being inconvenient? The minute a public defender gets a whiff of what's happening in here, your whole operation is going to light up the ACLU's bat signal. You think the PRT wants that headache?"

Clockblocker grins, all butter-wouldn't-melt bravado. "You think you're the first kid to threaten us with a lawsuit?"

"No," I admit, spreading my hands wide for dramatic effect. "But I'm the first wizard to threaten you with a lawsuit." I give him the finger-gun treatment, then tap my temple. "You guys are gonna need to commission a whole new branch of legalese just to process the paperwork. I mean—'Paranormal Detainment and Extra-judicial Enchantments Subcommittee'? Rolls right off the tongue."

Clockblocker smirks like he's heard worse, but I see a flicker of unease. Parahuman or not, nobody wants to be the test case for the Supreme Court's first arbitration between the Geneva Conventions and the Hogwarts Student Code of Conduct. I push the point, flopping backwards onto the cot and lacing my hands behind my head. "Look, I'm just trying to help you accelerate this. There's zero chance your Director lets someone like me slip through the cracks—especially when you have Shadow Stalker on the payroll." I waggle my eyebrows. "I read the news clippings, man. That's one angry teen."

The name lands like a thrown brick. For a heartbeat, Clockblocker's mask fractures, a flicker of tightness in his jaw before his face snaps back into laconic cool. I don't miss it, and neither do the guards in the corridor—one of them shifts, hand hovering over their holster as if the mere mention of the name might summon a brawl.

He recovers with a dry, brittle laugh. "You don't know half of it." He glances sidelong at the observation slit, tone dropping to a private register. "She's a special case. PR nightmare in a bottle, but you didn't hear it from me."

"Oh, I heard." I sit upright, boots clacking on the tile. "You guys put all your eggs in one murder-teen basket, and now you're stuck babysitting the world's least stable superhero. Who's the real liability here?"

Clockblocker shrugs, feigning boredom, but his fingers dig into his hoodie pocket as if looking for a phantom stress ball. "She's effective. That's what matters."

"Effective at what? Alienating every other cape in the city?" I counter.

He schools his features, but there's a tinge of anger now. "You talk a lot for a guy in lockup."

I grin. "It's a talent. That, and I'm bored out of my mind." I stretch, pretending to yawn. "Is this the part where you threaten to rough me up? Because I gotta say, you don't exactly radiate 'interrogation officer' energy."

He scoffs. "You wouldn't survive a real interrogation."

I lean forward, the smile vanishing from my face. My voice drops to something flat and colorless. "Don't." The single word hangs between us like a knife. "You have no idea what I've survived." I hold his gaze until he's the one who looks away, then continue, voice still stripped of emotion. "You still haven't answered my question. Why risk talking when you could do your little 'freeze and bag' routine?"

Clockblocker stares me down, gaze sharp. "Because that's not how we do things here. Not unless we have to."

"Sure," I reply, "but you and I both know you're already halfway to 'have to.' You wouldn't be in here unless your superiors were desperate, or you drew the world's shortest straw."

That gets a snort. "I volunteered. Figured you'd be less of a pain in the ass than most of the villains we deal with."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." I flop back on the cot, arms folded. "So what's the PRT's actual play? Lock me up and wait for the clock to run out? Or is this a hot potato you're hoping I'll pass to someone higher up the food chain?"

He hesitates, and in the silence I sense the subtle thrum of power, the way the magic in the air tugs at the edges of reality. My wards flicker, agitated but content to play possum for now. The guards are still watching, but there's a restlessness in their stance, like they're unsure if they should break up the conversation or let it ride.

Finally, Clockblocker says, "You're not like the others." There's something almost wistful in the way he says it. "They told us you were dangerous, but you don't seem dangerous. Not in the usual way."

"Yeah, that's how you get complacent." I waggle a finger. "Ask the last guy who tried to shiv me with a makeshift toothbrush. Poor bastard's still picking porcelain shards out of his gums."

He laughs—a real, surprised laugh this time. "You're messed up."

"Takes one to know one."

The tension softens a hair, but I can tell he's still probing for weaknesses, looking for the edge where my bravado thins. He's smart enough to realize that, in this city, the real threats aren't the ones who break things—they're the ones who bend the rules until the world stops making sense.

I let the silence stretch, then lean forward, elbows on knees. "Let's make a deal, Clockblocker. You get me out of this cell, and I'll tell you what's really going on in Brockton Bay."

He raises an eyebrow, all skepticism. "And what's going on?"

"There's a bleed," I say. "Magic and powers. It's leaking, mixing, making things weird for everyone in here. You've seen it—your own guys are spooked, and it's not just because of me. The whole city's off-kilter. You want to get ahead of it, you'll need someone who understands both."

He folds his arms, considering. "And that's you?"

"Best offer you're gonna get," I promise. "Unless you want to bring in Shadow Stalker for a consult. I hear she's a real people person."

Clockblocker snorts, then looks over his shoulder at the guards. I can tell he's weighing the odds, calculating whether he can sell this to his bosses without getting crucified. He closes the distance, just enough for his shadow to spill across my boots.

"You're a pain, you know that?" he says.

"Frequently," I say, cheerful. "But I'm right."

He shakes his head, but I see the decision forming behind his eyes. "Fine. You get one shot. You cross me, and you're ice for a week."

I grin, all teeth. "Deal."

He turns for the door, already barking at the guards to get ready. "Don't make the brass regret this, wizard."

Chapter Text

The cot in my holding cell squeaks as I lower myself onto it, curling up on the thin, off-white blanket that's supposed to count as bedding. If the PRT runs things anything like the feds back home, they've got a hard forty-eight hours to decide if they're going to take a real shot at putting me away, or just let me walk. They've already burned through most of that clock, pacing me through pointless interviews, fingerprinting, and a parade of humorless agents with black coffee and even blacker eyes. That leaves about a day for them to come up with a charge that'll stick. I'm not a legal scholar, but even I can do that math.

Mostly, I'm just bored. They refuse to give me even a decent book, so I've been left with nothing but the cinderblock walls, the flickering LED strip overhead, and the deeply suspicious toilet. I count the ceiling tiles for the tenth time, tapping each one in my head like I'm marking off days on a prison wall. I don't know how they expect this to soften me up. They obviously haven't met my old foster parents.

The uniforms running the place keep their distance. I've got enough magic soaked into my bones that even though none are wizards, they can tell something's off. One of the guards keeps glancing at the obsidian amulet around my neck, like it's going to sprout fangs and eat his face. To his credit, he only flinches once when I catch him staring.

I keep my hands folded in my lap, fingers twitching with muscle memory. The urge to start weaving sigils into the air is strong. It's like having an itch on your back you can't reach, a low-grade compulsion to burn off some energy with a little kinetic thaumaturgy. But I know better than to pull off a magic trick in the PRT's own backyard again; there are cameras everywhere, plus I'd rather not give them any reason to toss me in a box lined with who-knows-what. I'm betting they've got a whole arsenal of countermeasures they're just dying to test on me.

Waiting is the worst part. When you fight monsters for a living, you get used to adrenaline and chaos. Sitting on your ass waiting for strangers to decide your future? That's torture. Every tick of the second hand is a reminder that I'm out of my element. Worse, I'm powerless to do anything about it, except stew. So, I try to distract myself with mental exercises: reciting the periodic table in reverse, remembering the names of every Pokémon in order of evolutionary stage, and seeing how many car models I can list before my brain melts from boredom.

I wonder what Harry would do if he were in my shoes. Probably punch a wall, or at least try to talk his way out. Neither of those options is available here. I try to imagine what they're doing on the other side of the mirrored glass: running background checks, comparing notes, maybe even calling up the feds in Chicago to get the full dirt on me. Or perhaps they're just as confused as I am.

The room smells faintly of bleach and desperation. I rub my wrists, still sore from the cuffs they used when they first brought me in. My fingers are pale and cold, nails bitten shorter than I'd like to admit. I catch a glimpse of myself in the tiny, scratched-up mirror bolted above the sink, and for a second I almost don't recognize the guy staring back: eyes too bright, hair a little too wild, a five o'clock shadow threatening to become permanent. I make a face at the mirror to see if I can still surprise myself. I do. Barely.

I hear footsteps in the hall, slow and measured. Someone with authority, or at least someone who thinks they have it. I brace myself, expecting another round of questions, maybe a new tactic to break the silence I've been cultivating. Instead, the footsteps stop right outside my door. There's a click of a lock, a pause. I can almost feel the hesitation radiating through the reinforced steel. Then the door swings open, and a woman in complete PRT tactical gear steps in, visor down, baton at her hip.

She looks at me like she's expecting an attack, or at the very least, a snide comment. She gets both.

"Nice armor," I say, tilting my head. "Planning on storming Normandy, or just the break room?"

She doesn't answer, just gestures for me to stand. I do, stretching my arms overhead and pretending I'm not annoyed to be interrupted right when I was finally getting comfortable. She tosses a pair of handcuffs onto the cot.

"You can put them on yourself, or I can do it for you," she says, voice muffled but unmistakably unimpressed.

I choose the former. No sense getting manhandled if I can help it. The steel is cold against my skin, but there's something off about the weight—too light, almost ceramic. I notice the faint blue glow from microscopic circuitry embedded in the material. Tinkertech, definitely. Some cape's custom design to neutralize powers. I give her a slow clap as she steps aside to let another figure into the room.

This one's a civilian, or at least pretending to be: a sharp suit, expensive shoes, and hair slicked back with enough pomade to deflect small arms fire. He sits down in the only chair and crosses his legs with a kind of smug deliberation.

"Mr. McClaine," he says, flashing a badge with more gold than sense. "I'm Agent Platt. Let's talk."

I don't just look at the badge Agent Platt flashes me; I catalogue it. The numbers below the name—6578867—light up in my head like runway strobes. Harry always said that when someone throws credentials in your face, you don't look at the name, you look at the numbers. They're harder to fake and ten times as useful if things go sideways. Which, judging by the set of Platt's jaw and the way his fingers drum the badge case, is his plan.

I let him hang in the air for a second, just long enough to see if he'll blink first. He doesn't, so I avert my eyes to keep the soul gaze from beginning. I get the sense this guy collects awkward silences for sport. Fine. I drop into the cot, sit cross-legged, and meet his eyes straight-on. He has the practiced calm of a man who's been punched in the nose for the greater good and found he liked it.

"Let's cut the shit," I say, making my voice bored and a little bit nasal, as though he's inconveniencing me by existing. "You're running out of legal leash, so now you're hoping I'll say something dumb to speed things along. But I'm not talking without a lawyer. Even if you threatened to replace all the toilet paper in here with single-ply, I wouldn't crack."

He rewards me with a thin smile, lips barely flexing. "We're just trying to clarify a few inconsistencies in your statement, Mr. McClaine. You've given us four different addresses in the last six months, and your previous employer says he's never heard of you."

"That's because my last boss was a Red Court vampire, and I turned him into a pile of blackened goop," I say, deadpan. "But I'm guessing that's not an official employment record."

It gets a reaction: his left eyebrow twitches. I mark it as a win.

"Ok, let's assume for a moment you don't want to cooperate," Platt says, folding his hands in his lap like he's about to lead a TED talk on regret. "That's your prerogative. But the costume types out there? They don't play around. The Protectorate wants answers. PR, the city council, and even the mayor's office are breathing down our necks. You stick to this routine, you're going to make some very creative enemies."

I lean back, cross my arms, and give him a half-smirk with just enough contempt to sting. "I'll take my chances. If you're so worried about the mayor, tell him to send me a fruit basket."

He flips open a folder—classic intimidation prop, all tabbed pages and highlighted lines—and starts reading. I catch a glimpse: surveillance photos of me, a blurry shot of me lobbing a glowing orb at what was probably a mugger. So they've been tracking me since Chicago, maybe longer. I'm not impressed, but I let my eyes widen just a bit to make him think I'm rattled.

"You've been in Brockton Bay less than a month, and already you're connected to three cape incidents. First, at the Boardwalk; then on Fifth and Harper; last night, the lightning strikes. You want to explain what's going on?"

"Nope. Still want a lawyer," I say, and I give him a slow blink.

The woman in armor shifts near the door, restless. I can almost feel the rise in tension, like the moment before lightning hits. Platt, though, doesn't flinch. He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping to a whisper.

"You know, we've got a few Thinkers on retainer who can crawl through your head and wring out the answers we need," he says. The threat is as casual as a weather report, but I can see the pulse in his neck, the faint glint of anticipation in his eyes.

Thinkers. Shit. That explains the tinkertech cuffs and the sense of being watched by something worse than cameras. I keep my breathing steady. "Tell your Thinkers to bring a lunch. There's a lot of empty real estate up there."

I keep my hands on my knees, knuckles white, willing myself not to fidget. Platt's eyes bore into me, measuring, weighing. He probably expects me to fold under the psychic pressure, spill my guts about magical weirdness, and interdimensional monsters. Thing is, experts have already tested me—and by "tested," I mean "waterboarded with a truth serum that tastes like burnt rubber and regret." I survived that shit, I can survive this.

His smile thins, frustration leaking through the bureaucratic mask. "You think this is a joke?"

"No," I say, and this time my voice is cold, flat. "I think you're desperate."

For a moment, Platt's composure cracks. The mask slips and I see the real him: predatory, hungry, the kind of guy who doesn't just want to win, he wants you to know you've been beaten. He straightens his tie with a flick of his wrist, then sits back, studying me in a way that makes me feel like a rat in a lab maze.

I stare back, refusing to break eye contact. This is the real contest. Not the words, but the will behind them. I can play this game all night, and judging by the sweat starting to bead at his hairline, he can't.

He's the first to look away, glancing at the armored woman, then back to his files, like maybe he missed something vital in the paperwork. I savor the micro-victory.

He closes the folder, sets it on his lap, and exhales. "Fine. Have it your way. But you should know, this is your last shot at an easy exit."

"That's what they always say," I reply. "But the fun's just getting started."

He gets up, hands smooth and precise, and moves to the door. He nods to the woman, who flicks her visor up just long enough to glare at me. They're used to people breaking, not to people like me.

I watch him pause in the doorway, posture all business again. But when he turns back to look at me, the predatory glint is back in his eyes, sharper and more personal. I know that look. It's the one Harry wore when he'd decided the fight was worth the bruises. Platt isn't done—not by a long shot.

He shuts the door behind him, leaving me in the low hum of cheap LED and my own stubborn pride.

I lean back on the cot and stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds until the next move.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Carol Dallon is the walking definition of composed, the sort of woman who probably had her hair follicles unionized for maximum neatness and whose every suit came preloaded with its own ironed-in intimidation. Her posture could’ve taught statues a thing or two about intransigence. If someone had scrawled a to-do list for the universe, she’d have been holding the damn clipboard since day one, marking “keep Xander in line” as an item with bold red ink.

We’re in one of those conference rooms that smells like recycled air and boiled coffee, the kind of place where hope goes to suffocate. The clock on the wall ticks loud enough to be heard over the hum and whine of the dying AC, and Carol sits at the head of the table like a judge waiting to hand down a guilty verdict. Not a single crease on her navy skirt suit, not a single hair out of place in that immaculately coiffed blonde helmet. She eyes me with the same expression a tax auditor would use on a professional juggler. I can actually see her calculating the minimum allowable level of human warmth before her composure risks melting.

I’m supposed to “express good faith” and “engage in productive dialogue.” What that really means is, I have to sit here and play nice with someone who thinks ‘sarcasm’ is a controlled substance and I’m its kingpin.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about people like Carol, it’s that they thrive on the illusion of control. So naturally, my first instinct is to test which page of the manual covers “irrepressible smartass with magical impulse control issues.” My mouth, traitorous bastard that it is, already queues up a line.

“Wow, Carol. Did you get that blazer straight from the Fortress of Solitude, or is there an off-site for intimidating color coordination?”

It’s not that I want to antagonize Carol—okay, it’s maybe ten percent that, but the other ninety percent? It’s nerves. Real, skin-crawling, sixth-sense-tingling nerves. The kind of nerves that make your palms sweat and your brain hallucinate escape routes via the ceiling tiles. I know she’s technically my ally, or at least not my mortal enemy, which in my world counts as a raving endorsement of character. I know she’s here to help, or at minimum to minimize the collateral damage I’m about to cause. But separating logic from emotion is a sucker’s bet when your whole life has been a slow-motion train wreck lit by blue fire and eldritch omens.

Every time I’m around people like Carol, perfectly tuned grown-ups who operate on Robert’s Rules and a diet of cold-brewed self-assurance, my inner chaos gremlin decides to perform a tap dance routine at the controls. I want to be normal—or at least functionally abnormal—but my normal is eldritch sigils charred into the high school roof and running for my life from flying rats made of razorwire. My normal is waking up with strange bruises and stranger memories, sifting through them for some clue as to why I’m the weirdest kid in a city packed ass-to-elbow with weird. The magic helps when it’s not actively trying to get me killed or arrested or both, but it leaves a residue. A taint. It’s like living with a radioactive monkey on your back: you get used to the company but never the consequences.

I can feel Carol’s gaze pinning me to the chair. She’s not even angry yet; she’s in the gathering phase, collecting data for the inevitable withering response. I want nothing more than to impress her, to prove I’m not just a liability waiting for the next news cycle. Instead, my mind latches on to a memory from back home, when my "slight misunderstanding of elemental binding" turned Mrs. Finch's prize-winning roses into crystalline structures that sang opera at midnight. The neighbors formed a vigilante gardening committee armed with pruning shears and rock salt while Harry tried to convince them it was an elaborate lawn ornament system from Japan.

I clear my throat, dragging myself back to the now. Carol’s lips twitch, not quite a smile but the ghost of one. Maybe she’s actually starting to enjoy this, or perhaps she just likes watching me squirm.

Either way, I’m not the villain in this room. I keep telling myself that, like a mantra, hoping that if I repeat it enough, I’ll start to believe it.

“You ever have one of those days,” I say, “where the universe just goes out of its way to test your dignity?”

Carol’s eyes narrow, just a hair, as if she’s mentally highlighting my comment and writing a snide footnote in the margins. She considers it for a full two ticks of the wall clock, then sets down her pen with a deliberate clack. “I’m a criminal lawyer, Mr. McClaine. Tell me what you think,” she says, the dryness in her tone so measured I almost miss the edge behind it. The words hang there, sharp and clinical, daring me to try for the last word.

I almost want to clap. It’s a masterclass in tactical drollness, and a reminder that she’s had years of courtroom experience parrying far worse than my rookie-level banter. I suspect she’s personally responsible for at least three Harvard Law graduates rethinking their career choices. But I’m not about to concede just yet—if I learned anything from Harry, it’s that you never let the opposition dictate the pace.

“Honestly?” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I think you probably have a loyalty punchcard for caffeine and existential despair. Fifth cup’s free, but the sixth comes with a side of prosecutorial disappointment.” I grin, but this time it’s less a challenge and more a peace offering. She’s good at this game, but so am I, and I get the sense that she respects a little pushback.

The ghost of a smirk haunts Carol’s lips. She’s not quite ready to play nice, but she’s not totally immune to my charms, either. For a second, I catch her watching me the way a chess master appreciates a bold, if reckless, opening. Maybe she didn’t expect me to have much of a spine. That’s fine. I’m used to being underestimated.

The silence stretches, tense but not hostile. I can practically hear her brain working—measured, methodical, already formulating her next move. For a moment, I forget why I’m supposed to be nervous and remember that I’m here for a reason. That I want—need—to prove something.

Eventually, she breaks the stare-down, glancing at the manila folder open in front of her. I recognize the printout clipped to the inside: a list of my recent, let’s say “creative,” extracurriculars. Most of them are redacted by someone who clearly thought a Sharpie rendered supernatural disasters less embarrassing. I bet Carol’s already read every line twice.

“Your file is colorful,” she says, almost admiringly. “Though I can’t say I’ve seen this particular combination of property damage and charitable intent before.”

I shrug. “I like to keep things interesting. Life’s too short to be boring.”

Carol steeples her fingers, considering. “Life’s too short to be dead, too. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

I bristle a little, but nod. “Trust me, it’s a lesson that’s been hammered home. Repeatedly.”

She leans back, gaze flicking up and down like she’s fitting me for a suit of expectations. “And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still cracking jokes.”

“Some people self-medicate with yoga,” I say. “I use sarcasm and questionable life decisions.”

She doesn’t laugh, but the temperature in the room goes up a degree or two. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She makes a note in her legal pad, probably updating my official classification from ‘nuisance’ to ‘potential asset, pending further investigation.’

I catch my reflection in the chrome of her pen. My hair’s a mess, and I look like someone who’s just barely keeping it together. But I also see a spark—something raw and defiant that, for better or worse, refuses to get snuffed out.

Carol’s voice cuts through my mini existential crisis. “Let’s get to the point.” She slides the folder my way, her manicure impeccable, the red polish a little too cheery for her otherwise grayscale vibe. “I need you to walk me through exactly what happened before the ‘incident’. No embellishments, no flourishes. Just the facts.”

It’s the kind of request I’d usually interpret as a challenge, but her delivery makes it clear: this is non-negotiable. I open the folder, scanning my own greatest hits reel, and steel myself for the kind of confession that would have made my old guidance counselor spontaneously combust.

“Alright,” I say, voice steady. “But you’re going to want to take notes. My memory’s a little—”

“Unreliable?” she offers.

I shake my head. “More like… nonlinear. The magic screws with my sense of time sometimes. Have you ever seen a movie out of order and tried to piece it together after?”

Carol’s lips twitch, the almost-smile returning. “Start at the beginning, Mr. McClaine. We’ll see if you can keep me awake.

And so I tell her everything, right from the moment I hit the sidewalk in a spray of dirty rain and dimensional vertigo, straight through the botched rituals, the run-ins with Brockton’s brand of crazy, and my last-ditch attempt to rip open a way home. I don’t edit, embellish, or even try to bury the weird parts under smarmy euphemisms. For once, I decide to let the story bleed out completely unfiltered—it’s not like Carol’s the kind to be impressed by theatrics. Or by magic, for that matter.

She listens, silent as a tomb but infinitely more judgmental. Her pen never stops moving, not even when I start talking about the first time I tried to pull energy from the local ley lines and ended up accidentally giving three blocks of Boardwalk a temporary poltergeist infestation. Not my finest hour, but context matters, and I addressed the issue well before anyone was hurt. I keep waiting for the moment she’ll cut in, call bullshit, or threaten to have me fitted for a custom cell, but she watches me with that hyper-focused lawyerly scrutiny, like she’s cross-examining every word.

There’s a weird freedom in it. No White Council breathing down my neck. The only person with the power to judge me here is Carol, and I get the feeling she sees right through any attempt at misdirection. So I don’t even bother.

“I know what happens to wizards who break the rules in my world,” I say, voice raw and a little too honest. “Here? Nothing. No enforcers. Just me, and the consequences if I screw up big enough. So if you’re wondering about the incentive structure, that’s it. I’m out on my own leash.”

Carol’s pen pauses. She glances up, and for once, the mask slips just a little. “You sound almost disappointed,” she says. Her tone isn’t mocking; it’s more like she’s probing for a soft spot I didn’t know I had.

“Not disappointed,” I reply. “Just… careful. In my experience, people who think they have no oversight tend to cause the most damage. I try not to be one of those people.”

She taps the pen against the folder. “That’s very civic-minded of you, Mr. McClaine.” The edge is back in her voice, but it’s softer this time, less like a scalpel and more like a probe. “But you realize your actions could have put a lot of people at risk, regardless of your intent.”

“Yeah. I know.” I mean it; the memory of the last incident still sits in my chest like a cinderblock. “But I also know what happens if I don’t try. That’s the thing about this stuff: if you’re not the one steering it, some other asshole will try to do it for you.”

She looks at me for a long moment. I can almost see the calculus happening behind her eyes, the decades of legal training colliding with the reality of magic and monsters and kids who grew up never knowing which world they belonged to. Then she nods, once, like she’s reached a verdict.

“Thank you for your candor.” She closes the folder with a decisive snap. “We’ll be in touch.”

That’s it. No lecture, no handcuffs, no threats of extradition to jail. I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or disappointed. Maybe both, which is a fun new flavor of emotional whiplash.

Carol’s tone changes gears, dropping the high-octane cross-examination for something a shade closer to candor. “Now let’s talk about the PRT’s offer. Honestly, it’s a lot more generous than most I’ve ever seen.” She flips a page, traces a manicured fingertip under a highlighted paragraph, and meets my eyes. “Full exoneration for all civil and criminal charges, including certain… Ah, incidents the local authorities haven’t officially connected to you. You’ll get room and board in the Wards’ dormitory, a monthly stipend, access to on-site education, and complete medical coverage. You don’t even have to admit to any wrongdoing in public.”

She snaps the folder shut, her hands folded like she’s expecting a counteroffer. “I’ve never seen the PRT put something this friendly on the table the first time. Usually, there’s a long dance—threats, preliminary interviews, maybe a little blackmail. But for you, it’s all carrot, no stick.”

I stare at her, trying to see where the trap is. “You’re saying I could walk out of here, sign a couple forms, and go back to my life—no juvie, no criminal record, no mandatory psych evals?”

Carol almost smiles. “No juvie, no record, and as for psych, that’s technically optional, but strongly encouraged. Still, it’s not a bad deal, considering the circumstances. The only real requirement is that you cooperate with the Wards program, attend the training sessions, and stay out of trouble.”

I huff a laugh. “That’s the fine print? Be a good little wizard, play nice with the baby superheroes, and don’t cause any international incidents?”

A spark of amusement flits through her eyes. “In so many words, yes. However, you should understand that the PRT is being unusually accommodating. They’re treating you more like a potential asset than a threat. I suspect Director Piggot wants to keep you close where she can watch you.”

I flop back in my seat. “Why the sudden warmth and fuzziness? I’m not some high-profile cape with a fan club. I’ve been here three weeks, and all I’ve done is accidentally disrupt local ley lines and stir up a couple of cranky ghosts.”

Carol’s gaze sharpens. “You’re underestimating your value, Mr. McClaine. Brockton Bay is a powder keg, and a new, unaligned parahuman—let alone one with your… capabilities—is a wild card. The PRT would rather fold you into their deck than leave you lying around for the ABB or Empire to draw.”

“So it’s less about my glowing personality and more about not wanting me to join the local villainy union,” I say.

She shrugs. “Call it enlightened self-interest. Which brings us to the other part of the offer.” She leans in, hands steepled. “You’d be expected to cooperate fully with the PRT’s internal investigations regarding any magical phenomena or ‘paranormal events’ that arise. They want you as an in-house consultant. In return, you get relative freedom, access to resources, and the chance to pursue your own… research.” She manages to make the last word sound like a polite euphemism for “shenanigans.”

I chew on that. The deal isn’t terrible—hell, by Brockton Bay standards, it’s practically a golden ticket. But I know better than to trust the first hand that offers you a deal, especially one this sweet. There are always strings, and it’s usually the invisible ones that cut deepest.

“So what’s the catch?” I ask, keeping my own poker face level. “The PRT doesn’t do charity, and I doubt they care about my academic prospects.”

Carol’s answer is immediate. “The catch is you’re on a very short leash. Any violations—unauthorized magic, ‘incidents’ on school grounds, or fraternization with known criminal elements—and the deal is null. You’d be remanded to custody, and this folder”—she taps it—“would suddenly become very interesting to a lot of very unpleasant people.”

“Ah.” I nod, pretending to consider it like I’m not already mapping escape routes and contingency plans. “So it’s a cage, but with better wallpaper.”

She actually laughs, a brief, genuine sound. “You could do a lot worse, Mr. McClaine. And with your record, you probably have.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I mean it. Not because I plan to take the deal, but because I need to figure out my next move before the PRT tightens the net.

Carol gathers her things, the interview now wrapping up with all the ceremony of a job rejection letter. “You’ll have until tomorrow to decide,” she says, voice brisk again. “Director Piggot will want a formal response.”

I watch her stand, measuring her for any shift in posture or tone that might hint at a power play, but she simply straightens her blazer and gives me a nod. “Try to stay out of trouble until then.”

“Trouble has a way of finding me,” I say, but she’s already out the door.

The silence that follows is almost deafening. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to take the offer—to actually have a place, a routine, maybe even something resembling a future. But the idea doesn’t stick. I know how the world works, and I know that the PRT’s leash is just another collar, no matter how comfortable they make it.

I crack my knuckles and glance at the clock. Less than twelve hours until the deadline. That’s not a lot of time to orchestrate an exit strategy, especially with the entire building on alert for Houdini-grade escapes.

But maybe I don’t need to run. Perhaps the smarter move is to stick around, let the PRT think they’ve tamed me, and use every second to figure out who or what is really pulling the strings in this city.

Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.

My mind starts churning, laying out plans within plans, every bad idea vying for top billing. If I’m stuck in Brockton Bay’s funhouse for the foreseeable future, I may as well make some noise.

I pick up the folder Carol left behind, flip through the pages, and smile at the redacted lines. There’s a story under all that black ink, and I intend to find it. Maybe I’m not the hero of this particular narrative, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone else write my ending for me.

Outside, the city’s sirens wail, a fitting soundtrack for an evening of questionable decisions.

I close the folder, tuck it under my arm, and start plotting in earnest.

Chapter Text

The next day, the world is quieter, and I am deposited into the kind of office I'd only ever seen on television interviews with embattled politicians or news coverage of corporations pretending to care. The place is overwhelmingly official—plush, overstuffed armchairs, wood paneling that looks imported, and tasteful, abstract art that must have cost as much as a used car. There's even a bowl of wrapped candies on the corner of Director Piggot's desk, arranged as if for children who know better than to touch it. I get the immediate sense that everything in here is designed to put people at ease so they'll let their guards down, which in turn makes me hyper-aware of how much of a trap it might be.

I am seated, not in the chair I am used to, but in a nest of cushions so enveloping that I briefly worry I won't be able to stand up again without help. Carol Dallon is beside me; I can feel the heat radiating off her even though she is sitting in absolute stillness, hands folded over her lap and gaze laser-pinned to the edge of the desk. Her face is unreadable, or maybe just blank, but I sense the tension anyway, the way she watches everything.

Directly across from us is Director Piggot herself, impassive, a human fortress behind a desk that could have doubled as a barricade if need be. She wears her authority like a suit of armor, but her voice is curiously gentle when she greets us, or perhaps just tired, as if she's already resigned herself to the paperwork this meeting will generate.

Behind Piggot stands Armsmaster, blue steel and carbon fiber and an inscrutable LED display. The lower half of his face shows no emotion at all. He has a way of standing that is so precise it's almost theatrical, feet shoulder-width apart, arms clasped behind his back, shoulders squared like he could carry the world if required. I know he's watching—me, the room, Carol, the whole city through every sensor and gadget he's got wired into him. I wonder what it's like to be that vigilant all the time, if it ever gets exhausting. I bet he'd deny it if I asked.

I'm tempted, for a horrifying moment, to test him. I want to reach for my magic, just to see if he'll twitch, or if the Director will signal for backup. But then I remember exactly where I was. I flex my fingers, as if that will help me recall what it was like to hold something other than a cold bottle of hospital water.

I glance around the room, searching for signs that my presence is making anyone else uncomfortable, but it's me who feels like the trespasser, the wildcard. Carol's shoulders are so tight they might snap; she's here under protest, or out of duty, or both. Piggot's mouth is a hard line, as if she's determined not to show any reaction to whatever might come next. Armsmaster is a blue statue, but I know there's a mind spinning like a turbine behind that half-mask.

I force myself to breathe. I try to remember all the advice I've ever been given about dealing with authority: Don't fidget, don't mumble, don't make eye contact unless you want to be challenged. Instead, I look at the candy bowl, counting the colors, and wonder if anyone has ever dared to take one.

"Thank you for coming," Director Piggot says, and the room grows even quieter, as if waiting for a bomb to drop.

I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue, something sharp and defensive and, if I'm honest, probably pretty funny. Maybe not to anyone else in the room, but it would have made me feel marginally more in control, which is what counts. There's a definite kind of power in being the first to break the tension, even if it's just for a split second. But before I can even open my mouth, Carol flashes me a look that's more effective than any gag order. It's the kind of look that could shut down a riot: cold, focused, and so inherently parental that I almost expect a follow-up threat about grounding or revoked internet privileges. I clamp my jaw shut, biting the inside of my cheek instead.

It's not exactly a secret that sarcasm is my preferred weapon, a leftover survival mechanism I never quite grew out of. I can trace the lineage back through every awkward encounter of my adolescence, every lunch period spent ducking for cover, every teacher who mistook deflection for disrespect. The impulse is so deeply wired that it feels like a betrayal to stifle it, but something about this room—these people—demands a different kind of performance. Not silence, exactly, but a careful calibration of what I say and how I say it.

I can't help but notice how the air shimmers with unspoken challenges. There is a weird etiquette to these meetings, a cold war of expressions and subtext, where each participant is more aware of the potential for disaster than of the words coming out of their mouths. Armsmaster shifts his weight minutely, a motion so precise it's probably calculated to the millimeter. Piggot's eyes flicker toward me, then away, her gaze so brief that it feels like a deliberate snub. Carol's hand tightens on the arm of her chair, knuckles blanching; if she's nervous, she's doing everything in her power not to show it.

I try to focus on the candy bowl. It seems safer than meeting anyone's eyes, a neutral territory of sugar and cellophane. I count the red wrappers, then the gold, then the blue, constructing a private taxonomy that keeps my nerves just barely manageable. I wonder if this is what normal people do when they feel threatened—fixate on objects, assign them secret meanings, build invisible fortresses of trivia and distraction. The absurdity of it all nearly makes me laugh, but instead I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, grounding myself in the ritual.

Director Piggot is the first to break the silence, her voice a controlled monotone that somehow manages to sound both bored and vaguely menacing. "Mr. McClaine," she says, "let's begin with an honest accounting of your abilities. We need to understand the full scope."

It's not a question, not really. It's a command delivered with all the subtlety of a firing squad. I look over at Carol again, searching for some sign of solidarity or at least permission, but her face is a locked vault. I suppose that's my answer.

The realization that I am, for the moment, entirely on my own lands with a kind of grim satisfaction. I square my shoulders and meet Piggot's gaze for a fraction of a second before staring at the bridge of her nose. It was close enough that most people wouldn't notice the difference. "I'm a Wizard, Rubeus"

The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them with a visceral, almost chemical certainty. I can see the recoil in Piggot's face—not fear, exactly, but a kind of bureaucratic distaste, as if I'd just tracked mud across a freshly waxed floor. Carol's side-eye is laser-cutting me, her lips pursed so tightly they could leave dents in steel. Even Armsmaster registers a microscopic pause, a hitch between inhalations, like he's recalibrating the threat level.

It's that old instinct again—the one that makes me blurt something out and then instantly want to claw the words back into my mouth. I have never learned how to stop myself before it's too late. Maybe that's why, when I speak, my tone is lighter than I intend, almost flippant, but underneath there's a tremor that I hope nobody else hears. "Forget it," I say, forcing a shrug that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. "The easiest way to put it is: I'm able to impose my Will on the world. Through ritual, or sheer stubbornness, I can—well, I can wield the fundamental building blocks of creation. Theoretically, if I had enough time to research and prepare, I could do just about anything."

It's a weird thing to say out loud, especially in the context of this room, where every syllable is being weighed and measured for threat content. Piggot's eyebrows arch a millimeter. She reminds me of a headmistress who has heard every excuse and is already bored with mine. "Do just about anything," she repeats, slicing the words into smaller, easier-to-swallow pieces.

I nod, but the gesture is more of a grimace. This is the part everyone gets hung up on. "In theory. It's not as simple in practice. Most of the time, magic takes planning. Tools. Components. Sometimes entire libraries. Also, privacy, which I don't think I'll be getting a lot of here." I glance at Armsmaster, whose very existence is an affront to privacy. He's probably already run a risk assessment algorithm on me and sent it to Piggot's inbox.

Carol shifts beside me. "So your… abilities are limited by your environment?" The question seems innocent, but I hear the undercurrent: How dangerous are you, really? How much damage could you cause if you decided to turn on us? I taste the bitterness of the answer before I say it.

"Yeah," I admit, twisting my hands in my lap. "I don't expect to be pulling rabbits out of hats for a while. Most of what I could do before is off-limits, at least until I can get access to some resources. My stuff—my, uh, magical gear—is all back home. It's going to take months at the least to rebuild, and even then, not all of it can be. Unless you know where I can find some purified unicorn blood."

Piggot gives an inscrutable grunt. Her fingers drum on the desk, staccato and sharp. "And what about those resources? If you had unrestricted access, what would you be capable of?" She says it like she's asking about the yield of a nuclear warhead.

I want to lie, but there's no point. They'll find out anyway. "A lot," I say. "Teleportation. Protection spells. Combat magic. Healing, sometimes, but that's tricky. With enough prep, I could probably level a city block or banish a demon if I had to. Then there's the Black Magic, but no matter what anyone says, I refuse to dabble in it." My eyes turn almost cold. "Black Magic leaves a stain on your soul, and it follows you. If you ask me to try it, then I am going to push back hard."

There's a silence that stretches and stretches. I realize, with a sinking feeling, that they're all imagining worst-case scenarios, compiling a mental dossier of catastrophes and containment measures. I feel smaller than ever, a liability in a room that was never meant for people like me.

Carol looks away, jaw working. She's struggling with something, and I almost pity her. Almost. "You mentioned banishing demons," she says after a pause, voice soft but direct. "Is that… is that a common occurrence where you come from?"

I snort. I can't help it. "More common than you'd think, but that won't be much of an issue here. Demons need to be invited to interact with our plane of existence. They can't just show up, though I'm not one hundred percent certain if things will work the same here as back home."

This one lands, or at least it breaks the tension. Armsmaster's lips twitch at the corners, almost a smile but not quite. Piggot's mouth softens, a fraction of a degree. Even Carol lets out a breath that isn't quite a sigh. I find myself wishing, for a fleeting second, that I could call home. That I could talk to someone who understands the rules I'm operating under, who knows what it's like to be this out of place.

But I can't. The realization smacks me hard, and for a moment I'm dizzy with homesickness—missing not just people, but the feel of my own world, the logic of it, the sense that even if things got weird, they made sense in a way I understood. Here, I'm just another anomaly waiting to be filed under "potential threat."

Piggot leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You understand that your abilities will have to be monitored. We can't have unauthorized power use in the city, especially given recent events."

I nod, swallowing the urge to make a crack about surveillance states or ankle bracelets. "Magic" I corrected, "but I'll cooperate. I'm just here to survive, not start a war."

Carol shoots me another sideways look—less hostile, more resigned. "What do you need, right now, to keep yourself stable?"

I consider the question. I want to say "a way home," but that's not an option. "Books," I finally answer. "Paper, pens, chalk, salt. Maybe some incense, if you're feeling generous. And privacy, whenever you can spare it. If you want to watch, fine, but give me enough breathing room to work."

Piggot makes a quick note, then snaps her notebook shut. "We'll arrange what we can. In the meantime, you'll need to stay with a temporary guardian. Where there are no living relatives in the area, you'll be considered a ward of the state. This means that until we find a suitable home for you, you'll be remaining here at headquarters. You'll have your own private room in the Wards Quarters."

I stifle a groan. Of course. I couldn't just find my own place. Hell, I was seventeen for fucks sake, I was practically an adult.

Armsmaster steps forward, voice crisp and metallic. "We'll provide you with a secure communication device. Any requests or issues go through Director Piggot or myself. You'll have an escort in public at all times."

I get the sense that the meeting is winding down, but nobody wants to be the first to stand. Instead, everyone sits in a kind of polite battle stance, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When it doesn't, I look at the candy bowl again, then at Carol, then at Piggot. "So, am I free to go, or…?"

Piggot gives a short nod, "Miss Militia will be waiting outside the office for you. She will take you down to meet with the rest of the Wards." I get up to leave, but I'm forced to stop when I hear, "McClaine. I expect you to behave at your best for the six months you'll be under probation."

I stare at her for a moment, weighing the infinite number of things I want to say against the single, infinitely more sensible option of not saying anything at all. My tongue presses against my teeth, words ready to spring out in a snarl—something about probation, about how I'm not a criminal, about how none of this is my fault—but I swallow it all, hard, until the urge burns deep in my chest. There are so many barbs to choose from, so many clever ways to burn this entire room of functionaries down to the foundation, but each one feels like signing my own death warrant, or at the very least, giving them exactly what they want.

So instead I clamp my jaw shut, nod once, and push away from the table. The chair's plastic feet scrape a protest against the linoleum, echoing in the sudden silence like a challenge. I ignore the eyes that follow me—Piggot's sharp and hawkish, Carol's hooded with some leftover emotion I can't place, Armsmaster's remote and analytical, measuring the length of my stride and the tension in my shoulders. I keep my gaze level, focus on the door, and walk with a deliberate lack of haste, as if leaving this office is something I do all the time, as if I haven't just been told I'm an existential threat on government-sponsored house arrest.

Outside the meeting room, the air is colder, thinner, maybe even a little cleaner. The hall is a long white tube, fluorescent lights humming above and tile echoing below, the kind of anonymous architecture that seems designed to leach the color out of your soul. I catch my reflection in a glass security panel and barely recognize the boy staring back—pale, hollow-eyed, dark hair a little too long, mouth twisted in a line of ironic detachment that looks more practiced than I remember. For a moment, I think about punching the glass, just to see if anything behind it is real, but then I hear the click of sensible boots and realize I'm not alone.

Miss Militia stands at parade rest a few feet down the hall, back straight, hands clasped behind her. She's in full regalia: star-spangled scarf, body armor, a sidearm holstered at her hip, and a look of polite expectancy that almost makes her seem approachable. Her eyes track me as I approach, bright and unblinking, and I have the distinct sense that she's cataloging potential threats and escape routes even as she smiles.

She nods to me, not quite a salute—just enough to acknowledge that, for the next few minutes at least, we're supposed to be on the same side. "Ready?" she asks, voice low and even, as if she's genuinely trying to make this less awkward for both of us.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I say, and at least that much is true.

Miss Militia takes the lead, her stride neither hurried nor slow; she walks like someone for whom every inch of ground has already been mapped and secured. I follow half a pace behind, hands jammed in my pockets and shoulders up around my ears. We walk through a skein of corridors, each identical to the last—eggshell paint, motivational posters about heroism, security glass that blurs faces and intentions alike. The further we go, the more I feel like I'm being led not just through a building but through a sequence of filters, each designed to catch a different kind of threat. I wonder what kind I am.

The silence between us is companionable in the way that only two people who are both deeply uncomfortable can manage. I keep stealing glances at her, trying to figure out how much of the soldier is performance. Her gait is relaxed, but I can see her eyes flick over surveillance domes, badge readers, every corner where someone could be waiting. I've read about her, of course: textbook soldier, model immigrant, more medals than I have regrets. Up close, she's shorter than I expected, but somehow that makes her more intimidating: all the force of personality compressed into a smaller space. Above all, I take up space. It's the first thing people notice: six feet four on a bad day, more if I'm slouching, and built with the indiscriminate overkill of a Soviet tank. Not a single muscle earned the honest way in a gym—no gym class, no sports, not even a pushup for fun. As a kid, I'd show up to football tryouts just to get recruited, never actually play a season. The raw mass was just there, as if some early version of me had been designed for a life that never happened. The pediatricians called it "exceptional development," my gym teachers called it "a wasted opportunity," and strangers on the train called it "intimidating." I always suspected the truth was stranger than all of those. It used to bug me, this body that never quite fit. Foster parents would take me to thrift shops and we'd dig for XXL hoodies and jeans in the "husky" section, pretending it was a game instead of a necessity. I learned to move carefully, to take up less space than I had, to hunch my shoulders and round my back so I didn't loom. But even at my smallest, I was a "presence," as teachers so tactfully put it. I learned to see myself through their eyes: a problem waiting for a solution, a bouncer at the wrong party, a linebacker in a world of wide receivers. It did weird things to my sense of self, made me wonder if maybe I was a mistake. The adoption agency told me I was a "private placement," and that was basically the last word on it. No records, no origin story, no explanation why a child could have arms like a high school senior or why I hit six feet at fourteen without ever touching a barbell. Genetics, they said. Good stock. Some mix-up in the gene pool. I went along with it because questioning the story only made the not-knowing worse. But late at night, when the world was shrunk to the four corners of my room and the ceiling pressed down like a lid, I'd wonder. Sometimes it was just idle daydreams about being royalty, or maybe the result of a secret government experiment in athletic perfection. But other times—usually when I'd just broken another doorknob or shattered a phone screen with my thumb—I'd get the sense that maybe the doctors and adoption agents and teachers were all wrong. That maybe my body was a message from someone, somewhere, and if I only paid close enough attention, I'd figure out what it was trying to say. But I never did. And now, walking these endless halls, I feel like whatever answer there was has receded further into the background noise, replaced by new questions with sharper edges. For all my size, I've never felt so small and out of place; my reflection in the glass looks like a parody of power, a scarecrow in borrowed clothes.

Miss Militia must notice the way my shoulders draw in, my hands clenching and unclenching in my pockets, because she slows, matching her pace to mine. Her eyes flick up and down my frame, not with judgment but with a kind of clinical curiosity, and I feel a weird urge to explain myself—like if I could just tell her about the thrift shops and the doorknobs, it would make the situation less surreal.

"So," she says at last, voice pitched low so it doesn't echo, "I know this is a lot to process. Just let me know if you need a break, or if you want to talk through anything."

I almost laugh. "You mean like a feelings circle?"

She shrugs, apparently unbothered. "I mean, that works for some people. Others just need to scream into a pillow for ten minutes. You can even punch something, if it's not a person."

"Pass, I'm not a touchy-feely kind of person," I say, and she seems to accept that as valid.

We round a bend in the hallway and the hum of fluorescent lights softens, replaced by a more mechanical drone—the climate control must be working overtime here, as if the building itself is bracing for whatever lies behind this next door. Miss Militia stops just short of the threshold and gestures for me to hold back. She checks a security camera overhead, then taps something on her headset before glancing at me with a quick, practiced smile. For a second, I think she's about to offer me a pep talk, but instead she focuses on the digital keypad beside the door, and her gloved fingers punch in a code with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.

The lock releases with a soft click, but before the door swings open, a shrill electronic wail races down the corridor and rattles around inside my skull. It's the alarm—something like the world's most expensive smoke detector, only more insistent, as if it's offended to be ignored. Miss Militia doesn't even flinch. She looks to me, waiting for that inevitable moment of confusion, and I oblige: "Is this, uh, normal?"

"It's the mask-up alarm," she says, almost apologetic. "Mostly a formality, but we take the protocols seriously. Wards and Protectorate members are required to wear masks at all times when inter-team doors are opened. It's about maintaining secret identities—everyone's safer if the rules don't get sloppy. You'll have your own security codes by the end of the day, but for now, follow my lead."

I nod, and for the hundredth time today, I feel like a visitor at my own execution—here to witness protocol, to abide by rituals I can't pretend to understand.

She glances at me again, this time as if I'm the one lagging, the one responsible for holding up the machine. "You won't be issued your full kit until tomorrow, but for now—" She reaches into a side pouch and hands me a disposable face mask, the kind you'd see in a hospital, only dyed black and stenciled with the PRT logo. "Regulations," she says, not quite apologizing. "It'll do for now."

I put it on, fumbling with the elastic, and am immediately struck by how little it actually conceals. The mask doesn't quite fit my oversized face, and I have to loop the bands twice around my ears to keep it from sagging off. I look ridiculous, a fact not lost on Miss Militia, who arches an eyebrow but doesn't comment. The alarm cuts off as soon as we both meet the letter of the law, and the corridor returns to its previous, pulsing silence.

Miss Militia taps the door panel, and it slides smoothly away, revealing the inside—my first glimpse of the Wards' common area. I had expected something out of a TV procedural: reinforced metal, blank walls, maybe a training mat or two, everything stark and sterile. Instead, the room is… normal. Lived-in. There's a cluster of mismatched couches in the middle, a battered foosball table off to one side, and a low coffee table buried under a strata of pizza boxes and energy drink cans. Posters of past teams paper the far wall, their edges curling and discolored, and I wonder how many faces have rotated through those frames before me. There are no windows, but soft, indirect lamps and daylight simulators cut the gloom, creating a weirdly cozy atmosphere for a government bunker.

But what really grabs my attention is the people. The Wards are already here, three of them, and they're halfway through their own mask-up routine when we enter. The first—tall, curly-haired, and unmistakably female even with a domino mask—stands with her arms folded, regarding me with open suspicion. Her suit is all black. Fitting the open hostility and teenage angst that I was sure she had. Next to her is a kid with a shock of orange hair and a face full of freckles, grinning wide as if daring me to say something about it. He's got on a half-zipped hoodie over a t-shirt with a faded cartoon character, and his mask is pushed up onto his forehead like misplaced sunglasses. The last member is a girl who can't be more than twelve, already fully masked in a green and white visor that covers the upper half of her face. She sits at the coffee table, one leg tucked beneath her, fingers absently tracing invisible patterns in the air as if testing the boundaries of something I can't see. Her shoulders stiffen slightly at our entrance, but she doesn't look up.

Miss Militia steps forward and clears her throat. "Everyone, this is Xander McClaine, Cape name pending. He'll be joining us."

The girl with the curly hair snorts. "Is that an order, or just wishful thinking?"

"Both, Shadow Stalker," Miss Militia says, and somehow manages to invoke the threat of military discipline without even raising her voice.

The orange-haired boy speaks next. "The mask is a nice touch," he says, nodding at my face. "Very Black Plague chic. You going for a theme?"

I shrug. "Didn't get the dress code memo."

He grins, undeterred. "You'll fit right in. We're all disasters here."

Miss Militia gives him a look that says enough, then returns to me. "You'll have a more formal debrief with our team lead soon. For now, just get settled and make yourself at home. Your room is down the hall, third on the left. Rec room's open, and if you need anything, just ask one of them. Or me." She pauses, as if considering whether to say something more, then simply nods. "Good luck, McClaine."

She leaves, the door hissing shut behind her, and I'm left with my new cohort, all eyes drilling into me in the kind of silence that doesn't need an alarm to feel dangerous.

My first instinct is to crack a joke. That, or run. There's something about the way they watch me that makes my skin itch, like I'm a species newly introduced to its natural predator. The one they call Shadow Stalker doesn't even blink; her glare is so flat and unwavering it's almost impressive. The little one with the visor, the kid who looks like she should be trading Pokémon cards on a school playground instead of suiting up for government-issued violence, keeps her hands folded in her lap and her mouth clamped tight, but the fidgeting gives her away. I wonder if she's nervous, or just bored, or if this is what passes for normal for her. The orange-haired boy—Clockblocker, I'd guess from the way he doesn't look surprised to see me. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere, maybe, but especially not here, in this sitcom purgatory of broken kids and government chaperones. But if years of bouncing between foster homes and group placements have taught me anything, it's that you never show them how rattled you are. If you can't be invisible, be funny. Be so weird and surprising that they can't quite pin you down. It doesn't exactly work, but it's better than being predictable prey. I clear my throat and say, "Is this where I get the orientation video, or do we just skip ahead to the part where everyone hates the new guy?"

The orange-haired boy snorts. "There's no video. It's mostly memes and powerpoints. You want, like, a tour?"

"Pass," I say, settling onto the arm of the ugliest couch. "I'm allergic to icebreakers."

He grins at that, a real one this time, not the shit-eating one from before. "That's fine. We can haze you later. I'm Dennis, or Clockblocker in the field. I'm glad you decided to join up." Shadow Stalker rolls her eyes, but doesn't contradict him.

I look at the little girl with the visor. "Do I get a name, or is this a guessing game?"

She shrugs, and her voice is so soft I almost miss it under the hum of the lights. "Vista."

"Cool," I say, and then—because my brain is catastrophically broken—follow it up with, "You look just like my little cousin, except she's only into Roblox and hasn't been deputized by the federal government. Yet." The silence that follows is so profound it feels like the walls are expanding to make room for it. Even Clockblocker seems stumped for a comeback.

Shadow Stalker seems to regard me with open disdain. What the hell had I done to her? The look she's giving me isn't just the garden-variety "I don't like you" you get in every high school cafeteria; it's sharper, more forensic, like she's been preparing for this exact moment of confrontation. I can feel her disdain tracking me as I move, sharp and cold as a draft from a cracked window. Maybe it's because I'm new, or maybe it's because I look like someone who would rather dig their own grave than participate in a trust fall. Perhaps she's just one of those people who are allergic to anyone who isn't exactly like her. Or maybe, beneath the mask and the black-on-black armor, she's already calculated every possible scenario in which I will inevitably let the team down, and she's just waiting for the proof to land in her lap like a severed head. I try to meet her gaze, but manage about a second before my brain flinches away. There's something there I can't yet read, and it sets all of my old foster-kid alarms blaring at once: keep your head down, don't get noticed, do not escalate. But it's already too late for that, because this is the sort of room where escalation is the only language anyone understands. I run through a quick mental checklist: I haven't insulted her, I haven't infringed on her turf, I haven't even opened my mouth yet (except to breathe, which might be a personal affront in her book). My hands knot around the edges of the facemask, as if I could pull it a millimeter tighter, and I could become something less offensive to her.

It takes me a minute, but I eventually recognize the feeling lurking beneath my chest-thumping anxiety: indifference, or maybe something adjacent to it, like acceptance with the volume turned all the way down. I don't care, I realize. Not really. Not about the pecking order, or the silent war over whose glower will set the tone, or even whether I get a fair shake from these people. That's the secret of surviving in a house full of strangers for long enough—you get to be immune to the need to be understood, let alone liked. If they wanted to hate me, that was fine by me. We didn't have to braid each other's hair or share our tragic backstories in a sleepover circle. We just had to not get each other killed.

So I drop my eyes, let her stare bounce harmlessly off my forehead, and decide right then that I will be the most boring, unthreatening, and regulation-friendly version of myself possible until the universe permits me to do otherwise. I'd done it a hundred times before: in foster homes, in group placements, in emergency shelters with their too-white lights and too-thin blankets. I knew the drill. Keep your head down, keep your hands to yourself, never make the first move. Let them get used to you, the way you let a feral cat get used to the sound of your step.

However, the peculiar aspect is how quickly the tension dissipates. Within two minutes, the group dynamic resets to a new baseline. Shadow Stalker turns her attention to an old scab on her knuckle and picks at it with surgical precision. Clockblocker resumes his running commentary on the tragic state of the facility's snack machines, narrating to no one in particular about the ways a person can die from malnutrition in a government-funded bunker. Vista retrieves a battered Rubik's Cube from her backpack and starts working it one-handed, eyes barely flicking my way every few seconds, as if to confirm I hadn't somehow mutated into a threat in the last minute. 

It's not warm, exactly, but it's not hostile either. If anything, the routine pettiness and lack of forced camaraderie are comforting. Like if you're not being actively hazed, you're already halfway to being ignored, which is as close to belonging as anyone ever gets in a place like this. The silence grows less pointed, more companionable, or at least less personal.

In that moment, I'm struck by how easy it is, compared to what I'd expected. How the rules of engagement are written in the way people avoid each other's eyes, how they speak just loudly enough to fill the air but not enough to demand real attention, how every movement is calibrated to avoid the risk of vulnerability. Maybe I'll never be "one of them," but it sure as hell beats being an outsider somewhere worse.

It's almost comforting how quickly I can fall into the rhythms of a new place, even one as strange as this. How the edges of the room seem to close around me, not as shackles, but as walls you could actually lean against. For the first time since morning, I can breathe without having to think about it.

An hour passes in the rec room—though it could just as easily have been ten minutes or three days, given the dimensionless quality of time in this bunker—before Miss Militia reappears in the doorway, her stance martial but her expression softer than I expect. It's like she's caught in some gravitational no-man's land between drill sergeant and cool older sibling. "McClaine," she says, and I hear the implication: no escape, no delay, and definitely no 'just five more minutes, please.'

I rise, careful not to disturb the precarious pyramid of off-brand soda cans Clockblocker's been stacking on the carpet with increasing architectural ambition. Shadow Stalker doesn't look up from where she's methodically re-lacing her boots, but the set of her jaw says she's tracking my every movement. Vista is upside-down on the couch, legs hooked over the back and face flushed with blood, speed-solving her battered Rubik's Cube in a blur of color. "Good luck," she mumbles, but I can't tell if it's for me or the cube.

Miss Militia leads me down a corridor less like a hallway and more like the world's most expensive hamster tunnel: sterile, beige, and humming with the muted threat of surveillance. She doesn't say anything for the first thirty paces, and I'm left to project all kinds of subtext onto her posture—which is, for the record, immaculate. Around us, the facility seems simultaneously alive and deeply asleep, every door a potential metaphor about closed-off futures. We pass two techs in matching polos, one of whom stares openly at my mask, the other pretending not to. I think about all the myths I've heard about Protectorate PR: the focus groups, the endless costume redesigns, the way even your most embarrassing screw-ups are edited for "narrative consistency" before airing on the evening news.

"Are you nervous?" Miss Militia asks the question delivered with such casual neutrality that it almost feels like a joke.

"About meeting the resident spin doctor?" I say. "Or just in general?"

She almost smiles. "Both, probably."

I weigh the risks of honesty versus sarcasm and decide to strike a balance. "I'd rate my current anxiety at a solid six out of ten. High for a normal person, but pretty average given the circumstances."

She slows a little, making eye contact. "He's not as bad as his reputation. Glenn's direct, but he's on your side. He wants you to succeed, and he'll listen."

"That's the part that worries me," I say, and immediately hate myself for sounding like a cliché. Miss Militia doesn't call me on it; maybe she's heard every possible permutation of this anxiety a thousand times before.

We reach a set of double doors, thick glass and steel, with a plaque reading "Chambers, G. – Media & Public Affairs." Miss Militia swipes a badge, and the doors open with a pneumatic sigh. Inside, the décor features smooth lines and soft blues, reminiscent of the waiting room of a high-end dentist who moonlights as a political consultant. There's a curved desk, two chairs, three gently glowing screens, and Glenn Chambers himself, looking up from a tablet with the precise smile of a man who has never once been surprised by the future.

I brace myself, running a tongue over the inside of my facemask as if I could taste the coming negotiation.

Glenn sets the tablet aside and stands, offering a hand. "Xander! Just the man I wanted to see."

Glenn extends his hand in a show of old-school sincerity, and before I've even fully committed to the handshake, my skin prickles with warning. Too late. The instant our palms meet, I feel the familiar static snap at my nerves, like a storm cloud detonating in miniature. His tablet—resting innocently on the desk in front of him—emits a single, high-pitched squeal, screen blanching to white before a little curl of smoke threads up from its charging port—the display flickers, dying with a petulant pop.

Everyone in the room pauses. I glance at Miss Militia out of the corner of my eye, expecting a wince or a sigh, but her features are practiced into a mask of polite non-engagement. Glenn, on the other hand, doesn't so much as blink. He simply retracts his hand, smooths his tie, and slides the ex-tablet aside with a motion so practiced it's probably part of his morning routine.

"Sorry," I blurt, instantly regretting it. I know better than to touch anything digital without warning, but the embarrassment is reflexive. "It's a—thing I have. My… field. It doesn't play nice with electronics."

Glenn's smile is undiminished. "I was told, but it seems that I didn't listen well enough." he says

Miss Militia, to her credit, steps in. "Xander's power has some unique side effects. It's why his costume needs to be analog. We're working on mitigation strategies."

Glenn waves it away like it's the world's most minor hiccup. "Not to worry. We've all had to adapt. You'd be shocked at how many Tinkers are even more disruptive than you."

I manage a sheepish nod; the reality of my situation is suddenly and painfully clear: in this world, I am the equivalent of a walking EMP. Any hope of blending in is laughable. Maybe that's the point. At least it is familiar ground for me.

Glenn launches directly into the next phase, fingers tented, all business. "Let's talk about your narrative," he says. "We've learned the hard way that the public wants heroes they can root for—especially young ones. And you, my friend, are about to become very visible."

I nod, determined to keep my hands to myself from now on. The thought crosses my mind that maybe I should at least invest in some kind of Faraday suit. But I suppose that's what the "mitigation strategies" are for. In the meantime, I comfort myself with the knowledge that most of the facility's backbone runs on Tinkertech, a whole class of machinery that seems functionally immune to my particular brand of interference, as if the laws that govern my curse bounce off the weird physics those gadgets run on. That's about the only mercy in this universe's design I've found so far.

Glenn steeples his fingers, elbows propped on the desk. "I took the liberty of sketching some preliminary campaign concepts for your debut. If we position your power set as 'magic'—sleight of hand, supernatural, the whole stage magician schtick—it creates a hook, a narrative that's both distinct and nonthreatening. At least, that's the theory. Word of advice, though: outside of Vegas, people's tolerance for magic is almost entirely conditional on whether or not they get to feel smarter than the magician. Nobody wants to feel like a rube."

He pushes a glossy folder across the desk. On the cover, someone—probably a focus group graphic designer—has mocked up a version of me in costume, all smoke and mirrors and dramatic cape-flick. There's even a fucking wand. I stare at it long enough to confirm that yes, they actually airbrushed out my acne, and yes, the tagline is "The New Face of Parahuman Mystique." I try not to let my expression show anything, but I can already feel my jaw starting to grind.

"Just to be clear," I say, flipping the folder shut, "it's not an act. It's not branding, it's just what it is. The real deal." I can hear the edge in my voice, a splinter of old anger, and I hate that it's precisely what Glenn is waiting for. He's probably logging it into his mental playbook already, another data point for building the perfect pitch.

He doesn't so much as blink. "Xander, I'm not doubting the source material. I've read the after-action reports, I've seen the footage. I know what you can do." He pauses, choosing his following words with the care of someone who likes to taste them before serving. "But what matters in public is not what's real—it's what plays. The difference between a parlor trick and a paradigm shift, in terms of public perception, is all about the story you tell. We can call it spellwork, we can call it quantum manipulation, we can even call it advanced electromagnetic field disruption, if that makes you happier. But 'magic' is sticky. And right now, you could use a little sticky."

I open my mouth, close it, and then settle for a noncommittal shrug. It's not that I haven't heard this before—hell, it's been the subtext of every foster placement, every caseworker debrief, every time I got sent to mandatory therapy because someone was worried I might accidentally hex the toaster or something. Nobody wants to deal with the possibility of an actual anomaly, so they file the edges and call it something palatable. Glenn is just the most honest about it.

Miss Militia catches my eye, her face unreadable but not unsympathetic. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, the classic posture of someone whose job is fifty percent backup and fifty percent damage control. I wonder which one she's here for today.

Glenn continues, undeterred. "I'm not here to turn you into a mascot, Xander. I'm here to make sure you get the chance to do what you do best, without the world deciding you're the next punchline or, worse, the next threat. The media cycle moves fast, but first impressions are forever. If we can frame you as mysterious, charismatic, even a little dangerous—but dangerous in the way that makes people want to buy tickets, not build containment cells—we win."

I look down at the folder again, at the sanitized, crowd-pleasing version of myself grinning back up from the page, and all I can think of is how little it resembles the real me. But what's new? I've been running PR for myself since I was old enough to realize how much people hated the weird parts of me. Maybe Glenn's just better at it.

I flip the folder back across the desk. "Fine. But I'm not wearing a top hat."

Glenn's smile crinkles at the edges, genuine this time. "We can workshop the accessories. What matters is you get to pick the version of you that the world meets."

The more I flip through the folder, the more I can feel my own pulse in my temples—thick, insistent, annoyed. Every rendering of "Xander the Parahuman" on these pages is some flavor of Vegas hack: spangled lapels, gleaming wands, ornate capes that would get me mugged by a flock of pigeons on my way to the corner store. The worst, I have to admit, is the one with a domino mask and a top hat with a rabbit poking out; I don't even own a pet, which raises the question of where the hell the rabbit would come from. I can almost hear the focus group deliberations: "Kids like magic, right? Let's lean into it, make him whimsical."

I look up at Glenn, who is doing an admirable job of pretending these options are the product of months of high-level market research and not fifteen minutes on a freelancing site. Miss Militia, meanwhile, lounges against the wall, watching the show with a look that reads halfway between amusement and pity. It dawns on me, then, that this is only the first of a hundred indignities waiting for me in the next year.

"Yeah, none of these are going to work," I say, letting the folder close with a muted slap. I rake a hand through my hair, which still sticks up from the static of my earlier handshake. "I'm not even sure what audience you're gunning for here. People who watch televised magic at two in the morning?"

Glenn's smile doesn't slip, but I catch the subtle recalibration happening behind his eyes. He's used to pushback, but maybe not from people who can fry his electronics just by being in the room.

"Public image is a process," he says, voice sliding into the tones of a seasoned spin doctor. "We start broad, then sculpt it down. But if you have a vision, I'd love to see it. The last thing we want is for you to feel misrepresented."

I almost snort, but catch myself. Instead, I reach across the desk, pluck a mechanical pencil from the branded cup, and grab one of the glossy folders—flipping it over to the blank side. "I'll show you what works," I announce, and before I can second-guess the arrogance in my voice, I start to sketch.

What I draw is nothing like the focus group material. I rough in the outline of a jacket—something I can move in, no gaudy trim, no weird buttons or brocade. Pants that don't scream "superhero" or "mall goth," just sturdy and practical. The only real flourish is a hooded cloak, the kind that could double as a blanket or a tent if I needed it. I shade it in with broad, impatient strokes: gray, or maybe slate blue, something that will blend into a city's dusk. At the margins, I scribble notes: "natural fibers only," "no synthetic," "must take enchantment."

"I'm going to be doing a lot of my own tailoring," I say, pushing the sketch across to Glenn, who studies it as if it's an oracle's answer. "Nothing synthetic. It messes with the field. If I can't achieve resonance throughout the entire piece, the effect becomes unstable. That's not good for me, or for anyone in the blast radius." I risk a glance at Miss Militia, who nods—either in agreement or solidarity, I can't tell.

Glenn adjusts his glasses, scanning my sketch. "Minimalist. Unassuming. I like it," he admits, and there's a glimmer of respect that wasn't there before. "Are you sure you don't want something with a little more—" he gestures vaguely, as if trying to conjure a word—"visual interest? It helps with brand recall."

"I turn eighteen in less than a year," I tell him, voice flat but steady. "There's no point in trying to market me as a child sorcerer. That ship has sailed, and if you check the news, most of the audience for 'kid heroes' is just waiting for them to self-destruct anyway. I'd rather look like someone people can take seriously, or at least someone who could disappear if he needed to."

The words hang in the air for a second, and from the way Miss Militia uncrosses and recrosses her arms, I get the sense she approves. Glenn taps my drawing with a single, precise finger. "We can work with this. There's authenticity in it, which is what the analysts always say the younger demographics want. We'll need to run some materials tests, but if it works for you, it works for me."

I nod, feeling a little of the tension uncoil in my shoulders. It's a small victory, but it's mine. "Good," I say. "Because if I'm going to be the new face of anything, I want it to be the real one. Not some cartoon version."

"That just leaves one last thing," Glenn says, folding his hands and leaning forward with a showman's sense of pacing. "Your name. Every hero—every parahuman—needs a good name. It's the brand, the hook, the headline that sticks in people's minds even when everything else turns to static. And you only get one shot at it, at least if you want it to matter. Yes, there are always a few who try to rebrand, but more often than not, they end up as cautionary tales or punchlines on late-night TV. The only reason Clockblocker ever got to keep his name was because he owned it so completely, nobody could knock it loose." He's speaking in the tone reserved for pivotal moments, the voice that means this is the part that will end up in a documentary someday.

I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. Even so, there's a ripple of anticipation in my chest, a chemical fizz, like the moment before a coin lands. This is the moment of anointment; I can't help but feel the pressure of it, the way it compresses my lungs. The ritual of naming is older than most religions, and yet here we are, reducing it to a bullet point in a marketing brief. Names had power, and here was no different than home in that regard.

There's a brief, involuntary flicker behind my eyes: Harry. He'd have been dying with laughter at this whole charade, probably would've spent the night drafting up a thousand fake identities to see which one would make Glenn choke on his coffee first. Harry had a talent for irreverence, a knack for finding the weak spot in any social script and prying it open until the whole thing fell apart. I let the ghost of him linger at the edge of my vision, just long enough to take the sting out of Glenn's solemnity.

Glenn lifts a pen in readiness, as if the act of writing it down is part of the spell. "So. What'll it be? If you have one ready, I suggest you say it with conviction. It helps."

I could stall, play the game, drag this out with a list of half-jokes and false starts. Instead, I let the silence stretch, tasting the way the word feels before I give it air. I think of my power's real effect—not the sleight of hand, not the party tricks or headaches for the local electricians, but the way it makes me a barrier. A firewall. A last line. All my life, people have tried to decide what I am—too dangerous, too weird, too unpredictable—and all I've really wanted is to make the world safer for people like me. Or at least, more honest. The word forms in my mind, heavy and solid, a name that could be carved in the lintel of a courthouse or scratched into a bunker wall.

"Warden," I say, the syllables sharper than I expect, but sturdy. I see Miss Militia's eyebrow imperceptibly rise; behind it, something almost like approval. Glenn grins, and for once it seems less like a performance and more like recognition.

"Warden," I repeat, letting it settle. I imagine it echoing from rooftops, scrawled in spray paint across a city wall, whispered by people in need of a little less chaos. The name fits—maybe too well, but that's the kind of irony I can live with.

"Warden," I say a third time, as if to make it real. "That's what you can call me."

Glenn's pen glides across the paper, committing it to some official ledger. Miss Militia gives a single, decisive nod, then pushes off from the wall. In that moment, the tension in the room dissolves, replaced by a sense of movement, of a story finally leaving the launchpad.

Chapter Text

It takes the PRT several agonizing days to get their act together, scrounging up enough Tinkertech to run the battery of tests they’ve promised me. They ferry containers in on the back of trucks that are rigged with enough shielding to withstand a small nuclear detonation. The engineers tiptoe around each device like they’re handling nitroglycerin, and I’m the detonator. Each time a new piece of equipment is uncrated, the techs pause, waiting for the inevitable: alarms, bursts of ozone, the shriek of shorting circuits, or, in one memorable case, a brief burst of green plasma that singes half the ceiling tiles in the makeshift lab.

Armsmaster insists on observing every test, which is strangely flattering. He’s spent entire days staring down the barrel of my power, taking notes while scientists scramble to recover the ruins of their prototypes. There’s an odd kind of respect in the way he watches me. Not the grudging sort he gives the rest of the Wards, but something closer to curiosity, maybe even admiration. He asked me, once, how it felt to break things that were supposed to be unbreakable. I didn’t have a good answer. It doesn’t feel like anything, I said. But that’s not true. It feels like guilt, and a little bit of pride, and a lot of terror at what I might do if I ever really let go.

After the third day, the liability guy—Agent Falk—arrives with a stack of NDAs and a face like a clenched fist. “Protocol is to keep you somewhere we can control every variable,” he says, circling each word on his clipboard with a fat red marker. “Until we have a working theory for the… anomaly, you’re not to use powers on PRT property or within five hundred meters of public infrastructure.” He doesn’t say the word ‘risk’ out loud, but it’s heavy in the air.

So they move me, under heavy guard, out of Brockton Bay and into a forgotten corner of Maine, where the population density is closer to that of caribou than people. I’m installed in a repurposed fallout shelter beneath a shuttered ski lodge, with a dozen Tinkertech cameras tracking my every move. The nearest human being is a park ranger who lives half a mile down a maintenance road and only comes by to refill the generator’s diesel tank.

I glance toward the observation glass, where Armsmaster stands with a clipboard in one hand and his other arm folded across his chest. He’s got a way of splitting his attention, like a river bifurcating around a rock—one half of his mind is on the techs, the other is on me. I wonder if he ever truly relaxes. If he’s ever not cataloging the threat potential in every room, every person. Behind him, near the door, is Panacea. The PRT must have flown her in overnight; she’s got the look of someone who just stepped off a red-eye, with dark circles under her eyes and hair pulled into a messy ponytail that’s frayed around the edges. She’s wearing a borrowed Brockton Bay sweatshirt over her hospital scrubs, which looks a little ridiculous but somehow makes her more human than anyone else in the room. I can’t tell if Panacea is here because they think I’ll need healing, or because someone upstairs wants to remind me that my power is dangerous enough to warrant a parahuman medic on standby. Maybe both. She’s perched on a folding chair, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, watching me with the flat, unreadable expression of a cat waiting for a mouse to move. I try to catch her eye, but she looks away, focusing instead on the ceiling, as if she might divine some message from the exposed ductwork.

Morales finishes applying the sensors, then steps back, gesturing to the nest of equipment in the corner. “We’re just going to run a baseline. No need to use your power yet, okay?” His voice is gentle, but there’s a nervous hitch to it, like he’s asking a question he doesn’t want answered. I nod, keeping my face neutral. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the moment you let them see the gears turning, the moment you betray even a hint of calculation, that’s when they’ll start trying to outsmart you. I let my hands dangle at my sides and breathe slow, steady breaths as the machines power up, one after another. The whirr of fans, the stutter of hard drives spinning, the crackle of a Geiger counter needle as it calibrates. It sounds like a swarm of anxious insects. Armsmaster murmurs something into his comm, and one of the ceiling cameras pivots to focus on me. The red indicator light winks on, tiny and accusatory. Morales consults a tablet, tapping out notes with quick, nervous jabs. The sensors are always supposed to be immune to parahuman interference, “second-generation shielding” and “fail-safes up the ass.” Still, so far, the only constant is that they fail in new and disappointing ways every time I show up.

I look up at Armsmaster again, who’s now conferring with Panacea. They speak in low tones, but I catch fragments: “threshold,” “immune response,” “outlier.” Panacea shrugs, clearly out of her depth. I don’t blame her. My power isn’t something a healer can set right with a touch or rebalance with a pill. She looks over at me for the barest second, then back to her knees. I wonder if she’s thinking about her own power, what it would be like to have the world reduced to weaknesses and vulnerabilities, every person a sack of meat waiting to fail in some spectacular new way. Morales gestures for me to flex my arms, move my head side to side, the sensors pulling slightly against my skin. “Perfect,” he says, though nothing about this setup feels perfect. I can see my own reflection in the far wall, ghosted by the two-way glass. I look pale, rumpled, and smaller than I expect, like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office. Maybe I am, in some way. As the baseline scans run, I try to distract myself by thinking about anything else. The cold. The strange, sanitized smell of the lab. The way Panacea keeps her back straight even when she’s clearly exhausted. It doesn’t work. I keep rewinding to the certainty that, sooner or later, something in this room is going to catch fire, or melt, or collapse in on itself. That’s just how it goes.

“While the baseline scans run, tell me more about this magic,” Armsmaster says, his tone clipped and professional. He has this way of making questions sound like cross-examinations. I shift in my seat, feeling the adhesive patches on my skin tug as the tension tightens the muscles underneath. He’s always like this, dissecting you with his eyes while he waits for an answer, and I know that if I hesitate too long, he’ll only repeat himself, louder, as if volume alone can force the truth out of a person.

I glance at Panacea, hoping for some sign of solidarity, but she looks at the floor, arms still locked around her legs like she’s bracing for impact. Morales has retreated to a safe distance by the monitors, pretending not to hear, which tells me he’s heard enough already to be nervous.

“Where do I start?” I ask, mostly to buy time.

Armsmaster doesn’t so much as blink. “The beginning. Always best.” His pen is already poised above the clipboard.

So I start: “Seven laws, each as immutable as gravity, and if I break them, it gets… bad.” The last word lingers, too thin for the weight it carries.

He taps his pen impatiently. “Define ‘bad.’”

"Anything that breaks a law of magic is considered black magic," I say, trying to keep my voice steady so it doesn't sound like a confession. "It leaves a stain. On your soul, or whatever passes for it, if you believe in that kind of thing. It’s not a metaphor. You can feel it crawling under your skin, burrowing in until you want it more than you want to breathe." Every time I try to explain this, it sounds like I’m making excuses, but it’s true. "Black magic is strong. It’s easy. It doesn’t care if you’re tired or desperate or not yourself—it just asks if you want the power, and then you use it." I can see Morales typing faster, the other techs starting to glance over at each other with the kind of alarm reserved for people who realize the tiger in the cage doesn’t need a reason to bite.
Armsmaster just watches. I know he’s got a recording running at all times, and that he’s probably run my words through a dozen different threat assessment protocols already. "You’re saying black magic is addictive?" he says, his voice slicing the silence like a razor through paper.
"Addictive isn’t even the right word," I tell him, and I don’t care if I sound hysterical. "It’s like your entire body gets rewired to crave it. The more you use it, the easier it is to keep using, until it’s the only thing you can do. Some people manage to quit, but most end up… bad." I don’t say dead, or hollowed out, or worse, because I don’t want them cracking down harder on me. "There’s no safe dose. No moderation. If you start down that road, you don’t stop until it destroys you."
"So you’re saying you’re capable of this?" Armsmaster says, and even though his voice is neutral, I can hear the calculation under the surface. "But you choose not to."
"I’m not capable," I snap, then force my hands to lie flat on the table. "That’s the whole point. I won’t. Not even for testing, not for any of this." I can feel the anger rising, creeping through the cracks in my armor. "Lock me up, stick me in a Faraday cage, whatever you want. If you force me to use black magic, it’s not just me you’re putting at risk. I don’t know what happens here, in your world, if I do that. But where I’m from, they send people like me to the gallows." I don’t mean that figuratively. The White Council is not known for subtlety or mercy. "If I ever manage to get home, I will not have a death sentence waiting for me on top of everything else."
There’s a long pause. I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint click of Morales’ tongue stud as he chews on the inside of his cheek. The techs in the booth have stopped pretending not to listen. Even Panacea is looking up now, her gaze sharp.
"Let me make this clear," I say, and my voice sounds unfamiliar even to me. "I will not do any black magic for the duration of these tests. I don’t care how dire things get or what you promise me. Throw me in prison, sedate me, let me rot in this bunker for the rest of my life. That’s better than what will happen if I start down that path."
For a second, no one says anything. Armsmaster’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the faintest hint of respect flickering in his eyes—like he’s cataloging me not just as a threat, but as someone capable of drawing a line and holding it. Morales is still typing, but slower now, each keystroke hesitant.
"I’ll note that for the record," Armsmaster says finally, his clipboard snapping shut with a decisive click. "Testing will proceed with that restriction."
I exhale, tension bleeding out of my shoulders. For the first time since I arrived in this cold, humming hole in the ground, I feel like I’ve kept a piece of myself safe.
Armsmaster’s pen hovers with surgical readiness, and I realize I am being dissected alive. The room, with its blinking monitors and antiseptic chill, waits for the autopsy to begin. There is no point in pretending I can keep the laws to myself. I recite them the way a condemned priest might, with reverence and a trembling clutch of dread. "The first law is the oldest," I say, meeting his gaze. "Thou shalt not kill—not with magic. Killing another human with magic is more than a crime. It’s a break in the gears of reality. It leaves a wound so deep that sometimes you can taste the blood in your mouth for the rest of your life. If you ever wondered why warlocks are all madmen or monsters, it’s because the universe itself punishes them. Animals, Fae, anything that isn’t human, doesn’t count. The laws exist to save us from ourselves.” Panacea is watching me, sharp and glassy. She isn’t just a medic; she’s a witness. Maybe a penitent, too. “The second law,” I go on, “is no less cruel. Thou shalt not Transform another—changing the shape or substance of another person. It’s not as straightforward as you’d think. You can swap a man’s hand for a crow’s foot, or give him gills, or change his sex. But the mind rebels. The body doesn't forgive the violation, and the mind, if it doesn’t shatter on the spot, takes the rest of your life to break. There’s a reason the Council treats transmuters like typhoid carriers. The people they touch never really come back.”

Morales’ typing slows, each key a gravestone. “Can you do that?” he asks, voice barely above the static.

I nod. “The urge is always there. Magic is about shortcuts. It whispers that you can fix anything if you stop caring what it does to the person you’re ‘fixing.’ I’ve seen it ruin people.” I look at Panacea—she flinches, just a little. I wonder if she’s ever wanted to reshape someone from the inside out and stopped herself just in time.

“The third law is the one no one talks about. Thou shalt not invade the mind of another. Mind reading, compulsion, anything that tampers with another’s thoughts. Because” I struggle for the words, “because what you find there never leaves you. And sometimes you drag pieces of yourself with you, and the next thing you know, you’re not sure which thoughts are yours and which are theirs. There’s no such thing as victimless telepathy.” A memory surfaces, fast and bright: Molly’s face, sweat-soaked and wild as she clutched my arm in the backyard of the Carpenter house. “Never read a mind you’re not ready to lose,” she’d hissed through clenched teeth. She meant it, too.

Armsmaster writes, “No exceptions?” like he doesn’t believe in absolutes.

I almost laugh. “None. The Council has a dedicated team for hunting mentalists. They don’t put you on trial; it’s summary execution. The same as if you break any of the other laws.” The next law is a knife in the gut. “Thou shalt not enthrall another. That means never taking away someone’s will, no matter how good you think your reasons are.” I tell them, “There was a wizard. She wanted to save her friend from heroin, do you know what heroin is?” Morales nods, hollow-eyed. “She ripped the craving out of her friend’s mind, but it left the woman a husk. No ambition, no joy, no grief. Just a blank space, like someone had erased her soul with a damp rag. She spent the next three years in a facility much like this one, learning to want things again. If she ever really did.” The silence is thick, except for the machines, which never care.

Armsmaster’s eyes narrow. “You’re saying it’s never justified.”

I want to say, “Sometimes I wish it were.” Instead, I say, “It’s not about justification. It’s about damage. The moment you start thinking you know better than someone else’s mind, you’re already lost. The law is there to keep you from making that mistake.” I see him process it. He’s the type who would rather cut off his own arm than admit to uncertainty, but this shakes him. Morales whispers something to Panacea; her face hardens, and she sits up straighter.

“The fifth law is the one that gets said in a whisper because of all the stories. Thou shalt not raise the dead. Necromancy. It’s not just about shambling corpses. It’s about tearing open the fabric between this world and the next, and letting everything that wants in, in. Sometimes what comes through looks like the person you lost. Most times it’s something else. Something that hates you for dragging it back.”

Armsmaster’s pen stalls. “You mean ghosts?”

I shake my head. “Not ghosts, think zombies. Ghosts are under the purview of Ectomancy. Sometimes it’s the echo of a scream that never should have existed. Sometimes it’s just hunger, shaped in the memory of a face you loved. The worst I ever saw was during my apprenticeship. A girl tried to bring back her father. The thing that came back ate the dog, then the neighbor’s cat, and then tried for the neighbor. They stopped it in time, but the girl… she was never the same. She’d see her father’s face in every puddle, every dark window. I don’t think she’s alive anymore.” I rub my temples, suddenly tired.

Morales stops typing. “You said Ectomancy isn’t the same.”

I almost smile, but it’s not funny. “Ectomancy is like being a therapist for the dead. It’s counseling, not resurrection. The difference is, you’re not forcing anything to happen. Spirits that want to move on, you help them. You never, ever drag anything here against its will.” Panacea looks at me like she wants to apologize for something she hasn’t done yet. “The sixth law is about time. Thou shalt not swim against the currents of time.” I say, voice flattening. “No one’s ever been able to change the past and not pay for it. Even looking at the future can break things in ways you can’t fix. Butterfly effect doesn’t begin to cover it. Wizards who meddle with time don’t last long, or they come back wrong.” I remember the old man in the tweed jacket, his eyes flickering like a broken television. He’d tried to rewind a day to save his daughter. By the third try, he was begging us to kill him.

Morales mutters, “That’s… horrifying.”

I shrug. “It’s there for a reason.” Armsmaster doesn’t say anything, poised to record the last law.

I let the silence grow, because the last is the worst, and it deserves room to breathe. “The seventh law is simple: Never open the Outer Gates. There are things outside of reality, waiting to get in. I know you don’t believe me, but if you saw what I’ve seen, you’d burn every book, salt every field, just to keep the doors shut.” I think about the night in Vienna, the sky bleeding stars as something screamed through the cracks. “One wizard tried. Once. There’s a crater in Belarus where a city used to be, and the only reason you’ve never heard of it is because people like the Council make sure you never do.” Panacea’s mouth is a thin white line. Armsmaster’s jaw ticks, like he’s trying to grind the question into a shape that won’t cut his tongue. There are no notes for a long time.

“That’s the end of the story?” he says.

I shake my head. “That’s just the prologue. The hardest part is living with the consequences of breaking the Laws. Because you always do, eventually. No one stays clean. The universe is too cruel for that.”

The moment hangs—suspended, brittle as sugar glass. No one even dares to exhale. The whirr of a cooling fan, the soft tick of the ancient wall clock, all of it stops, so absolute is their hunger for my next words. Morales blinks hard, his gaze skittering from the screen to my face, searching for any fracture. Armsmaster’s jaw clenches so fiercely the muscle jumps near his ear. Even the fluorescent lights seem to hesitate; the shiver in their ballast draws shadows sharp across the scar on his cheek, leaving a bright white track. Panacea, hands trembling so minutely it could be mistaken for the pulse in her thumb, looks up at me with eyes so wide they reflect the screens, little blue galaxies swirling in her pupils. Her question is soft, but it plucks the nerve exposed in my chest: “Which one did you break?”

Time is a tangle, a snare, and it tightens without warning—collapses, contracts, and then I’m not in this room anymore. I’m back in that gravel driveway, knees torn by stone, blood slicking the lines on my palms and wrists, glass embedded so deep I never got it all out. I’m twelve and every atom in me is vibrating with the terror of what I just did, of what I might do next. I can feel the cold, autumn-wet air, the stink of the neighbor’s garbage cans overflowing with crushed beer cans and rotting fruit, the taste of iron and bile on my tongue. I can feel my foster mother’s hand on the back of my neck, pushing my face to the ground so I couldn’t see what was left of the thing that used to be my foster father. But that was the past, and the past is a grave you dig with your own fingernails. I drag myself out by sheer force of will, out of that endless loop, and haul the focus back to the here and now. My hands are clenched so tight that I pierce the skin of my palms, and I will the tremor out of them, erasing the weakness, the memory. I force my face into a mask, a slab of polished marble, smooth as a funerary effigy. My eyes meet Panacea’s, and for a second, I want the Soul Gaze to happen, or confess everything, or both. Instead, I let my gaze slide away, catch on the water stain above us, that old yellow archipelago that’s been growing for years, mapping out continents of rot across the ceiling tile. Anything to avoid the tribunal before me, the three sets of eyes that want to carve the truth out of my marrow. I try to conjure some armor, some cleverness, some well-cut retort to swaddle myself in, but the only thing waiting for me is the raw, unprocessed truth. I prod it with the tip of my tongue, taste the way it wants to come out—ugly, burning, bright. My voice, when it comes, has none of the slyness I’d hoped for. It’s just bare: “Would knowing change anything?”

For a moment, all three of them freeze. Armsmaster, who’s built a life out of certainty, is caught off-balance, pen hovering an inch from the page. Morales, whose fingers are constantly in motion, lets his hands fall limp on either side of the keyboard, like the strings have been cut. Panacea’s face is a war, every emotion fighting for supremacy, and for a moment, I think she might cry or scream. Instead, she does exactly what I’d do: she doubles down, refusing to blink. Armsmaster lowers his pen, but not his guard. Morales’s hands return to the keyboard, but he doesn’t start typing; he’s just hiding the tremor in his fingers. Panacea doesn’t look away, not for a second. She presses, “You make it matter. That’s why they brought you here, isn’t it?”

I almost laugh, but it curdles up on the way out, scraping my throat raw. “You want the answer, or the story?” I toss it out like a joke, but it lands heavy, all the sharper for its brightness.
She doesn’t blink. “Whichever hurts less.”
For a red, stuttering heartbeat, I let myself believe I might tell them the truth—peel open my chest and let all the mess and rot spill out. But I roll the impulse back up, ball it tight, and stuff it into the old hiding place behind my ribs. Personal revelation is a wound, and at some point, you get tired of bleeding in public. I smooth my face, scavenge for the tools I’ve always used to keep people at bay. Wit. Cynicism. The armor that never quite fits, but at least keeps the knives from hitting bone. “At least buy me dinner first before asking me soul-searching questions.” I make a show of checking my watch, as though this is just another Thursday and not the moment my history might finally catch up and devour me. There’s a collective exhale, a subtle slouch in everyone’s posture. The tension in the room doesn’t break, exactly, but it thins—goes from strangulation to something like a tourniquet, tight and necessary, but survivable for another hour. Armsmaster’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile but at least an acknowledgment that we’re still playing the same game. Morales doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick sideways to Panacea, as if checking whether she’ll let the subject drop or keep digging. Panacea doesn’t. She cocks her head like a bird hearing distant thunder. “We’re not here to eat,” she says, “but if you need the calories, I can requisition a tray.” It’s a joke, and not, and I find myself almost grateful for it. I flex my hands, counting the familiar ache that pulses with every heartbeat, and try to remember how to tell a story about myself that won’t leave scorch marks on the walls.

I let out a breath, and if there were any more questions about me, they went unspoken. The temperature in the room slackens a degree or two. I give them a moment to collect themselves—Armsmaster stiff as a board, knuckles white on his pen; Morales with his eyes down now, as if the story might seep from my shadow; Panacea no less intent, but something softer under her bravado, almost like pity. I swallow it down and let the lecture resume. “So you know the Laws now, next comes the Sight.” My voice is rough at the edges, but the scaffolding of teaching holds me up. “The Sight is one of the first things you learn, and the last thing you ever master. Some call it the Third Eye, while others refer to it as the Unfolding. Most of us just call it the Sight, capital ‘S’. Wizards can use it to pierce the veil and see things as they actually are. Not just the surface, but the root—the hidden, true name of things, the stain of memory on objects, the shape of a soul.” I can tell they think I’m being poetic, but I’m only reporting the facts. “We can use this at will and with minimal effort, but it comes at a cost. There’s always a cost.” I glance at them, weighing if they’ve earned the warning. “Anything you see with the Sight is indelible. Permanent. Like carving it behind your eyes with a diamond-tipped chisel. You’ll always recall it, whether you want to or not.” I pause, letting them imagine what that might mean. Armsmaster’s frown deepens, the lines bracketing his mouth carved so deep they could hold water. Morales types, but slower, each stroke landing with a deliberate thunk. Panacea listens, hands folded, nails biting into her palm. “The first time you use the Sight, it’s usually accidental. Most kids don’t even realize what’s happened until it’s too late. You see a thing, and it’s with you forever. Wizards that use it too freely go mad. Sometimes the madness is subtle—paranoia, insomnia, a compulsive need to erase every reflection, every shiny surface. Sometimes it’s… less subtle.” I don’t elaborate, but they’ve seen the same documentaries I have, the old black-and-white footage of men in threadbare robes rocking back and forth in padded rooms, eyes wide and milky. “Some traditions say the Sight is why most wizards live alone, off the grid. It’s not just the government they’re hiding from, but the world itself. If you’ve ever looked at a stranger and seen the thousand futures clinging to his shoulders, or watched your own reflection rot away in a bathroom mirror, you might want to live alone, too. There’s a reason the phrase ‘seen too much’ shows up in every language.” I run my thumb along the edge of the table, feeling the grain, grounding myself in sensation that won’t echo. “There are ways to blunt the Sight, but none of them are safe. Some wizards drink themselves halfway to death before opening the Third Eye, hoping the whiskey will dull the images. Others take drugs or meditate for days to build up calluses around the mind. I’ve known more than one who blinded themselves on purpose, thinking it might spare them. It doesn’t.” I shrug, as if this is just the way of the world. “The Council keeps strict records of every wizard who’s cracked under the Sight. If you’re lucky, you get quietly retired—given a stipend, a remote cabin, and enough sedatives to keep the walls from melting. If you’re unlucky, you’re… well.” Morales stops typing at that, and for a moment, the only sound is the low buzz of the lights. “But sometimes, just sometimes, you see something beautiful. A newborn’s aura like sunrise on wet snow, or a tree grown from a lover’s grave, every leaf stamped with memory. Those moments stay with you, too, and for a little while, the scars are worth it.” I look at Panacea, wondering if she wants to challenge me on that, but she only nods, slow and heavy, as if holding up the weight of all the ugly things she’s ever seen. “So before asking me to use the Sight, know damn well the consequences because I’ll be living with them for the rest of my very long life. Don’t ask if you’re not ready to see me change. Maybe even see me come undone. I don’t get a day off from what I see—no time out, no blackout. It’s like tattooing the inside of your skull with pure trauma, and I’m already running out of blank space.” The words hang there, pulsing, a warning flare and a dare at once.

Armsmaster’s jaw ticks a notch, the blue in his eyes going chip-ice hard, as if he’s manually holding his skepticism together. He uncaps his pen, then recaps it. Uncaps, recaps. The rhythm betrays him. He’s debating whether to call my bluff or back down, but his pride won’t let him do the latter. I see the exact moment he decides: he squares his shoulders, and when he speaks, it’s the voice of a man who’s worn heavy armor so long he can’t remember what bare skin feels like. “We’re aware of the risk to you, and to us, as observers. The record will state that you’ll be duly warned and still granted your own informed consent. That’s all we need,” he says, and scrawls something on the pad, his hand shaking just enough to rattle the little metal rings at the top.

Morales, who has been typing everything, pauses in mid-keystroke. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and for a second, I think he might apologize for making me do this. But he just says, “We’ll cut the lights so you can concentrate. Is there anything else you need?” His voice is small, a splinter in the silence.

Panacea doesn’t move. She watches me with the surgical steadiness of someone peeling back a ribcage. There’s concern in her expression, but also hunger; she wants to see what happens when I finally drop the mask. She wants to know how far I’ll go. I run my hands over my face, palms rough as old leather, and try to steady myself for what’s coming. The Sight’s not a faucet you turn on and off, not really. It’s a raw nerve, a hundred-volt jolt straight to the center of the brain. I can feel it already: the pressure behind my eyes, the prickle of static along my arms. I want to blink, to clear the grit, but that’s just the body anticipating pain. I think about the last time I let the Sight open fully, how I couldn’t sleep for a week, how I tore the sheets and left bloody half-moons on my own skin from trying to claw the visions out. It’s never easier, no matter how many times you do it. But they need an answer, and I need to show them I’m not afraid. “Just—don’t talk,” I say. “Once I start, let it run its course.” Armsmaster nods, jotting something else. Morales’s hands hover above the keyboard, uncertain. Panacea leans in, just enough that I can see the blue veins in her temples, the pulse fluttering like a trapped moth. I close my eyes, draw in one last breath, and let the tension settle over me like a funeral shroud. The room is as silent as a tomb, and for the first time, I understand that every single person in here is terrified—not just for me, but for what I might bring back with me. What I might become.

I open my eyes.

The world reveals itself to me, and it does not do so gently. The layer of reality that most people accept as gospel peels away in a heartbeat, and what lies underneath is a palimpsest of terror and wonder that nearly buckles my knees. I hadn’t dared open my Sight since I’d arrived on Earth Bet—self-preservation, or maybe cowardice, kept me from it—but the instant I let down the guard, I am overwhelmed. The white-walled conference room is a fragile blister floating atop chaos and history. The whole building is. Its corners are crooked with the memory of every injustice, every fear-soaked interrogation and failed negotiation, giving the air a writhing tinge of blood orange and bilious green. The glass of the windows isn’t glass, not anymore, but a membrane stretching between epochs, stretched so tight it blurs with the sound of distant screaming. The floor beneath my feet—concrete and utilitarian dull gray—crackles with ley energy so potent it’s as if I’m standing barefoot on a downed powerline.

But that’s only the beginning.

Beyond the immediate architecture, the world is alive with things no one else sees. I stagger as the Sight rushes in, a tsunami whose every crest is another truth I will never be able to unsee. There are traces of the Fae here, not the bright and twinkling kind that decorate children’s books, but the real ones—predatory, calculating, insane. I see the afterimage of a sidhe lord’s passage in the shimmer of the HVAC ductwork, the way the dust motes hang just-so in the sunlight. It’s old—older than the building, maybe older than the state—but it sticks, clinging to the air like perfume on a lost love letter. I force myself to catalog everything, to give it words so the others can anchor me, even as I’m careful never to turn my gaze directly upon them. Each human face is a fractal nightmare, a mask of shifting possibility and regret, and I know that if I look at them with the Sight, I will see the true shape of their soul, and I am not ready for that. Not yet. So I focus outward, mapping the room: the scorch marks in the baseboards where a demon once pressed up against reality; the slow, tidal pull of a closed Way to the Nevernever, hidden just behind the fire alarm, thin as a razor and just as eager to cut; the leyline that runs like a spinal cord through the continental shelf, so strong it makes every molecule in my body hum like a tuning fork. I narrate as best I can, voice trembling but steady, “There’s a residual Fae presence, old but persistent—a closed Way to the Nevernever in the northwest corner, near the ceiling. The entire building sits on a leyline—enormous, possibly global. It’s bending everything around it.” I point out each one, one by one, never letting my eyes linger for too long. If I do, I might never be able to look away.

I pace, careful in my movements, because the Sight has no mercy for the unprepared. Each step is a lesson in restraint. I see the ghosts of dead ambitions in the scuffed tile, the fossilized arguments embedded in the paint. I see echoes of past interrogators, their hope and hunger and failures, looping and replaying in sickly echoes that only I can hear. My own reflection in the window is a blur, a static flicker of all the things I’ve been and could have been, and the Sight wants to show me every single one. I force my mind back to the task: to relay, to observe, not to drown. But the worst and best of it is the Way itself. To the naked eye, it is nothing. To the Sight, it’s a wound in the world, puckered and angry and promising oblivion to anything foolish enough to touch it. I want to reach for it. There’s a compulsion, an itch that runs beneath my skin, a voice that is not a voice but the echo of every risk I’ve ever taken. The Nevernever is dangerous, yes—it is madness and teeth and infinite darkness—but it is also a path home. The realization hits with the force of a falling piano. I had dismissed the option, too reckless, too final. But being here, seeing the Way vibrating with suppressed energy, how it wants to be opened, makes me reconsider. Maybe I could. Perhaps I have to. The other methods—rituals, pacts, reverse engineering tinkertech—are slow, fragile, and obvious. The Nevernever is a scalpel, sharp and precise, if I dare pay its cost. I circle back to the table, breath ragged but controlled, and keep my voice as level as I can manage. “The Way is sealed, but not destroyed. There’s a pattern to the closure, almost as if it was done in a hurry. If I wanted to, I could open it—briefly, at least—but I wouldn’t be able to predict what comes through, or if it would let me back out. There’s a risk of the whole building being torn apart.” I am barely aware of how my hands are trembling, how my pulse stutters in my throat. “But it’s possible. Maybe even necessary. If we’re serious about finding a way home, this is the fastest shot I’ve got.”

I realize I’m not just talking to them anymore. I’m arguing with myself, trying to convince the only person who matters. There are no guarantees. The Sight has made that perfectly, horribly clear. But the alternative is to sit here and rot, and I’m running out of patience. And if I have to break myself open to do it, well—maybe I was never meant to stay whole in the first place. I shut my eyes, letting the colors and wounds and voices fade to manageable levels, and when I look up, the people in the room are normal again, if only for a heartbeat. I keep my gaze low. “It’s not easy. It’s not safe. But it’s doable, if I’m desperate enough.” I let the words settle. No one interrupts. I think Armsmaster is afraid that if he does, he’ll see what I just saw and never sleep again.

I try to picture walking into the Nevernever with this coterie of well-armed strangers—imagine their steel and skepticism clattering against every inch of that haunted, fractal place—and the thought is so grotesque I want to laugh, or maybe scream. They’d die, or worse. They’d see me for what I really am, which is not an asset but a liability, a person-shaped fault line waiting for the right seismic event to split open and swallow the room. No, if I’m going to step into the Nevernever, it won’t be as part of a team-building exercise for the PRT. It’ll be because I ran out of angles, or hope, or both. And I’ll do it alone, the way I should have done everything else that led me here. The idea knots itself into my mind like a promise. Never let them follow. Not unless you want to damn them, too. The aftershocks of the Sight keep rolling through me. For every second that passes, another detail surfaces—how the leyline’s hum is tangled with old, dry regret; how the Way behind the fire alarm throbs like a hangnail begging to be ripped off; how the memory of the sidhe’s predatory regard lingers in my peripheral vision, a shimmer I can’t quite blink away. I could try to explain this to them, but there’s no point. They wouldn’t believe me, or worse, they’d believe me too much and start plotting ways to bottle it, regulate it, turn it into another weapon for the balance sheet. So I let my mask slip just enough to suggest exhaustion, nothing more. I rub at my eyes, make a show of recovering. “Sorry. Sight always comes with a bit of lag,” I say, and nobody corrects me. What I don’t say, what I never say, is that I can still feel the Way calling, even now. The urge to open it is rationalized as a tactical advantage, but deep down, I know it’s a compulsion, a vector for all the old instincts I’ve spent years suffocating. That’s the real reason it needs to be done alone: because I can’t guarantee who or what will come back out. And I don’t want witnesses for that.

“I guess since we’re already talking about the Sight, I might as well introduce you to the second-worst parlor trick in the Wizard’s arsenal: Soul Gaze.” The words have a practiced edge, lacquered by years of repetition, yet no amount of familiarity dulls their implication. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I never meet anyone’s eyes for longer than a heartbeat. There’s a reason for that, and it isn’t social anxiety.” I shrug, take a shaky breath, and let my gaze hover just above their heads, targeting the wall clock as if I’m trying to move the minute hand telekinetically. “I’ve trained myself to look at people’s noses, their eyebrows, even their shoes—anywhere but directly at their eyes. It’s a habit, like biting your tongue before you say something you’ll regret. But it’s not just superstition or paranoia. It’s a matter of survival.” I let the silence twist itself into a tighter knot, watching as Armsmaster’s pen stalls mid-scroll and Panacea’s hands clench a little tighter on her water bottle. Morales sets her keyboard aside with almost comic care, as if she’s afraid even the gentle click of a key will set me off. “The old saying goes, ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul.’ But for us—Wizards—it’s not just an aphorism. It’s literal. The connection that happens during a Soul Gaze is like… imagine being forcibly merged with someone else’s mind and memories, but all the parts you both keep hidden, the embarrassing, shameful, or monstrous stuff, gets magnified a thousand times. For those seconds, you are in each other’s skin, seeing every scar, every broken place, every ugly hope. It’s not controlled. There’s no filter. And once you’ve seen someone like that, you never, ever forget. By the end, you understand that person on a level that even they may not know.” There’s a memory, vivid and unwelcome, of the first time I ever made the mistake of Soul Gazing another Wizard. I was sixteen, brimming with arrogance and primal terror, and my opponent—never mind her name now—looked into me with eyes like dark pools, and what I saw on the other side nearly broke me in half. I’d gone home and spent three days under my bed, not because I was afraid of her, but because of what I learned about myself. The Gaze is a two-way street, and it cares nothing for privacy or mercy. I almost say this out loud, but instead I circle the point like a shark around a sinking corpse. “It’s not just the length of time of the eye contact that does it. Intent can be enough. If I want to Soul Gaze someone, all it takes is a moment of focus, and boom—the circuit is complete. There’s no warning, no reverse button. And it’s not just Wizards who are susceptible. Anyone with a soul can be Gazed, but the more power you have—emotional, intellectual, magical—the more… vivid the experience.” I pause, let my eyes flick briefly across each person at the table, careful as a bomb squad technician. “If I ever seem evasive or like I’m not listening, it’s not an insult. I’m just not eager to end up with another person’s entire life burned into my memory banks, especially when mine are already full to bursting.”

I risk a laugh, and it comes out brittle as mica. “It’s not all bad. Sometimes Soul Gaze is useful. If someone’s lying to you, you’ll know. If they mean you harm, you’ll see it in the architecture of their heart. But the cost is that you have to live with the truth, and sometimes the truth is a sobbing child, or a rabid animal, or a void so empty it makes you want to claw out your own brain. That’s why Wizards are usually solitary. Too many Soul Gazes and you lose the ability to be around people at all. They become abstractions, or worse, reflections of your own demons.”

“I guess what I’m saying is, if you ever see me go wide-eyed and weird mid-conversation, it’s probably because I just saw something in you that you should keep to yourself. And if you ever want to know someone in the purest sense, the most honest sense, you can ask me to do it. But don’t blame me if you spend the rest of your life afraid to look in the mirror. Because whatever I see—you’ll see me just as deeply. That’s the real trick of the Soul Gaze. It isn’t just me peering into you. It’s you peering into me, and neither of us ever comes out the same.” I let the words hang, wait for them to settle and curdle. Morales is the first to recover, clearing her throat with the delicacy of a bomb disposal tech. “How bad can it get?” she asks, not quite meeting my gaze, which means she’s been paying attention. I think about the time I Soul Gazed a serial killer, and couldn’t sleep for a month. “It’s intense,” I say, understating it by a galaxy. “Some people faint, or go catatonic for a while. Some get sick. The strong ones—well, they’re never quite the same.”

Armsmaster doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll be entering the room with you. I need to analyze this Soul Gaze of yours.” There’s no haughty edge to the statement, no implied challenge. It’s as if he’s already run a thousand simulations of this moment and decided, pragmatically, that bearing witness to my horror show directly is preferable to reading about it in a file cabinet later. His tone is brisk, authority measured but unyielding. I can almost see his internal checklist: field-test the anomaly, validate the subject’s claims, mitigate the unknown, take copious mental notes for posterity. I wonder if he’s ever been truly unsettled in his goddamned life. He gestures for Morales to prep the room, which she does with practiced efficiency—laptop out, ambient sensors switched to record, a glass of water positioned at precisely the midpoint between us. Armsmaster himself sits across the table, hands folded on his knees, posture a geometric ideal of readiness. I realize with something like dread that he’s not just curious; he’s eager. This isn’t a man who fears the dark, but one who strides into it, flashlight already in hand, convinced the unknown will blink first. I’m not sure whether I envy or pity him. Panacea lingers by the door, knuckles white on the frame, as if deciding whether to intervene or simply bear witness. There’s a tightness around her mouth, maybe concern for me, maybe for Armsmaster, or maybe just the anticipation of seeing someone as ironclad as Armsmaster walk head-first into an existential wood chipper. Morales offers a half-hearted, “You don’t have to do this,” but it’s perfunctory, a disclaimer for liability, not a genuine offer of mercy. I swallow, throat raw. I know what’s coming, and despite all my warnings, it’s never, ever easier.

Armsmaster pauses, calibrating the moment, then unlocks his visor with a flick of the wrist. The segmented plates ratchet upward, revealing a face that doesn’t fit the legend. Not even close. I expect the kind of battered, granite visage that comes with being the city’s de facto warlord—a face crisscrossed with the topography of old wounds, the set jaw and crow’s feet of someone who’s made hard choices and dared the abyss to blink. Instead, I get a shock of ruddy, unscarred skin, a nose that’s maybe been broken once but mostly healed straight, and a haircut so unremarkable that I can’t help but wonder if it, too, is some tactical choice. His eyes aren’t the cold, dead blue I prepared for, but a bright, analytical grey shot through with the kind of restless energy that can’t be synthesized. He cannot be more than thirty. And even that feels like I’m being generous. Maybe it’s the way his cheeks still have the traces of old acne, or the slight, ungoverned twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s suppressing a smile or a tic. Still, the guy sitting across from me could easily be mistaken for the grad student running the lab, not the Principle Investigator whose name they’ll etch onto the Nobel. Whatever weight of expectation or trauma the PRT has managed to hang around his neck, it’s not hammered him the way I assumed it would. If anything, the stress has only tempered and honed him, sanding down the arrogance but leaving the core of ambition raw and humming.

He meets my gaze with an ease that’s almost disarming. I’m so used to people flinching from the possibility of a Soul Gaze that his composure registers as its own kind of challenge. Not an aggressive one, but something more dangerous—a commitment to see this through, whatever the cost. In that split second before I lower my eyes, I catch a flash of something in him: not cruelty or coldness, but a deep, marrow-level curiosity, the kind you usually only find in kids or monsters. I can almost taste his anticipation, like ozone before a storm. The guy is hungry, not just for knowledge, but for understanding, for a way to make the world yield up its secrets and let him reconfigure them into something better, more efficient, more true. That hunger is so familiar it’s nauseating.

It’s only then I realize how young he really is. Younger than Harry, for sure. The armor, the rank, the voice—none of it prepares you for the reality of the man inside, for the fact that Brockton Bay’s most infamous hardass might be a decade from his own high school graduation. It’s the paradox of the cape world in microcosm: children pressed into the shape of gods, their baby fat traded for tactical brilliance and old fear. I wonder if the others have ever seen him like this, mask off, the cartilage and blood and hope that make up the human animal underneath. I wonder if he ever lets himself see it, or if the armor is just as much for his own protection as it is for the city’s. My pulse is a metronome, all click and echo, but I force myself to keep breathing, to let the moment spool out. If he wants to play chicken with the abyss, fine. I’ve been circling that drain for years. The real question is what we’ll both look like when we come out the other side. I study him, trying to reconcile the myth with the man. There’s a sharpness to his features that speaks of sleepless nights and too many decisions gambled on incomplete data. The lines at the corners of his eyes aren’t from laughter or sun; they’re the kind you get from squinting through bad options, from staring down the barrel of your own mortality and saying, “Maybe tomorrow.” He is, in some ways, the most honest person in the room. He’s not posturing, not trying to project authority or intimidate me. All that is implicit, baked into the way he occupies space, the geometry of his presence. What he wants is the unvarnished truth, and he’s willing to risk whatever’s left of himself to get it. That, more than any accolade, is what makes him dangerous.

It was then, I saw.

It’s not even a question of time: a Soul Gaze strips away the false clockwork of cause and effect, and leaves you suspended in a kind of eternal present, where every moment of a person’s life is laid out like a map of old wounds and half-healed scars. The second Armsmaster’s eyes met mine, the entire room dropped away. Morales, Panacea, the persistent hum of the cooling fans, even the ache in my own trembling hands—gone. In their place, a sudden rush and tumble of images, as if I’d been thrown into a river fed by memories I could never have made, yet knew as intimately as my own.

I saw a boy, maybe tweleve, hunched over a kitchen table in a prefab apartment, the kind with thin drywall and a permanent scent of fried onions. The boy’s hair is the same muddy blond as Armsmaster’s, but longer, unkempt, and it falls in front of his eyes as he scribbles equations in a battered spiral notebook. Outside, voices battle through the wall—his mother and father, arguing about money, then about something older and darker that neither of them will admit to themselves. The boy listens, jaw tight, pretending to focus on his work, but every line of his body is tuned to the violence of that argument, the knowledge that it can only end with one of them leaving, or breaking. He writes the same equation over and over: entropy always increases. The pencil digs through the paper, gouges the wood beneath, but he never stops writing. The act of repetition is the only defense.

Flash forward: a younger man, same set of the mouth, same restless hands, alone in a lab long after midnight. The air is thick with ozone and the burnt-plastic odor of overtaxed circuitry. The building is empty for the holidays, but he’s still here, calibrating an array of scavenged sensors, soldering together fragments of a dream he can’t articulate. He’s not running from loneliness; he’s metabolizing it, spinning it into purpose. The things he builds are less important than the act of building, the momentary hush that comes when the world bends, just a little, to the force of his intention.

Then, the event. Trigger events are supposed to be private, the sacred trauma each cape nurses alone. But the Soul Gaze makes a liar of every secret. Armsmaster’s is a kaleidoscope of pain: a warehouse on the edge of the industrial park, a line of men with guns and nothing to lose, a bomb stitched together from fertilizer and hate. He’s there because he ran out of other options, because no one else bothered to show up. He’s maybe fifteen, maybe younger, wearing an ill-fitting jacket borrowed from a friend. The bomb goes off, and time dilates. I watch every heartbeat: the chemical reactions in his blood, the shearing of bones, the impossible math his brain performs as it calculates the only vector that will save the hostages. I see how the pain doesn’t even register until it’s over, how the agony is less than the relief that, this time, he was enough.

It keeps coming, faster now. The Wards: a team of kids, all of them looking to Armsmaster like he’s the adult in the room, even though he’s barely older than the rest. There are moments of triumph, sure—the first time they take down a real villain, the first time the mayor shakes his hand and doesn’t look away in disgust. But those are islands in a sea of disappointment. Every victory is followed by a committee meeting, a memo, and a new protocol designed to ensure that the next time, the outcome will be even more perfect. Armsmaster absorbs each layer of bureaucracy like a new kind of armor, but it never fits quite right. He’s always tugging at the edges, trying to make it mesh with the restless, hungry person underneath.

Then, Madison. The Simurgh. I’m standing behind his eyes, seeing what he saw: a sky split open by wings made of storm and static, a world reduced to equations of velocity and mass and death. His team is scattered, the city in chaos. For a second—just a split second—he hesitates, not because he’s afraid to die, but because he’s scared of failing to save everyone. The weight of that moment is a singularity, and it collapses everything else around it. When he moves, it’s not even a decision; it’s an instinct, a compulsion. He throws himself into the worst of it, takes the hit, and wakes up in a hospital months later. The first thing he does is ask for an after-action report. The second thing is to begin drafting a new protocol, a new way to make sure no one will ever have to make that choice again.

I see the other side, too: the loneliness of the public hero. The way every conversation is a test, every handshake a transaction. There’s no intimacy, no real trust; even his friends are studied, categorized, and filed away for later analysis. The only time he ever really rests is when he’s building, or fighting, or bleeding. The only time he isn’t performing is when he’s staring out a window, lost in the recursive nightmare of his own thoughts.

All of this hits me at once, but it’s not like watching a movie. It’s more like drowning in another person’s bloodstream, feeling their hopes and failures burrow into my marrow. I understand now, with a clarity that borders on the painful, that Armsmaster isn’t just obsessed with knowledge or glory. Those are symptoms, not causes. The real disease is the certainty that he will never be enough, that the world is always one catastrophe away from slipping beyond his control, and that every second he spends not improving himself is a betrayal of the people who believed in him—even if they’re long gone, even if they never really existed outside of his own head.

He is fascinating, yes, but he’s also terrifying in the way only true believers can be. The thought flickers through my mind that, had things broken a little differently, he could have been the villain in someone else’s story. But he’s chosen the harder path, the one with no finish line, no applause, just the grinding labor of holding the world together with splints and duct tape and hope. It ends, not with a bang, but with a slow exhale. We’re back in the room. The air is cold, and the first thing I notice is the taste of blood in my mouth, where I must have bitten the inside of my cheek. Armsmaster is looking at me, but his face is pale, the pupils blown wide as if he’s just come through a marathon sprint. There’s a tremor in his hands that wasn’t there before, and for the first time, I see him vulnerable—not just unmasked, but human, breakable, and dangerously close to collapse.

What could he have seen, in that impossible instant of mirrored sight, to shake him? Armsmaster, who had watched the horizon turn black with Leviathan’s tide, who had faced down the feathered paradox of the Simurgh and come out the other side—who had stitched his own wounds shut in fluorescent-lit locker rooms, set bones with his teeth gritted while the city burned around him. For all his faults, he was not a man unacquainted with pain. Yet here he was, gaunt and wan, the knuckles of one hand pressing so hard into the table I thought the cellulose might splinter, and the other hand half-raised as if to ward off something invisible. His eyes didn’t track me so much as flicker, as if wary some new movement might cleave the world in half.

He was scared. Not of me, the meat and spit and battered cloak. Not even of what I could do with a burst of power or a swing of the staff. What had he seen in that barefaced communion that left him so unmoored? I replay the last few seconds, scanning myself from the outside, hunting for the fracture line. Was it the anger, from this morning, still smoldering like a fuse after the director’s little performance? Was it the shame, caked on from a dozen failed interventions and the ghosts of kids whose names I’d already started to forget? Or maybe it was the undercurrent of something more ancient, the flavor of a fear not even I could name, running beneath the surface of every word and gesture. I search for it, not as an act of vanity, but from the cold conviction that if I can understand what he saw, maybe I can survive the next hour. Maybe I can survive myself. I think about my life, the one that never quite felt like mine to begin with. The way the world always seemed to run a degree off from what everyone else experienced: colors too bright, noises that cut the air into ribbons. I remember the first time I realized I could see the things that other people could not—the little glitches at the edge of vision, the shadows that didn’t line up with their owners. They called it “sensitivity” in elementary school and “borderline” in middle school, but none of the diagnoses ever stuck, because the real problem wasn’t medical. It was metaphysical. It was the knowledge that the world was not fixed, not logical, not safe, and that I could never stop thinking about the gap between what is and what should be. Maybe that’s what he saw. The endless chasm, the gravity well that eats every hope and dream and memory, leaving only the hunger to make things better, sharper, more true. Or maybe he saw the thing that I was really afraid of: that underneath it all, I had no floor, no center, just a hollow space that could swallow anything, if given the chance. The same engine that drove me forward was the one that would, given enough time and freedom, drive me to ruin. Maybe he saw that, and recognized it, and for the first time in years, it scared the hell out of him. I’m not immune to the fear, either. I think about what it would mean to slide into that darkness, to lose the fragile balance of self and power that keeps me from becoming the monster in the cautionary tales. I think about what I did last week, the thing I promised myself I’d never do again, and how easy it was to justify it in the moment. I think about how, when the call comes and there’s no time left to deliberate, I always say yes, always take the hit, always roll the dice, and how one day—maybe soon—that habit will be the last thing I ever do. I don’t know if that’s a comfort or a curse. But as I watch him, and he watches me, the whole room seems to breathe out, just a little. For the first time, I think I understand what it means to share the burden, even if only for a heartbeat.

Armsmaster’s recovery is abrupt—almost mechanical, as if the momentary shudder of his nervous system had simply been logged, processed, and filed away as a new edge-case in his ever-growing manual of self-optimization. A blink, slow and deliberate, and the fragile, haunted glaze vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a cold intensity that seems eager to pick up the shattered pieces of decorum and reassemble them into something sharper than before. I can feel him probing me, not with the power but with his mind, like a man running his tongue over a chipped tooth, testing for vulnerability. The air crackles with a flavor I can only call scientific curiosity, except here the subject and the object have collapsed into one another. In some other world, maybe he would have tried to comfort me, or himself, or at least made a joke to smooth over the exposed nerves. But this isn’t that world, and Armsmaster isn’t anyone’s fantasy of the sympathetic mentor. He’s the knight errant of the algorithm, the patron saint of self-inflicted wounds. He leans forward, the movement just a hair too smooth, and fixes me with a gaze that’s all calculation, no empathy. I feel him searching for the trick, the backdoor, the way to brute-force his way back into the place I just locked him out of. There’s a moment of tension, the kind that would break a lesser conversationalist or at least force a cough, but he rides it out in silence, letting the moment go brittle and sharp. I respect it, in a way. There’s nothing more honest than the desire to understand, even if it’s only so you can use the knowledge to win the next confrontation.

I break the stalemate with a crooked half-smile, a gesture equal parts defiance and invitation. “Nice try. But that’s not how it works.” My voice comes out raw, torn up by the memory of what the Soul Gaze dredged up and left behind. “You get one shot at the inside. After that, you’re stuck with whatever you managed to scrape together in the instant before the door slammed shut.” I let my eyes linger on his, not out of challenge but out of something closer to camaraderie. It’s a dangerous thing, to let another person see you without the careful scaffolding of self-presentation, but here, in the aftermath, there’s a strange comfort. “Look on the bright side. You’re the only person who can look me in the eye now. Everyone else gets the guard up, the reflection, the dance. But you? You get the real deal, for better or worse.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile, but the ghost of one, quickly suppressed. He’s already cataloging the implications, building new subroutines to handle this unexpected variable. I can almost hear the gears turning as he recalibrates his approach. The urge to analyze is so palpable I want to laugh, but I hold back, partly out of respect and partly because I’m not sure which of us would break first. Instead, I lean back and let the silence settle between us again. There’s no putting the genie back in the bottle, and we both know it. He recovers his composure with a briskness that borders on mania, fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm on the table as if to remind himself that time is still moving forward. I notice he doesn’t look away, not even for a second, as though he’s afraid that the connection might dissipate if he breaks line of sight. It’s not intimidation. It’s not even dominance. It’s something weirder—like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be here, now, with all the illusions stripped away. Maybe it’s the first time in a decade he’s had to do this with someone who could keep up, who wouldn’t fold at the first sign of pressure. That thought makes me a little proud, a little scared, and a little sad, all at once.

I reach for the coffee cup in front of me, hands shaking just enough to slosh a thin arc of liquid over the lip. I watch him note the tremor and move past it, like a test result within expected tolerances. He wants to ask questions, I can tell. He wants so badly to break me down, to map the terrain of my mind and find the soft spots. But he also knows the price of another attempt, and he’s nothing if not a careful steward of his own resources. Instead, he settles for the next best thing: the steady, relentless return to business as usual. “You realize,” he says, voice low and precise, “that you’ve permanently altered the data set. I can’t unsee what you showed me.”

I shrug. “That’s the deal. You don’t get to pick the revelations you keep.” I think about how many times I’ve done this, how many people have been changed by a single look. It never gets easier, but somehow, watching Armsmaster adapt to the new normal gives me hope that maybe we’re not all doomed to be ruled by our traumas. Perhaps some of us can build something out of the wreckage, even if it’s just another layer of armor. He nods, once, and the conversation shifts. I feel the mood lighten by a hair, as if we’ve reached the far shore of a long, treacherous river. The tension is still there, but it’s a shared burden now, not a weapon. I realize, with some surprise, that I want to see where this goes. I want to know what happens when two people who have seen the worst in each other still choose to talk, still choose to collaborate. Perhaps this is what faith looks like in a world that has lost its capacity for miracles. I can’t help it: I laugh, short and bitter and a little wild. “Congratulations. You’re officially my baseline for all future awkward interviews. Anything after this is going to feel like a job shadow at a tax office.”

He doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his eyes crinkle, and that’s enough. The ice is broken, or at least scored with enough cracks to let something else seep in. He’s still reeling, and so am I, but neither of us is willing to admit it. And maybe that’s the closest thing to honesty we can afford. The rest of the hour passes in a blur of questions and answers, theories and counter-theories, both of us circling the real conversation like predators who know better than to strike before the other is ready. But that’s all later. For now, we sit in the aftermath of the Soul Gaze, two scientists at the edge of a new discipline, and I can almost believe that something good might come of it. You’d think this would make everything easier between us, but what it really does is make the whole conversation richer, darker, threaded with an intimacy that’s closer to dueling scars than friendship. Armsmaster doesn’t apologize for what happened. He doesn’t even try to act like it was normal. He just sets his jaw and gets to work, filing away the new information for future use. I can tell he respects me, now, in the way a wolf might respect a bear: not as an equal, but as a fellow apex creature. He’s the first to break the silence, voice steady and almost gentle. “You did what you had to,” he says, like it’s both an accusation and a benediction. “We all do.”

The effect of his words is instantaneous, as startling and absolute as a glass of cold water to the face. I feel all the warmth bleed from my limbs, the slack in my spine replaced by a whiplash rigidity. For a fraction of a second, I become one of Mab’s ice-bound statuary: all nerve, no movement, only the crystalline clarity that comes from holding off disaster by a single, trembling thread. That’s how he wants it, I realize—he wants to see if I’ll flinch, if I can maintain the line under pressure, if I’m willing to be the kind of monster he suspects me of being. I let the stillness stretch, then take my shot. “You know what they say about roads paved with good intentions.” The words come out cleaner than I expect, no tremor, no hesitation, but the old proverb has teeth here, and we both know it. He snorts, but it’s not dismissive; if anything, it sounds almost like approval, as if I’ve passed a test by refusing to blink. The air between us, already thin from the Soul Gaze, grows even more rarefied. Beneath the banter, I feel the tectonic slide of two worldviews trying to merge or destroy each other, and for one wild moment, I wonder what would happen if we just let it. But neither of us is the type to surrender ground willingly, so I let the challenge hang, its barbs digging in just enough to draw mutual blood. There’s a strange, almost sacred satisfaction in this kind of intellectual violence—like fencing with someone who actually enjoys leaving a mark. I can’t decide if I want to punch him or shake his hand, and maybe that’s the point. He leans back, the motion deliberate, and regards me as though recalibrating for a new, unanticipated variable. Perhaps that’s what I am, now: not a threat, not an ally, but a walking reminder that even perfect systems have edge-cases they can’t account for. The realization seems to amuse him, if only because it’s the sort of problem that can’t be solved with data or discipline alone. He lets the silence ride, then says, “I’m familiar with the proverb. It’s the destination that worries me.”

For what feels like hours, neither of us moves, unless you count the minuscule contractions of the eye, or the way the veins stand out against the backs of Armsmaster’s hands when the pressure of holding still gets to be too much. The air between us vibrates, not with the cheap static of disagreement, but with something more profound and stranger—a field effect, like the wake of two black holes that have grazed each other, warped space, and flung themselves apart with new trajectories. I wonder what kind of damage we’ve done, not just to each other, but to the careful models we both constructed in the secret annexes of our minds. It’s impossible to say whether this is a net loss or gain, only that the ledger is forever altered. He doesn’t reach for his coffee, and I don’t reach for mine. The cups become something like failed diplomatic gestures, abandoned mid-negotiation, the liquid within gone cold and oily. I’m aware of the way the world continues without us—the distant hiss of the HVAC, the pulse of the leyline beneath us, the cartilaginous clatter of a pigeon as it lands on the fire escape. But the real event is happening right here at the tiny table, where neither of us has the language to parse the catastrophe we’ve just engineered. Mutually assured destruction always sounded like a metaphor to me, until today. Now I see the terrible beauty of it: the way two parties, each capable of annihilating the other, become locked in a state of perfect and permanent tension. To destroy you is to destroy myself. To relent is to become vulnerable. The only path forward is to stand in the blast radius, together, and hope that the fallout is survivable. I suppose it’s a kind of intimacy, if you squint hard enough. I can see the residue of the Soul Gaze in Armsmaster’s posture—the way his shoulders sag imperceptibly, the way his arms go from coiled to merely tense, the way his jaw unclenches a fraction of a degree. He’s haunted, all right. But he’s also recalibrating, mapping out the edges of the new landscape. I can feel myself doing the same, assembling and disassembling theories of the other at frantic speed, each one more desperate than the last to account for what’s changed. It’s exhausting, but also, for the first time, exhilarating. All the usual scripts are dead. All the mental models are buried under the rubble. We are improvising in real time, and for the first time in years, I feel like maybe I have a chance of not only surviving, but winning. We watch each other with the wariness of predators forced to share a kill, neither willing to risk a lunge until the other makes the first mistake. But the first mistake never comes. Instead, our mutual caution evolves into something like trust, or at least a recognition of shared risk. The standoff becomes a détente, and then—almost imperceptibly—a pact. I don’t know if I could ever call this friendship, but it’s something more than enmity and less than alliance. There’s a word for it in some dead language, I’m sure, but for now, I settle for “truce.” The terms are simple: We both know the other’s darkness, and neither of us will look away. When the silence finally breaks, it’s not with words, but with a breath—a single, involuntary exhale that we both manage to sync up, like two chess players signaling the end of a brutal opening gambit. I don’t bother hiding my relief. He doesn’t bother hiding his exhaustion. That’s the treaty, I guess: No more masks, at least not for the rest of this conversation.

Chapter Text

I stand in the corner of the training room, breath caught in my throat and blood humming like an exposed wire. My hands shake with something close to adrenaline, or perhaps the memory of pain, old and new. The last spell had torn through me—memories clawing up from where I’d buried them, feelings fountaining out where I'd tried to dam them off. I brace myself against a shelf stacked with battered tomes, palms sweating as I replay the last few minutes in my mind: every incantation, every gesture, every slip of the tongue. My heart pounds with a wild, unschooled rhythm. Magic is a living thing, I remind myself, and it feeds on whatever you’re feeling, devouring the smallest tremor of fear or grief.

If you’re not careful, it takes more than you intended to give.

I close my eyes and count to twenty in Latin, slow and precise, the syllables falling into place like beads on a string. I let the chill of the stone floor seep into my bare feet, anchor me. Try to imagine myself as a vessel—clean, empty, ready to be filled with nothing but purpose. After a few minutes, I force my eyelids open. The world settles into sharper focus. Colors line up with their boundaries. The air in my lungs is cool and smooth, like water drawn from deep in a well.

I give Armsmaster a single nod—nothing flamboyant, just a tilt of my chin, a slice of acknowledgment as sharp and sparing as his own affection for words. He returns it in kind, unreadable beneath the visored helm. Even with his face now obscured once more, I imagine the cool dismissiveness in his eyes, the way he catalogs every weakness, every tremor in the hand or twitch at the mouth, as if building a case for or against my existence. He doesn't hover, doesn't offer comfort or critique. Instead, he stands at parade rest, gauntleted hands locked behind him, feet perfectly spaced, the very model of a man who grew up worshipping the geometry of power.

He knows what I’m doing, of course. He’s seen it a hundred times before—the rookie’s spiral, the desperate scramble to stitch together composure after a spell goes sideways. But he doesn’t say a word about it. Armsmaster isn’t the type for consolation. He’s not built for warmth, only for efficiency and the cold calculus of cause and effect. His silence isn’t unkind; in its own way, it’s a kind of respect. He’s always believed that nothing sharpens a blade like its own friction, that the only way to build resilience is through repeated, unmitigated exposure to failure.

He wants glory, not gratitude. Admiration, perhaps, but not the soft, effusive praise that other mentors seem to crave. He would rather be feared than loved, and if you must love him, do it from a distance, preferably behind a blast shield. That’s the Armsmaster way: never give the world more of yourself than you are willing to lose.

I try to shape my gratitude to fit the contours of his preferences. I straighten my back, force my hands to steady, and let the silence stretch between us until it becomes not awkwardness, but acceptance—a truce between my battered nerves and his bottomless appetite for stoicism. In the hush, I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, but maybe the ghost of one—an almost imperceptible signal that, for now, I have met the standard.

I take one last breath, slow and deliberate, and sweep my gaze around the training room. I can feel the challenge in the room, the unspoken expectation radiating from Armsmaster: Are you ready to try again?

I nod once more, this time sharper, and step forward to meet his gaze. It’s enough to signal that I am ready for whatever comes next.

“We continue, then.” Armsmaster’s voice, though modulated by his helmet’s rebreather, cuts through the expectant hush like the click of a rifle bolt. “Demonstrate practical magic. Something you’d use in a pitched engagement.” He doesn’t pace or gesticulate, just levels his attention at me, an artifact of his conviction that true authority is as still as it is absolute.

A memory surfaces, sudden and unwelcome, of the last field exercise: the stink of burnt ozone, the snarl of a spell gone wild, the way the other recruits edged away from me after. I squeeze it down, focus on the moment at hand.

“Now, please,” he adds, cool and clipped, as if the word ‘please’ is a test to see if I can detect the hint of irony. I sense the rest of the room’s attention on me—ghosts in the gallery, some present, some only imagined. It’s not enough for him that I know the forms and the words; he wants to see what happens when theory is forced through the crucible of intent.

I spread my stance and curl my fingers, feeling the micro-tremors in my knuckles. The air immediately thickens, charged and anticipatory. I flick my gaze over the training mats, then back at Armsmaster, calibrating what ‘practical’ means to him. For an instant, I consider something flashy, a demonstration of force that would detonate the tension in the room and leave no doubt as to my capacity—but I sense this would disappoint him. Efficiency, not spectacle, is what he admires.

I roll the sensation of anticipation around in my mouth, the way one does a lozenge, letting it dissolve on my tongue before swallowing the possibility of regret. Outwardly, I keep my breathing level and my posture taut, but I can feel every nerve in my right arm standing to attention, waiting for the moment when mind and muscle must become a single instrument. I gather a thread of will into my palm and watch it pulse, bright and hungry, before coaxing it through the well-worn channels I have spent months, years, carving into my psyche. It is not unlike bleeding a radiator: the pressure must be just so, the air pockets vented, the hiss of excess risk handled with care. My eyes snap to the target—a crude simulacrum of a human silhouette, its outline so battered and pockmarked that it might as well be a map of my failures. I stretch my hand forward, fingers splayed, and flash the smallest, meanest grin. This is a spell I learned from Harry. His lectures were always more about performance than pedagogy—he relished the drama of the incantation, the showmanship in the snap of a wrist or the curl of a lip. Armsmaster would have loathed him, two sides of a similar coin.

“Fozare!” I shout, and for a split second I’m back on Demonreach, the air reeking of sweat and pine, his hand guiding mine as we triangulate the sweet spot between force and finesse. The memory trails me even as the present rushes in: a dense, visible pulse of air detonates from my palm, racing across the room in a distortion wave that bends light and expectation alike. There is a silence before the impact, a vacuum in which time and doubt both hang suspended. Then the sound arrives—an immaculate, staccato crack like a rifle shot, followed by the low thunder of displaced atmosphere. The target absorbs the spell with all the grace of a crash test dummy, slamming into the cinderblock wall with enough force to dent the underlying masonry.

Dust and ultrafine paper swirl in the aftershock, the scent of ozone punctuated by the tang of my own sweat. I check my posture, register the microtremors dancing across my forearm, and release the tension in my jaw. If I’d miscalculated by even a degree, the target would have atomized; as it stands, it only crumples in on itself, a grotesque origami. I had regulated the output, as Harry taught, so that if it were a living person, they would only be broken, not obliterated. The echo ricochets along the stone corridor and dies. In the hush, I sense Armsmaster’s appraisal—not approval, not exactly, but the satisfaction of a craftsman watching his apprentice choose utility over spectacle. I also sense the ghost of Harry, somewhere in the back of my mind, blowing imaginary smoke rings and offering a round of sarcastic applause.

I steady myself, fingers still tingling from the echo of the spell, and half turn toward Armsmaster. “I’m fairly certain that’s self-explanatory,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “I held back quite a bit.” I know it’s a risk, offering self-evaluation so candidly, but it’s also exactly what he expects—truth filtered through a sieve of discipline.

He regards me with that centurion poise, helm canted so the light from the high windows renders his face unreadable. “While I can appreciate restraint,” he says, each word landing with the weight of a stone, “we are here to delineate your upper bounds. Controlled demonstration is necessary, but so is failure. When the moment comes, you will not have the luxury of holding back.” He lets the last phrase hang, a classroom guillotine, and I wonder if he’s ever had to watch someone die for lack of overkill.

I hold his gaze, or where I imagine his eyes to be. “And if I go too far?” I ask. I mean the question as a challenge, but it emerges as something closer to confession.

“Then we learn where the ceiling is,” Armsmaster replies, utterly unbothered by the prospect. “That is the point of training, not performance.” His hands shift behind his back, a subtle recalibration—he is always one micro-adjustment away from violence, or perhaps from offering support, though it’s impossible to tell which. “In the field, you will not be bracketed by padding and protocols. You must be prepared to expend everything, even at personal cost.” He gestures toward the ruined target, bits of its composite shell still flaking to the floor. “Again,” he says, and I detect the faintest uptick in challenge, a dare beneath the order. “This time, abandon calibration. Show me the maximum output of that incantation.”

I swallow the first answer that comes to mind—the litany of warnings and caveats drilled into me during the early days, the institutional terror of accidents and consequences. I remember Harry’s lectures, the ones that always ended with a disastrous anecdote and the quiet plea: ‘Remember, kid, the world doesn’t forgive mistakes the way a teacher does.’ But Harry never placed much faith in the system, and Armsmaster…well, he has no faith in anything but results.

I flex my fingers, pulse picking up speed as I mentally trace the boundaries of the spell. I think of the history latent in every muscle: the missed incantation that shattered my dormitory window, the surge of power that left my roommate in the infirmary for a week, the time I nearly blacked out from the rebound. The margin of error is thin, but if I’m honest, some small part of me has been craving this. The freedom to operate at the absolute fringe of my ability. The permission not merely to fail, but to fail catastrophically.

I glance at the battered target, then at the cinderblock wall behind it, already spiderwebbed from previous attempts. “Understood,” I say, and draw a ragged breath. This time I don’t bother with centering rituals or careful modulation; I reach straight into the core of myself, strip away the insulation, and pour every raw charge of intent into my outstretched arm. The familiar current surges, but I don’t throttle it. I let it build until my vision tunnels and the taste of copper blooms on my tongue.

“Fozare!” The word is a ricochet, amplified by the excess, and the resulting shockwave doesn’t just distort the air—it shears it. The simulacrum explodes, fragments punching deep into the wall behind it. The cinderblock detonation is not so much an explosion as a slow-motion murder. Time stutters and stretches: the surface cracks, then collapses, then the wall behind the target simply ceases to exist as a contiguous object. The sound is less a bang and more a shearing, keening shriek, as if the room itself is objecting to this display of force. Chunks of concrete rip loose and arc through the air, trailing splinters and gray dust like shrapnel-streaked comets. Some pieces ricochet off the floor with the clatter of bone on marble; others embed themselves so deeply in the wood paneling that the force leaves scorched outlines, as though a blast furnace had been let off the leash. An entire corner of the target snaps cleanly off and spins, end over end, before dissolving into particulate against the far wall. The concussion is enough to blow out a line of fluorescent bulbs overhead, which pop and rain glass onto the mats in a crystalline drizzle.

I am not prepared for the recoil; no matter how many times I’ve read the warnings, nothing quite bridges the gap between theory and the sudden, unequivocal violence of practice. The shockwave slams into me, a blunt and merciless hammer, and I’m airborne for a split second—a brief, graceless flight that tears the breath from my lungs and rattles every vertebra in my spine. The world pirouettes. My heels skid across the gymnasium mats, friction burning through the thin soles of my shoes, until I tumble backward and slam hard into the low riser behind the firing line. The edge gouges my tailbone, and I see motes of black and blue swimming across my vision, pulsing to the rhythm of my racing heart. Every nerve ending is singing, the raw aftermath of channeling too much energy through too small a vessel; my arm is ringed with pins and needles, and my shoulder throbs as if someone tried to wrench it from its socket. I land sprawled, legs splayed inelegantly, hand still locked in the shape of the spell, arm outstretched as if grasping for a lifeline. For a split second, I can’t remember who or where I am, only that I am suddenly, profoundly aware of my own body—the heat and pressure in my chest, the taste of blood in my mouth, the sweat already cooling on my brow. There’s a hum in my ears, almost musical, and the whole bunker smells like a thunderstorm hitting an electrical fire. I blink rapidly, the afterimage of the flash still smeared across my vision, and through the haze I catch a rain of debris arcing overhead. Shards of composite target, splinters of cinderblock, even a spiral of fluorescent glass descending in slow, glittering loops. For a moment, there is only aftermath—a whiteout of dust, the static-rush of adrenaline in my ears, the taste of ozone, and the sharp metallic tang of what I realize is blood from a bitten cheek. The spell’s echo reverberates in my bones. Beyond the ruined wall, the impact vented straight out into the perimeter woods, where a startled flock of birds erupts into the sky, cawing accusations. I register that a few heavy blocks, divested of the mortar that once held them, have tumbled through the breach and landed a dozen yards outside the building, sending up fat plumes of pine needles and soil on impact.

Inside, I am aware of every micro-shudder in my body. My right arm throbs with the familiar ache of mana burn, the fingers still locked in the afterimage of the gesture. I catch a whiff of scorched polyester—probably from the synthetic trim of my sleeve, now blackened at the cuff. The dust haze is so dense that I can barely see to the end of the room. It takes a few seconds before the outlines resolve: the battered remnants of the target, the shattered wall, the geometry of chaos and ruin that I have just authored. I blink hard, steadying myself on the cool flagstones, and look up through the haze. Armsmaster hasn’t moved an inch, though a few droplets of pulverized target material dust the crest of his armor. He studies the aftermath with clinical interest, then glances at me.

I blink hard, steadying myself on the cool flagstones, and look up through the haze. Armsmaster hasn’t moved an inch, though a few droplets of pulverized target material dust the crest of his armor. He studies the aftermath with clinical interest, then glances at me. “Acceptable,” he says, and I think I catch the ghost of approval in his tone, though it is quickly smothered by the next instruction. “Now, repair the damage.”

The suggestion lands like a stray brick to the temple. Repair the damage? Is this a joke, or some species of pedagogical cruelty? I bite back my first response, count to three, and try to imagine what Harry would do—he would laugh, probably, or turn it into a teaching moment by demolishing something more valuable and then gluing the shards together with coffee and charm. I am neither so inventive nor so flippant. “Reparative magic?” I ask, making sure my skepticism is not lost in translation. “You want me to undo that?” I point at the devastation, at the gaping wound in the masonry, at the shreds of target hanging like meat from the rebars. A curl of plaster dust drifts down as if to underline the absurdity of the request. “Sir, I can’t say I’ve put together the workings of that kind of spell. Not at this scale, anyway.”

Armsmaster does not blink, because blinking is for civilians. “It is not a question of scale,” he says, voice as dry as the settling debris. “It is a question of necessity. If you cannot repair your own mistakes, you will be forced to live among them. Or die by them, if your luck holds.”

I resist the urge to rub my temples. The world is still ringing from the aftershock, and I’m expected to reverse the entropy? I scan my memory, sifting through a decade of poorly cataloged lectures. The restoration arcana is a different beast entirely, full of caveats and paradoxes—much easier to destroy than rebuild. But Armsmaster is watching, waiting for me to either improvise or collapse.

I force my feet to cooperate and make a show of confidence as I approach the jagged wound in the wall. My knees threaten collapse, but I ignore the warning signs, because the alternative is to admit to Armsmaster that I am not only outmatched by his demands but also by my own frayed biology. The breach is a proper gash, a mouthful of shattered cinderblock and dangling wires, and the floor beneath is a slag heap of dust, sharp-edged fragments, and a super-fine film of particulate that already stains my shoes as I step through. I pause at the edge of the crater, peer down at the debris, and recognize flecks of blood spattered on the largest chunk of what used to be the target’s torso. I must have caught it on my way down, or maybe I just bled on impact; either way, it’s a vivid reminder of just how thoroughly I’ve exceeded the recommended dosage of both magic and self-preservation.

I crouch, picking up a handful of the rubble, letting it trickle through my fingers as I buy precious seconds. “Hypothetically,” I say, measuring each syllable and projecting the voice of someone who might have a plan, “restorative magic at this magnitude isn’t just a matter of shoveling pieces back together. I’d need to reconstitute the original mass, which means accounting for every atom displaced in the blast. Maybe some of it’s salvageable—” I gesture at the powdery drifts and the larger cinderblock shards, making a show of scanning for useful components, “—but most of it is probably embedded in the back lot or atomized entirely.” My thumb traces the contour of a cracked block, and I indulge in a long, slow exhale. “To be blunt, this is the sort of thing you’d assign a three-person crew and a week of prep for, not a solo act with a headache and a time limit.” I chance a glance over my shoulder. Armsmaster has not moved, but his focus is so intense that I can feel it boring into the back of my skull. I am not being humored; I am being watched for failure points, cataloged for later dissection. I try to remember the last time I saw him blink, and the answer is never.

I switch tacks, pivoting to technical jargon and the sort of hand-wavy theorizing that sometimes buys me leeway with more academic supervisors. “There’s also the matter of energetic imprint,” I say, letting the words tumble out as I kneel amongst the detritus. “Once something is destroyed with that much force, the rebound can create a sort of anti-pattern, like a shadow echo. Trying to reconstruct on top of that can result in structural artifacts, or worse, magical recursion.” I scrape a finger through the dust and sketch a crude fractal, as if the diagram might ground my argument in reality. “Even my mentor said restoration was more dangerous than demolition, and he once built a golem out of wet concrete just to prove a point.” I hear my voice, its practiced bravado, and realize I am doing exactly what I used to do during oral exams: stall for time, preempt criticism, and hope the examiner eventually gets bored or distracted by their own cleverness. There is no chance of that here. Armsmaster is the opposite of bored; I suspect he grows more invested with every excuse I muster.

I clear my throat and try for one last angle: humility. “Look, I know my limitations. I can patch a sidewalk or mend a coffee mug, but this—” I sweep my arm at the devastation, the ghost of the target, the exposed wiring in the wall—“this is out of my league, and probably everyone else’s, too. Even if I could pull off the spell, the building wouldn’t be up to code afterward. What you are asking for is the impossible. A wizard I may be, but I’m far from a miracle worker. I doubt even the Blackstaff could accomplish such a feat, and he’s pulled satellites out of orbit.”

I shake my head, trying to clear the ringing from my ears, still staring at the carnage I’ve wrought. “Destruction is easy, all it takes is brute force, but what you are asking for requires the sort of precision the human mind simply can’t handle. That is why wizards try to learn restraint and control. To avoid this sort of thing from happening in the first place, because you aren’t going to be able to wave a hand and fix everything.” The words come out hoarse, and even as I say them, I know I am repeating a doctrine older than the mortar in these walls. It is axiomatic, a lesson hammered into every apprentice from the moment they first singed an eyebrow: anyone can smash a teacup; putting one back together is a problem for the gods. I glance at the shimmering dust motes, their slow descent like an hourglass mocking my ability to reverse time. There’s an entire field of study devoted to magical restoration, full of grim anecdotes about what happens when you get it wrong—the infamous case of the Thrice-Broken Bridge, doomed to collapse every time it was mended, or the Scholar’s Library in the capital, whose self-repairing shelves sprouted into a rambling, recursive labyrinth that still traps the unwary. The point is, every trained caster knows better than to try to unmake entropy. It isn’t just hard; it’s a trap for the overconfident and the desperate.

But Armsmaster’s face is as impassive as a firing squad. The man is a monolith of expectation, unmoved by mortal logic or self-doubt. I realize, belatedly, that my little lecture on magical theory is only making me look weaker. He’s not interested in excuses or general principles; the requirement is personal, and the lesson is that failure is not a tenable state. I sense his silence stretching into infinity, the way the pause after a death sentence hangs in the air before the blade falls. “Then we move on, it seems I miscalculated the amount of force you can bring to bear. Is that your maximum output?”

I could try to bluff, invent some reservoir of hidden power, but Armsmaster isn’t the sort to reward bravado. This is one of those moments where the right answer is the honest one, and anything else will just be another mark against me in whatever internal ledger he’s keeping. So I let the words stand, no flinch, no qualification: “When relying solely on myself, without any tools, and with a level head? Yes.” It’s not exactly a proud admission, but it’s all I have to offer. Even as I say it, the exhausted tremor in my voice betrays just how much that last spell cost me. My right arm is still numb from wrist to elbow, and my skull throbs with the kind of migraine that suggests I’ve bled off more than just a bit of life force.

“Do you mean you can push out more power than that?”

I manage a crooked smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Absolutely. I mean, what you just saw? That was me playing it safe, armored up in focus and discipline, but if you want spectacle, I can give you spectacle.” I step away from the crater, dusting my hands on my jeans, partly for effect and partly because the next words feel like a confession: “My staff and blasting rod, they’re more than accessories. Wizards love their tools for a reason. Anything that helps you direct or store energy—crystal, silver, carved wood—those are all brute-force multipliers. Give me a focus and I can double or triple what you just saw, maybe more if I’m riding adrenaline or sheer panic.”

Already, my fingers itch for the familiar comfort of wood grain and leather grip, the way my staff hums when I draw on it, the way it absorbs the spillover so I’m not left with scorched veins and a ruined nervous system. I could explain the principles, but Armsmaster doesn’t want theory; he wants numbers, thresholds, operational margins. “To be clear,” I add, “with proper preparation and the right tools, I could probably level the better part of this wing. Maybe not bring the whole building down—that’s more a matter of physics than magic—but you’d be digging me out of the ruins with a spatula. And that’s just baseline. If I attuned to a Leyline, borrowed from a reservoir, or siphoned the charge from a thunderstorm—” I let the sentence hang, inviting him to fill in the catastrophic blank.

It’s not bravado. I remember the first time I tried to channel raw energy straight from the grid, how it felt like taking a lightning strike to the soul. There’s a moment when the spell starts to overload, when your body becomes a conduit for something older and hungrier than you, and the only thing holding it in check is your ability to remember who you are. If you falter, if your grip slips for even a heartbeat, you’re either dead or worse. The power will burn its own path through you, and if you’re lucky, you only lose a limb or a decade’s worth of memories. If not, there are worse fates than death. I had a friend once who tried to bind a minor elemental, just a practice exercise, and when it all went sideways, his mind never came back from the other side. We called that “resonance loss,” but the clinical term never captured the horror of watching someone’s identity disintegrate in real time.

I lock eyes with Armsmaster, knowing he probably has field experience with magical self-immolation, or whatever the military calls it. “The catch,” I say, “is that the more juice I draw, the less control I have. It’s an exponential thing—double the input, quadruple the instability. If you want surgical precision, you get what you just saw, maybe a bit more with better tools. If you want brute force, I can give you a crater big enough to make the news. But don’t expect me to put it back together afterward. Restoration magic is logarithmic, not linear; every bit of entropy you add multiplies the amount of finesse required to undo it. That’s why we train so hard for restraint.”

I take a breath, let it rattle in my chest, and try to gauge his reaction. “So yes, given time, prep, and a focus, I can push out a lot more. But it’s not a question of can; it’s a question of should. There’s a reason most significant magical events end with someone dead, insane, or on the run.” I’m not trying to sound dramatic, but maybe it comes across that way. Armsmaster’s gaze is unyielding, but there’s an analytic curiosity there, a flicker of something resembling respect.

He doesn’t waste time with a compliment, of course. Instead: “You are monitored, yes? During all training exercises?”

“Monitored, sure, but only in the official sense,” I say, unable to resist the impulse to clarify. “It’s sort of a time-honored tradition that anyone under the age of twenty with access to the building blocks of reality is going to experiment on their own. Doesn’t matter how strict the apprenticeship system is, doesn’t matter how many lectures about safety protocols you get. You leave a kid alone with a book of spells and the urge to impress a crush, and it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to teleport a frog or animate a stack of cafeteria trays.”

I remember when I tried to make a rose bloom out of season, something pretty and harmless enough to impress the girl whose laugh made my heart do odd, painful gymnastics. Instead, the flower turned black and spat out a cloud of pollen that left us both sneezing rainbows for a week, which, in retrospect, may have been more memorable than the gift itself. The official record is that I learned restraint through rigorous oversight and peer review. The unofficial record—better known as the truth—is that I learned it through trial, error, and a series of spectacular failures that left stains on the ceiling and a permanent reputation as the idiot who once tried to reverse the direction of gravity in the gym. Harry taught me plenty, and Molly taught me even more, but nobody could teach me how to be myself. Magic is personal. The way it feels in your veins, the way it warps your moods and bends your sense of possibility—that’s not something you can get from a curriculum. You have to screw up a few dozen times, break things, sometimes break yourself, and then piece it back together with a better sense of how the world is stitched.

Armsmaster gives me a look like he’s weighing the years of bureaucratic policy against the inevitability of adolescent rebellion and finding them equally idiotic. “I assume these people you mentioned are mentors from back in your home world.”

I let the silence linger, measuring his skepticism with a tilt of my head before I answer. “Yeah. Harry’s the real deal. Not just talented—dangerous, if he ever actually tried—but what sets him apart is he’s got a conscience. Not the sitcom kind, either. He’ll take a beating before he lets someone else get hurt, and he never cuts corners on stuff that matters.” I can see Armsmaster’s eyebrows inch upward by a micron, the closest he’ll come to registering surprise. “He’s old-school, but he makes you feel like even the impossible is on the table, provided you put in the work and own up to your mistakes.”

I can’t help but grin at the memory of Harry teaching me to dampen a thermal reaction with nothing but a wet towel and a stubborn refusal to die. He liked to call it “field improvisation,” but really it was just controlled chaos. The guy had a talent for making you believe you could punch through a brick wall if the diagram said so. His lectures were less about theory and more about surviving the backlash when theory failed you, which it always did, usually at the worst moment. And then there’s Molly—Harry’s star pupil, a headcase with rainbow hair and a shriek that could shatter glass, but when it came to finesse, she could thread a needle with a tornado. She picked up my mistakes before I even finished making them, which made her both the world’s best study partner and an infuriating show-off. If apprenticeships were families, ours was a three-legged race with a bomb strapped to each of us.

“Harry took Molly in when nobody else would, taught her everything he knew. In return, she made him ten times the wizard he ever was alone. I just happened to show up in the middle of their family drama, and—well, let’s just say the learning curve was steep.” I can feel the nostalgia start to slip out, so I clamp down on it and force my tone back to even. “We weren’t blood, but it didn’t matter. Maybe that’s why we always looked out for each other. Sibling apprentices, yeah. We shared everything: spellbooks, hospital bills, the occasional existential crisis. If you’re wondering about loyalty or trust, that’s where I got mine.” I glance past Armsmaster, half expecting to see Molly’s grin or the flicker of Harry’s battered duster in the doorway, but the air is empty and humming with the hot iron tang of recent magic. “They still keep in touch, you know. Even after all the shit that went down. I’d trust either of them with my life, and have, repeatedly.”
Armsmaster takes all this in with that same carved-from-granite expression, but I catch the flicker of calculation behind his eyes. He’s not just listening; he’s fitting these pieces into whatever profile he’s building of me, trying to find the fault lines. “It seems your apprenticeship was… eventful,” he says at last, and I realize he’s angling for something more than biography. “What, specifically, did you learn that makes you valuable to us?”

I shrug and tilt my head at the ruined floor, where a rough black glass has already started to cool at the epicenter. “Besides magical artillery?” I say, and in the seconds before Armsmaster can fire off a retort, I speed ahead. “Unless you want a building demoed or a monster staked to the pavement, my talents are a little more niche than people expect. I can do most stuff you’d see in the grimoires—tracking, truth-compelling, language parsing, minor illusion—but the real gold is in the improvisation. You need a search-and-rescue in a collapsed sub-basement? Give me a map and a blood sample, and I’ll get your missing person back before the dogs can even catch the trail. You want surveillance that the tinker kids can’t intercept, or a ward that makes a room feel like it’s been dipped in psychic Teflon? I’m not saying I’m the best, but I’m the best you’ve got right now. If you’re dealing with ghosts, poltergeists, or extradimensional parasites—anything that’s slipped through from the Nevernever—I’m your guy. I can bind, banish, or, if you’re trying to be humane, negotiate.”

I can see Armsmaster’s jawline go taut as he mentally revises whatever org chart he’s built for me. He doesn’t blink, just says, “And operationalizing these skills, making them replicable—how feasible is it?”

It’s my turn to sound smug. “Depends on what you want to pay for. If you want a one-off, I can hack together a spell for just about anything. You want it field-ready, with step-by-step procedures for someone who can barely light a candle? That’s harder, but doable. It takes ingenuity, sometimes some fiddly materials, but honestly, magic is as much about the setup as it is about the punchline. For instance, I’ve brewed potions that could give even a baseline agent an edge—strength, speed, night vision, even limited precog, though I’d need a fresh shipment of foxglove and a very trusting test subject for that one. The thing is, for every advantage, there’s a price. You want a squad of regulars to chase down a parahuman? Sure, I can make them run faster, but it’ll shave a year off their knees. Push harder, and the side effects go exponential. That’s the law of conservation—energy in, entropy out. No cheating the bill.”

He looks at me differently now—less like a liability, more like an unrefined munition. “You’re saying you could arm and augment normal troops. Enhance them beyond their current capabilities.”

He’s fishing for something, maybe a game-changer. I consider lying, maybe soft-pedaling the risks, but it’s not worth it. “Yeah, I could. But here’s what happens when you scale up magic for mass consumption: you get diminishing returns, you get unpredictable reactions, and you get people who treat reality like it’s a toy until it bites them in the ass. I could whip up a stamina draught for a whole squad, but if more than three take it at once, the sympathetic resonance could cause some… weird feedback. I don’t just mean headaches, I mean temporal overlap, lost time, maybe a collective dream that they can’t shake. You want firepower, I can make it rain napalm, but it’s almost impossible to contain the fallout. The smarter play is to keep it tactical, use it for special situations, and never let anyone forget that magic is a one-way transaction. The bill always comes due.”

He’s silent for a long while, probably replaying worst-case scenarios of his own troops melting into cartoon logic or waking up with their souls on the wrong side of the mirror. “You’ve seen this happen before.”

I nod, not really looking at Armsmaster anymore, gazing through him instead, my voice thinner than air. “During the war with the Red Court, we gathered some allies. Mostly minor hedge witches, people who wanted a little more protection than the White Council could spare. Most of them died before the ink was dry on any treaty. Magic isn’t fair. It’s not even particularly loyal. When it gets ugly, it’s every practitioner for themselves, unless you find a reason not to run.”

I let that sit. They didn’t hear about the way it started—how the Red Court didn’t just kill their enemies, they recruited them, one bite at a time. You’d face someone across a smoky battlefield, see the steel in their eyes, and two days later, you’d see the same eyes, only now they wanted to drink you like a Capri Sun. We lost people like socks in a dryer: gone, no explanation, until they came back wrong.

He asks, “You say that as if you fought yourself,” with a dryness that might have felt like an insult from someone else. But from Armsmaster, it’s just a checklist item, a confirmation.

I breathe out, and for a second I can taste the penny tang of blood, the ozone aftertaste of spent hexes. “I did,” I say, softer than before. I don’t want to explain, I don’t want to remember, but the memories aren’t exactly optional. You don’t do what we did without carrying some of it around, like a smell in your old clothes that never quite washes out. I see flashes of old friends with half their faces missing, limbs growing back wrong because the Red Court liked to keep their prey alive until the end. I see Molly, screaming, and the sound cuts off, and I’m not sure if she’s dead or if I just lost her in the fog of war. I see Harry, burned and battered but still upright, rallying the last dozen of us for a charge that none of us expect to survive. It wasn’t a battle; it was a slaughterhouse, and the only thing that separated us from the meat hooks was stubbornness and a hell of a lot of luck. Sometimes magic works like that: not as a tool, but as a thin excuse for why you’re still breathing when everyone else is mulch.

He’s quiet now, maybe waiting for me to break the silence, maybe just letting the weight of the words hang there like a bad smell. I keep talking because if I stop, I’ll have to feel something about it, and I can’t afford that right now. “There were nights we held the line with nothing but salt circles and the threats we could scream loudest. And every name we stitched onto the victory banner was another person I couldn’t save.” My hands shake, but I keep them hidden. “I tried to quit after the war. I really did. But there’s always a next thing, and the world doesn’t let you walk away for long. Not if you’re good at breaking things.”

I look up, and Armsmaster’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a little more understanding in the way he stands. Maybe he knows what it’s like, or maybe he’s just good at pretending.

He says, “You saw combat, then.”

“Yeah,” I say, and the admission feels like a cold needle sliding between my ribs. “A lot of it. More than I wanted.” And because I can’t help myself, I tack on: “Less than some, but more than most.” Because some of us didn’t make it to the end, and the worst part is, I don’t even know who I’d rather be.

I remember the sound—bones breaking, the hollow thump of spells that turned air into shrapnel. I remember my own voice, ordering people to hold lines, to run, to die. I remember the way the world looked when the sky was a bruise and the ground was so slick with blood that you had to plant your feet just to keep from sliding into the next body over. We did bad things because there weren’t any good options. That’s the part that doesn’t make it into the debriefs, the part that wakes you up at three in the morning with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your hands locked in fists.

There are some things you never say, even under the white-hot bulb of an interrogation room or in the confessional hush of an after-action report. I don’t tell Armsmaster—or anyone—what really happened at Chichen Itza, the night the Red Court’s empire fractured into dust and ruin. They all heard rumors, sure, because people love stories about the last stands, love to mythologize the desperate and the doomed. The official version is cleaner, easier to swallow: the outnumbered defenders held their ground, the White Council pulled off a miracle, the bad guys got obliterated, and the world barely noticed. What nobody ever hears—and what I’m not about to share now, or ever—is that our victory was measured in the currency of panic and butchery, and that the line between “hero” and “war criminal” blurs fast when you’re fighting monsters who used to have names and faces and families of their own.

I remember the pyramid at midnight, the way the jungle steamed with mist, and the air crackled with a million whispered hexes. The Red Court didn’t just send their soldiers that night; they rounded up their half-turned progeny, the ones stuck between hunger and humanity, and pointed them at us like a living tidal wave. Some of them were still kids, baby fangs poking through gums, eyes wide and terrified as they howled for help from both sides of the battle line. We were told to hold, to push back, to exterminate. I did more than that. I made it personal. I can still see the way my spells lit up the darkness, the color of their blood as it hit the stone, the way some of them died with prayers on their lips, and I didn’t stop. I kept going, because if I didn’t, they would have torn us apart. I don’t tell Armsmaster how I lost count after the first hour. I don’t tell him how, at the end, they started sending in the ones who couldn’t even walk straight, just crawling and hissing and begging, and that I slaughtered them too. I don’t tell him about the way the ground stank of burning flesh and ozone, and how the screams lingered for days, chasing me even in the rare moments I managed to close my eyes.

And I definitely don’t tell him how, when the tide finally broke and the Red Court’s bastards started turning on each other in a frenzy of starvation and betrayal, I stood atop that pyramid and called down a storm so wild, so desperate, that it nearly fried my soul straight out of my body. I don’t tell him about the thing I bargained with in the split-second when I thought we’d lose, the way it slid into my skull like a cold hand and whispered, “You can win, if you just pay the bill.” I don’t tell him what I paid, or what I promised, or how close I came to saying yes to something I knew I’d never come back from.

I tell myself I did what was necessary, that sometimes the world needs monsters to fight monsters. But I’ve never told Molly. Never told Harry, or the others who made it out alive, or the kid in the hospital who sometimes calls me crying because he still dreams of the pyramid and the blood. I don’t say anything, not because I don’t trust them, but because what I did is mine to carry. The guilt is a private gravity, and I let it pull me down, away from anyone who might try to share it. The details are a poison I keep locked up tight, because even admitting I survived feels like a betrayal of everyone who didn’t.

I snap myself back to the present with a sharp shake of the shoulders. The past is a black hole, and for today, I need to orbit it, not fall in. So I force my attention back to the here-and-now, to Armsmaster’s eyes tracking me with forensic precision and the famished hunger of the clipboard in his hands. Before he can pull me in for another round of emotional vivisection, I say, “Let’s return to power testing.” I hear the tremor behind the words, but I’ll be damned if I let it show on my face. I channel the memory of every instructor who ever told me to compartmentalize: box up the feeling, wrap it in wire, and bury it somewhere under muscle memory and ritual.

There’s a concrete slab set up at the end of the lane, pitted and scarred from earlier tests. I don’t even bother with a warm-up. I raise my arm, palm open, and dig into the well of power that lives just beneath the skin, cold and bright as an exposed nerve. I don’t bother reciting the Latin in my head or mapping out the runes—I just let the feeling spike. I want it to hurt. I want it to leave marks. “Fuego!” I shout, and the sound cracks the air like a thunderclap.

What happens next was never in the lesson plans. There’s no gentle build, no lazy arc of orange flame. Instead, every molecule of air between my hand and the target ignites in a single, convulsive detonation. The fireball isn’t a ball at all—it’s a miniature star, a nuclear scream that instantly vaporizes the first two meters of the range and suctions the rest into a white-hot point of annihilation. The shockwave hits my face first, sucking the saliva from my mouth and the moisture from my eyes. It’s like being punched by a furnace made of angry wasps. I stagger, but I don’t fall. I can’t help it: I start laughing, that desperate, unhinged cackle that sometimes erupts when you narrowly avoid becoming a physics demonstration.

The orb of destruction carves a trench through the concrete, vaporizing the weeds and bugs unlucky enough to live along the trajectory. The slab at the end of the range doesn’t just shatter; it liquefies, splattering molten stone against the blast shield in a polka-dot pattern of cooling magma. The air fills with ozone and the sweet, sick tang of carbonized earth. For several seconds, nobody moves, nobody breathes. I can taste the energy lingering on my tongue, copper and static. The fireball keeps going, propelled by its own mad logic, a comet of pure, idiotic overkill. It slams into the tree line at the far end of the field, and for a moment the woods are illuminated from within—every leaf, every ant, every speck of pollen outlined in obscene, loving detail. Then the trees simply stop being trees. The trunks closest to the blast are hollowed out like soda cans in a campfire, while the next layer over combusts in a chorus of whoomphs, producing a plume of black smoke that rises in a pillar straight to the sky. The birds nesting there explode outwards in a panic, more smoke and feathers than flight.

But the fireball still isn’t done. It arcs across the sky, a dying sun on a suicide run, and makes for the small lake on the other side of the property. I only realize what’s happening when the orb strikes the surface, vaporizing a portion of water with such violence that it births an instant, localized thunderstorm. The shockwave is visible—a ripple of compressed air and displaced matter—and it slaps the surface of the lake flat before sending a curling spiral of steam and scalded fish thirty meters high. I can feel the heat against my face, even at this distance. Somewhere, a car alarm is triggered by the concussive aftershock, howling its distress into the already ruined peace of the afternoon.

I stand there, breathing hard, heart hammering in my ears, waiting for the inevitable reprimand. I glance sideways at Armsmaster, expecting his usual stony disapproval or at least a sarcastic remark about “overkill.” Instead, I find him rooted in place, jaw slack, pen frozen above the clipboard as if he’s just witnessed the first detonation of the atomic bomb and can’t decide whether to clap or start digging fallout shelters. He blinks once, twice, then scans the devastation with a slow, deliberate turn of his head.

“You all right?” His tone is flat, but the question lingers in the air like a lifeline.

I take a shaky breath and try to play it cool, though my hands are still tingling from the afterburn. “Yeah,” I say, voice low. “Guess I needed to let off some steam.”

He makes a note, then says, “That was more than a little steam.” He looks at the tree line, which is still on fire in several places, then back at me. “Do you know what the output on that was?”

I shrug, but I’m grinning now, some stubborn, ancient part of me refusing to be cowed by my own excess. “No, but I’m guessing we’ll need a new firing range.”

He lets out a sound that could be a laugh, or a seismic sigh, or maybe both. “I’ll have to recalculate the safety parameters.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the smell of scorched earth and the distant hiss of burning wood. The adrenaline starts to ebb, leaving a hollow where the panic used to live. I look at my hand, half-expecting it to be charred or skeletal, but it’s just a hand: pale, trembling, and very much alive.

I’ve been called many things—hero, monster, liability—but for now, the only thing I feel is relief. Relief that I can still do this, that I still have the fire in me, literal and otherwise. That I’m still the last line of defense, even if it means sometimes breaking the world to save it.

“So,” I say, turning to Armsmaster, “what’s next on the checklist?”

He regards me with a new, almost uncomfortable respect. “If you’ve got that out of your system, we can move on to the finesse exercises.”

“Sounds good,” I say, and this time, I almost mean it.

Finesse was never my strong suit, but after that display, I figure I’ve got nothing left to prove when it comes to raw power. Besides, maybe if I can master the subtle stuff, I can finally stop waking up at three a.m. afraid of what I might do if I ever really lost control.

We walk the ruined length of the range together—me with my hands jammed in my pockets, Armsmaster already running calculations in his head—and I let the memory of the fireball burn away the ghosts, at least for now. There’s work to be done, and it’s better than drowning in the past.

As we pass the cratered remains of the concrete slab, I hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath, probably thinking I can’t hear him.

I smile, just a little. “You say something?”

He looks at me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of real emotion—something between admiration and fear. “Just that you’re something else,” he says.

I nod, accepting the compliment and the warning in equal measure.

The bill always comes due. But for now, I’m still here, still dangerous, and for the first time in a while, that feels like enough.

Chapter Text

Colin Wallis—more often Armsmaster, but never Colin—strode through the bowels of the Rig with a soldier’s gait and a software engineer’s desperation for order. The place was a hive of motion as always—blue-suited PRT officers hustling between operations briefings, bags under their eyes so permanent they seemed tattooed, the Tinker teams in their designated cordoned-off areas reeking of ozone and solder, and the odd Ward threading past with the forced casualness of a teen who knew they were being watched. But it was all background noise to him, a live-action simulation of base operation trundling on as expected, the only anomaly the set of numbers and symbols scrolling at a hypnotic crawl behind his visor.

He toggled the AR overlay with a subvocalized command and the latest telemetry from the ten minutes—no, eight minutes, fifty-seven seconds of footage from the power testing that survived—flashed in front of him. He read the data three times, seeking a pattern that wasn’t there. The readings were inconsistent, almost as if reality itself were having a bad day and couldn’t be arsed to maintain a consistent gravitational constant. More accurately, as if someone or something was deliberately scrambling the base values of the local parahuman energy fields, resulting in noise so profound it made baseline human activity look like a rounding error.

Magic. The word had a bitter, unscientific tang, the kind that left a residue on the tongue. It wasn’t that Armsmaster didn’t believe in phenomena that defied current understanding—he was a Tinker, after all; his own portfolio of exotic physics was a monument to the possible—but magic reeked of hand-waving and the intellectual laziness of the unexplained. But this particular anomaly, this “Warden”—the intern-brand designation someone in PR had already picked out on account of the kid’s obsessive insistence on Guardian metaphors—tripped every sensor and heuristic Armsmaster had. Which was doubly unsettling, because the kid wasn’t even trying to be subtle, just walking around the base like a slightly-above-average cosplayer with a penchant for trench coats. The only thing strange about him, from a physical standpoint, was the weird metallic shimmer in the irises, which some in the Mess Hall had already started calling “moon eyes.”

Armsmaster had experienced the Soul Gaze firsthand. A misnomer, probably—a lot more akin to a two-way memory-dump, not so much a psychic assault as a forced data-sharing session, equal parts intrusive and clarifying. The reasons he hadn’t been shoved into containment or straitjacketed behind Master/Stranger protocols were as follows: a) the Gaze was non-reproducible under observed conditions, b) it left no traces on Tinker-built cognitive firewalls, and c) Dragon had verified, cross-verified, and then re-cross-verified every log, both digital and biological, attesting that there had been no lingering anomalous effects. If anything, it was the best therapy session Armsmaster had ever been subjected to, not that he’d ever said as much out loud.

As he stalked the final corridor, Colin considered the implications. If this Warden could screw with local energy fields and trigger cascading failures in parahuman power interactions, then the implications for base security were dire. For larger conflicts, they were apocalyptic. It was the kind of problem that made him wish for less imagination, not more. The only upside was that the Warden seemed civically minded—if anything, he was a Boy Scout with extra steps, and that was maybe the most dangerous thing of all. He arrived at the Director’s office, a fortress masquerading as a bureaucratic checkpoint, its reinforced blast door more psychological than functional. Two sharp raps, each calculated for maximum resonance. Inside, a faint shuffle of paper, a pause, then Director Piggot’s voice, flinty and impatient: “Enter.”

Colin stepped inside, helmet under one arm, posture stiff but not at attention. Piggot’s office was austerity given physical form—two chairs, a desk, three screens, and a wall map dotted with colored pins. She didn’t look up, but her hand hovered above a keyboard, ready to terminate a conversation or a subordinate with equal efficiency. “Well?” she said, not wasting syllables.

He synthesized his thoughts, then: “Readings remain inconsistent. The local PK baseline is all over the place. We’re seeing hard nulls in a twenty-meter radius, then spikes up to triple normal. It’s not random, but it’s not deliberate, either.”

“Caused by the new asset?”

“Almost certainly. The Warden’s… abilities don’t map to any known power classification. He’s not a regular Parahuman. The analysis team flagged thaumaturgic interference—the kind that’s supposed to be an urban legend, not a feature set.”

Piggot’s lips twitched. “Urban legends are the only thing we have fewer protocols for than the actual Endbringers.”

He grunted. “I recommend we restrict Warden’s access to critical systems until we can determine a safe operating distance.”

Piggot finally looked up. “You spoke with him?”

Colin nodded, flashing on the impossible depth of those moonlit eyes, and the sense that the kid had measured and weighed him in an instant and decided not to hold it against him. “Yes. He’s… self-contained. No indication of hostility. If anything, he’s eager to cooperate. Too eager.”

“That’s what worries me,” Piggot said. “We’ve had enough heroes turn out to be bombs waiting to go off. Keep him monitored. And if he so much as looks at the server room, you’ll be the first to know.” She glanced at her monitor. “He’s expecting you for a follow-up consult. Take a Wards escort this time.”

Colin allowed himself a thin smile. “I don’t think he’s the type to try anything, Director. If he wanted to, we’d know by now.”

Piggot tamped down a frown, but he didn’t need sensors to read the tension in her jaw. “That’s your problem, Armsmaster. You always assume you’ll know before it’s too late.”

Armsmaster stood with the calculated patience of a man who’d spent too many years auditing systems for catastrophic flaws. He started, “You’ve read the report, ma’am. Warden is, by every metric the Labs can cook up, a potentially irreplaceable asset to the Protectorate and the PRT as a whole. Just the potions alone—if even a third of his formulae pan out—would radically alter field medicine, logistics, and crisis containment.” He paused, the faintest trace of distaste on the last word before professionalism reasserted itself.

Piggot’s frown deepened. She tapped her fingers together, the sound sharp as a metronome. “You’re not telling me anything that wasn’t in your initial assessment, Colin. What you’re not saying—what nobody on your team is willing to say out loud—is that this individual constitutes an existential risk to operational security. If even half of the analysis is correct, he could walk into any secure facility in North America and walk out with whatever—or whoever he wanted, and we wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

Armsmaster didn’t flinch. “With respect, ma’am, the same could be said for half the S-Class threats already on the books. The difference is, Warden isn’t a parahuman. He isn’t even a cape in the traditional sense. Every attempt at power analysis turns up erroneous data because whatever he’s doing, it’s not a standard power interaction. He truly has dropped in from another universe.”

Piggot’s gaze was glacial. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But it makes him less likely to slip past our usual safeguards unnoticed. And so far, he’s proven more transparent than most of the recruits. He’s fully briefed Dragon on every formula and ritual he’s tested. He participates in every baseline test you throw at him. If anything, he’s been uncomfortably eager to integrate.”

Piggot shifted in her chair, the only time Armsmaster had seen her look uncomfortable in a conversation that didn’t involve the Chief Director. “And yet. All the social indicators show that he’s holding back. Not in a hostile sense, but… like he’s wearing training weights. Every public demonstration, every spar, every test—he’s limiting himself. Deliberately. The question is why.”

Colin nodded. “I’ve considered that. I hypothesize that he’s been trained to avoid collateral. Think of it as a built-in restraint, like a safety interlock on a fusion reactor. I can’t get anything explicit from him, but the way he talks about his old team, and especially his mentor, it’s clear he’s used to operating under scrutiny and with strict personal codes. Which is probably why he’s so keen to cooperate. He wants to prove he’s safe.”

Piggot’s next words were knife-edged. “Or he wants us to think he’s safe, until it’s convenient not to be.”

He didn’t have a counter to that, so he let it stand. Instead, he shifted tack. “The real question is what he can do when he isn’t holding back. Because from a strategic standpoint, we need that answer before the next Endbringer event, not after.”

Piggot studied him for a long moment, then twisted her monitor so the display mirrored toward him. “I had a call from Alexandria this morning. She wants a full analysis of the Warden’s projected capabilities if deployed during a high-casualty scenario. Not just powers, but psychological profile, loyalty, potential for escalation. She said the word ‘Eidolan’ three times, just in case I missed the comparison.”

“She’s not wrong,” Armsmaster said. “If Warden’s numbers scale the way the tests suggest, he could be our best shot at filling the gap when Eidolan eventually retires. Maybe even sooner.”

Piggot’s mouth pressed to a hard line. “You’re aware of the optics, I trust. Bringing in a reality-warping, non-parahuman asset to supplement our most public-facing hero. Some people will see that as the first step in a hostile takeover.”

“There are also people who will see it as an adaptation,” he replied. “The world’s getting stranger, ma’am. So are the threats.”

Piggot’s gaze flicked from him to the screen and back, like she was toggling between two equally distasteful options. “If he’s so valuable, why the hell is every test making you more nervous instead of less?”

He hesitated, then gave her the answer she probably already knew. “Because we haven’t hit the ceiling yet. All the models are exponential. The upper limit doesn’t exist. Not until something breaks.”

Piggot exhaled, her breath a blunt-force weapon. “You’re recommending we keep him, then.”

“With the right controls and oversight,” he said. “We need to know more, and we need to have contingency measures. But if we cut him loose, he either ends up in the hands of a competitor or worse, a villain group with resources. At least here, we have a chance of guiding the outcome.”

Piggot nodded slowly, as if she’d already decided but needed to hear the argument out of principle. “Very well. Draft your plan. I want a full diagnostic run by tomorrow, and if you have to invent a new class of power analysis, do it.”

He allowed himself a microscopic smile. “Already working on it. I’ll have something for you by 0700.”

“Good, let’s go to ratings.”

Colin didn’t bother glancing at the assembled bigwigs—Director Piggot, two PRT auditors, and the always-omniscient Dragon cycling through the wall screens as a silent participant. Instead, he tapped his armband a few times. The holotable in the center of the room flickered, then spat out a 3D profile of the subject. Even as a wireframe, the kid managed to look vaguely unimpressed, like he’d already triple-checked the meeting’s agenda.

“We’ve done a preliminary threat analysis on Warden,” he said, projecting confidence in the same way a warship projects naval superiority: loud, direct, and with no room for negotiation. “Tentative ratings, pending live-action confirmation and post-mortem of the recent incident.” He braced himself, lips thinning. “Blaster 9. The projectile exhibited all the hallmarks of a multi-stage plasma effect, but more importantly, forensic teams found evidence of vitrification at the impact site. That means the minimum output is over seventeen hundred degrees Celsius. He turned the ground into glass and kept it molten for fourteen seconds after detonation. That’s not a normal fireball. That’s city-block reduction on demand.”

He let that percolate, then moved on. “Stranger 3, but the number’s almost certainly a floor, not a ceiling. All electronics within a thirty-meter radius dropped to zero function. It’s not a conventional EM burst. No known parahuman or tinker tech has successfully filtered or blocked it, so far. Range is limited, but it’s like nothing we’ve seen. There’s limited evidence of subtlety, which is the only thing keeping the rating out of the red zone for now.”

Colin swiped through the next set of data, the projection updating in real time. “Mover 2: He’s demonstrated only baseline human mobility so far—no teleportation, no time-space weirdness, not even enhanced agility. That said, if the scenario repeats, there’s a high probability of latent Mover potential. We’re monitoring closely. Shaker 5, for area of effect. He hasn’t shown true battlefield manipulation yet, but considering the magnitude of his Blaster output, this is a placeholder. Same logic for Striker 4. He hasn’t needed to use close combat yet, but given that he carries a staff—one that’s shown no known composition or maker—we’re not going to pretend it’s ornamental. If anything, we’re worried he hasn’t used it yet. Either he’s overconfident or he’s saving it for when it counts.”

He waited for the obligatory raised eyebrow—Piggot’s, as always. “That’s a lot of numbers, Armsmaster,” she deadpanned. “I’m waiting for the catch.”

Colin gave a perfectly modulated nod, like a machine transitioning to the next gear. “The real sticking point is the Trump rating. Every single power classification team came in with a different number, so we had to make a call.” He tapped the table again, and the words TRUMP: INFINITE flashed in harsh, blue serif across the display. “He’s a Trump Infinite. No upper bound. No secondary classification, because all the sub-types seem to apply to him on a situational basis. When he’s in the field, every other parahuman power within range is either disrupted, nullified, or outright hijacked. Even Dragon’s digital presence took a direct hit, which—” he glanced at the monitor— “is a documented first.”

A hush fell over the room, the kind that didn’t just fill the air but seemed to leech warmth from the walls. One of the PRT analysts actually recoiled from the table, then tried to play it off by fidgeting with his pen. The other muttered a curse, low and entirely justified. Not even Piggot managed to mask the tell: her hand clenched on her mug, knuckles clashing white against the ceramic. Every breath in the room turned a fraction brittle.

Dragon’s on-screen avatar was the first to break the silence. “Colin, are you certain about the interference? There’s a possibility it overlaps with a Thinker effect, distorting memory or perception—”

He cut her off with a measured shake of the head. “Cross-verified, redundantly, with multiple cyborg and hardware-only monitoring rigs. I had Miss Militia run a live-fire test with a half-dozen captive parahumans. Every time Warden triggered, their power signatures dropped by half, then rebounded in unpredictable directions. It wasn’t Thinker distortion—they checked the logs themselves and confirmed the deviation. The only thing keeping the numbers from spiking higher is that he seems almost allergic to collateral. He deliberately avoids bystanders, even at the cost of self-exposure.”

The first analyst, now pale, spoke up. “What about duration? Is it a burst, or can he sustain it?”

“Current data suggests a continuous effect. He’s holding something in reserve. If he wanted to, he could shut down this entire facility and keep it down. So far, he hasn’t.”

Piggot’s frown could have cut tungsten. “And the narrative you want me to tell D.C. is what, precisely? That we’ve conscripted a walking existential event with the temperament of a bored teenager, and we’re just hoping he doesn’t get bored enough to test the limits?”

Colin shrugged, a gesture that would have seemed insubordinate on anyone else. “He’s the only asset we’ve ever had with a glass ceiling above Scion’s probable range. He’s not a monster, not yet. But the backend models say that if he ever decided to go off-script, he’d be able to punch a hole through anything short of an Endbringer. And that’s assuming he doesn’t evolve further.”

The second analyst, voice wavering, asked, “Could he— I mean, if he’s on our side, could he neutralize an Endbringer?”

Armsmaster didn’t answer immediately. Not because he doubted, but because the question wasn’t whether the Warden could—it was whether he would. “Unknown. He’s not eager to escalate. But hypothetically? Yes. If you put him in a city with an Endbringer, the odds are good that only one would walk away. Possibly neither.”

No one said anything for a solid fifteen seconds. The word “Scion” hovered in the air, even though no one had the nerve to say it again.

Piggot finally released her death-grip on the mug and looked up, gaze slicing through the haze. “What does he want?” she asked. “Everyone wants something.”

Colin blinked, once. “He wants to help. He’s been explicit about that. He wants to rebuild whatever it was he lost, and he thinks the Protectorate is the best framework for that. He’s not looking to supplant or control. He’s… nostalgic. For heroics.” He left unsaid the part that worried him—how nostalgia could metastasize into something very different, if reality got in the way.

Dragon, the only one who could afford optimism, said, “He’s also made a point of mentoring the junior Wards. I’ve reviewed the footage. He’s not coercive. If anything, he’s trying to give them tools to resist him.”

“A paradox,” Piggot muttered. “Maybe that’s the scariest part of all.”

Colin let that ride. He started again, “There’s one other data point. During the Soul Gaze event, I was able to see what he was holding back. I don’t have conventional language for it, but it’s as if he’s carrying a nuclear device and treating it like an umbrella. He’s repressing the instinct to escalate, even when attacked. I think his previous universe trained him to value restraint above all else. But in this one—” His throat clicked, probably the closest he’d come to trepidation in a decade. “We may not have the same checks and balances.”

Piggot exhaled through her nose, then finally gave him a look that bordered on respect. “If that changes, I want a hard kill-switch in place. Preferably several.”

Colin nodded once, precisely. “Already in progress. His formulae are potent, but he needs materials. I’ve got the supply chain mapped and monitored.” He paused, then added, “I’m also training all security staff on anti-wizard protocol. Just in case.”

Armsmaster paused, letting the last numbers hang in the air like a guillotine. Then, with a gravity that had nothing to do with threat ratings, he said, “We also should not treat Warden as a normal teenager. There’s more beneath the surface than any of these metrics can quantify.” He toggled the holotable again, this time showing a series of clipped video feeds: Warden in motion, face unreadable, moving through a simulated combat course. Even as a silent projection, the footage radiated the kind of cold competence that only came from one thing—experience.

“He revealed to me,” Armsmaster continued, voice low and deliberate, “in short pieces, that he is, for lack of a better term, a child soldier.” The choice of words drew a visible wince from the first analyst, and even Piggot’s impassive mask slipped for a heartbeat. “He didn’t outright say it, but it’s clear—painfully clear—that he has killed in the line of duty. Not just once. Not even a handful of times. From what I gauged in his… soul, the number is in the hundreds at a minimum. Possibly four digits.”

He let that implication bleed into the room. “I’ve seen hardened mercenaries break after a dozen confirmed kills. Warden is… functioning. Not unscarred, but stable. He compartmentalizes on a level I’ve never documented outside of war criminals or high-end covert operatives.” Armsmaster tapped a control, freeze-framing Warden’s image in a moment of perfect stillness. “He’s not a sociopath. He feels the weight of every action. He just refuses to let it stop him.” The silence that followed was different now—heavier, almost funereal. One of the auditors reached for his glass of water, missed, and had to steady his own hand before trying again.

Piggot’s voice was careful, almost gentle. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“He needs context, not just containment,” Armsmaster said. “If we treat him like a normal Ward, we’ll create a disaster. He’s already made sacrifices most adults couldn’t stomach. If we isolate or infantilize him, he’ll either implode or walk. Probably the latter, and no force on earth would stop him.”

He paused, then allowed himself a glance at Miss Militia, who was standing with arms folded and jaw set. “Therefore, I recommend that Miss Militia attempt to get close to the boy. Their backgrounds… align, to a degree I believe is statistically significant. She’s handled child soldier integration before, and she has the credibility to speak his language.” He didn’t say broken, but everyone in the room heard it.

Miss Militia inclined her head, acknowledging the assignment with neither enthusiasm nor reluctance—just the calm of someone who had already accepted worse duties. “I’ll make the approach,” she said. “But if he’s as insulated as you say—”

“He’ll be wary,” Armsmaster agreed, “but he wants to belong. He wouldn’t have come in otherwise.” He looked around, making eye contact with each of them in turn. “He’s not a problem to solve, Director. He’s a person to protect—albeit one who could flatten half the city if we’re careless.”

Piggot mulled that over, then nodded once, sharp as a blade. “Very well. On your recommendation, Miss Militia will take point on his integration. I want a double layer of psychological oversight. Nothing heavy-handed, just an ongoing evaluation.” She looked pointedly at the display, then at the people in the room. “And let’s make sure our other Wards don’t become collateral in the process. Any deviation, any sign of escalation, I want to know before it hits the rumor mill.”

The second analyst finally found his voice again, though it sounded like he’d just eaten a mouthful of gravel. “If he’s a child soldier—if he’s done all that—why isn’t he more… unstable?”

Armsmaster had anticipated that. “Resilience. Or maybe he’s just that good at compartmentalizing. What I do know is that he’s governed by a sense of mission. He’s not looking for power or recognition. He wants to help, even if his methods are—” He searched for the right word, came up empty, and settled for, “—unorthodox. I suspect the more structure and trust we can provide, the less likely he is to slip through our fingers.”

Dragon’s avatar, previously silent, chose this moment to chime in: “I’ve run comparative analyses against all historical Ward records. He’s an outlier in every metric that matters—combat efficiency, trauma recovery, and teamwork adherence. But also in self-restraint. There are no indicators for breakdown or grudge behavior. In fact, he routinely intervenes to protect teammates, even at his own expense.”

Miss Militia, now leaning forward with a mixture of curiosity and caution, asked, “What’s his weakness, then? Everyone has one.”

Armsmaster considered that, then said, “He’s still a kid. He just doesn’t know how to be one. And if someone exploits that—if he ever feels truly cornered—he might stop holding back.”

Piggot leaned back in her chair, the faintest ghost of a grim smile on her face. “Then let’s make sure he never has to.” She turned to the wall screen. “Next steps?”

Dragon replied instantly, “I’ll set up a secure training and observation schedule. Miss Militia can begin informal outreach this afternoon.”

Armsmaster nodded, satisfied. “I’ll finish the contingency plans. But unless something goes catastrophically wrong, I think he’ll turn out to be an asset. Maybe our most important one.”

Piggot let out a short, bitter breath and rubbed at her temples. The gesture was so unfamiliar—so profoundly out of place on her granite features—that it froze the whole room for a half-beat. She dropped her hand, and when she spoke, her tone had calcified to the density of compressed ash. “So let me clarify,” she said. “We have a living nuclear option, possibly above Eidolon, currently residing in our Wards quarters. This child—” She bit off the word, lips curling just a millimeter. “—has logged more trauma than most black ops squads, and you’re all telling me he’s just going to sit quietly and do homework until we hand him a cape and a badge?” She swept the conference table with her eyes, daring someone to contradict her. When no one did, she continued.

“Don’t bother with the act. That degree of exposure? No human—no organism—walks away intact. I have zero interest in being the next case study for an S-class mental break,” she said. “I want a full psychological support package in place, starting yesterday. And I’ll be escalating this to the Chief Director’s office. If there’s any chance we’re harboring the next member of the Triumvirate, I want oversight and external signoff at every step.” She gave the word Triumvirate a careful inflection, the kind that left no question which side of the fence she landed on regarding such power consolidation.

She took a pull from her coffee, found it empty, and slammed the mug down with more force than it deserved. “If we so much as breathe this to the wrong person, we’ll have a Cape arms race on our doorstep. The ABB will up-gun within a week, E88 will start recruiting straight from juvie, and the Merchants—” She made a face, as if picturing the Merchants with a second-rate parahuman nuke gave her actual gastrointestinal distress. “If this escapes containment, the Teeth or the Slaughterhouse Nine might walk in the front door, and I do not have the personnel to repel that. Do you?” The first analyst shook her head, fast and shallow. The second looked ready to vomit. Armsmaster just blinked, once, and Miss Militia’s jaw set with the quiet force of a hydraulic press.

Piggot leaned forward, voice lowering to an intimate snarl. “This does not leave this room. We maintain operational security at all costs. If anyone leaks so much as a rumor, I’ll have Dragon backtrace it and strip you of your clearance before you can spell ‘contempt of court.’” She didn’t bother to modulate her volume. They all knew she meant it.

She pushed back from the table, chair creaking in protest. “I’ll be drafting a support request to New York. Legend is the only cape with the practical experience to oversee someone like this, and if we’re lucky, he’ll take the boy under his wing, and it will no longer be our problem.” She glanced at Armsmaster. “Can you keep him occupied? No media, no unnecessary contact?”

Armsmaster nodded. “I can. He’s receptive to structure. If we keep him engaged, he’ll follow the routine until we say otherwise.”

“Good,” Piggot said. “Give him the VIP tour. And set up a side-door for Miss Militia to begin her integration. I want those logs running, tight loop, but don’t spook the kid. If he senses he’s under a microscope, we’ll lose him.”

Miss Militia inclined her head, taking the assignment with the stoic resignation of someone already counting the ways it could go wrong. “Understood. I’ll start shadowing him this afternoon. Should we loop in the rest of the team?”

“Not yet,” Piggot said. “If he picks favorites, I want to know who and why. We can always escalate to group integration, but not the other way around.” She turned to Dragon’s avatar, which floated in the periphery like a digital guardian angel. “Can you keep external comms on lockdown?”

Dragon’s avatar nodded, a shimmer of digital blue. “I can. I’ll also flag any social media or suspect traffic for review. If the gangs or the press catch wind, I’ll have countermeasures ready.”

Piggot allowed herself a fractional smile, more a baring of teeth than any genuine emotion. “Excellent. That’s more like it.” She looked around the room again, gaze impaling each soul in turn. “You’ve all read the files. You know what’s at stake. If the cost of keeping this under wraps is a little paranoia and a lot of sleepless nights, we’ll pay it in installments.”

The first analyst finally managed to speak, her voice dry as a sheet of sandpaper. “Director, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the endgame? If this boy—if the Warden—really is that dangerous, do we have an actual plan for containment?”

Piggot smiled, and this time it was a shark’s smile: all edge, no warmth. “We do now,” she said. “We give him every reason to trust us, and no reason to look anywhere else. And if that fails, we make sure the only thing more dangerous than keeping him is letting him go.”

There was a long, dreadful silence as those words sank in. It was Dragon, impossibly polite, who broke it.

“I’ll set up secondary containment and a failover communications blackout,” she said. “If we need to quarantine, we’ll have the infrastructure in place within thirty-six hours.”

“Make it twenty-four,” Piggot said, without looking up. “And send me a draft of the Chief Director escalation. I want it on my desk before the end of the hour.”

Miss Militia shifted, a faint frown creasing her brow. “If I may,” she said, “the boy’s integration will go a lot smoother if he has someone to talk to. Preferably someone closer to his… age bracket.”

Piggot hesitated, then nodded once. “I’ll authorize a vetted peer mentor. Someone with combat background, but stable.” She eyed Armsmaster, who was already cycling through names and dossiers on his HUD. “Find me a candidate. Someone who can keep up, but won’t feed his hero complex.”

The second analyst, voice trembling, added, “And if he does escalate? If something sets him off before we have this all in place?”

“We eliminate the threat, in his own words, he is as weak to bullets as any baseline human,” Piggot said, voice flat as a gunshot.

She swept her gaze across the table one last time, daring anyone to break ranks. No one moved.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass in a blur of institutional efficiency and awkward camaraderie. My standing with the PRT improves a hundredfold after the power testing—nothing like quantifiable data to calm the nerves of a bureaucracy. Suddenly, the sidelong glances turn into mostly direct eye contact that I’m forced to break; people actually respond when I say “good morning,” and I catch a few of the guards smirking at my jokes instead of mentally cataloging them for their threat database. I guess when you peg the wizard’s upper limit, he becomes a known variable, and known variables mean manageable shit. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that the whole thing is a little too easy. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I know that I held back just enough in the tests to keep them guessing at what I really am—and what else magic might do in this world.

I get the sense they know it, too. The testing proctors couldn’t stop scribbling notes even after I repeated the same spell for the third time, and the look on Armsmaster’s face every time I explained thaumaturgical fundamentals was like he was waiting for me to say an actual equation so he could run it through his Tinker brain. Nobody calls me out, but the new respect comes with a little bit of distance, like they’re not sure if I’m a potential asset or a future liability. I play along, offering up exactly as much trust as they do. The carrot is that I’m a model detainee—no outbursts, no “incidents,” just a few too many questions about containment wards and department policy. The stick is that I’m still technically a prisoner, and the moment I step out of line, I’ll probably get flash-fried by some teenage demigod with a grudge. The whole place runs on unspoken threats and mutual suspicion, and I’m starting to get comfortable.

My daily routine develops a rhythm. I wake up in the same generic cot at six in the morning, shuffle through a breakfast that tastes vaguely of punishment, and get escorted to whatever room they need me in that day. Sometimes it’s another round of “how does magic work?” with the science team, sometimes it’s a psych eval, sometimes it’s just sitting in a room while a bunch of analysts watch me watch them. I make small talk with the staff when they let me, and when they don’t, I entertain myself by figuring out which of the security personnel are natural and which ones have powers. It’s not hard—parahumans are weird in the ways they move, talk, even blink. They’re like cats pretending to be people, and I’m not sure if I should be flattered or unsettled that they’re doing the same math to me.

The days are boring, but not in a way that feels safe. The PRT changes up my schedule so often that it’s hard to get a read on any patterns, but I know the real reason: they don’t want me getting comfortable enough to plan anything. I oblige by acting as bored as possible. I don’t push my boundaries, don’t ask for a phone call, don’t even try to sneak a look at classified material—though I do notice that the guards’ handguns are swapped out for tasers, and that the cameras outside my bunk are now equipped with infrared sensors.

Every now and then, they bring me in for a “cultural exchange session.” Last time, they had a Tinker named Staccato demonstrate a portable energy shield, and I countered with a basic ward that fizzled its field in about four seconds. They seemed impressed, but wary, like I’d just solved a Rubik’s Cube with my tongue. It’s all about establishing dominance, but done in the most polite, passive-aggressive way possible.

I start looking forward to the moments where I’m left alone in the hallway, even if it’s just for a few seconds. The world outside my room is alive with the low hum of power and the constant churn of human weirdness. I swear, half the time I can smell ozone and fear in the air, and the other half it’s just the faint scent of antiseptic and coffee. I tell myself it’s better than being dead, but some days I’m not sure. So that’s my new normal: constant scrutiny, bad food, and the slow realization that I might actually be safer in here than out there. It’s almost funny. Almost.

The fragile thread of routine snaps when Miss Militia appears at my door, her expression harder to read than encrypted Latin. She raps twice, briskly, then slides the viewing slot open just enough to make eye contact. “Xander, you have a very important meeting today. Legend is here to speak with you.”
My pulse does a little jump-rope routine, then settles back to its usual wariness. Legend. As in, the Legend. Even in a universe drowning in capes, he’s one of maybe a half dozen names that you don’t say unless you mean it. I’d heard rumors of his visits—the way the staff went uncharacteristically quiet, the way the halls seemed to clean themselves out of respect or maybe terror. I figure I’ve got three minutes until I’m face-to-face with the closest thing this world has to Superman, and I can’t decide if I should be honored or mortified.

“Do I get my shoes for this one?” I ask, only half-joking.

Miss Militia rolls her eyes. “Please be respectful,” she says, and something in her tone suggests that if I’m not, she’ll personally show me what happens to disrespectful wizards. I nod, then run my fingers through my hair, wondering if I should’ve tried harder to look less like I just survived a tornado made of caffeine pills and existential dread.
She leads me down a corridor that feels even more sterile than usual. The guards are gone, replaced by discrete cameras and a subtle, humming tension in the air. We stop at a door made of something that definitely isn’t wood, and Miss Militia gives me a last once-over before opening it.
Legend is exactly as the stories promise—calm, dignified, with a smile that’s equal parts warmth and “I could vaporize you if I wanted.” He wears his costume with the easy confidence of a man who’s never known self-doubt, and his eyes sweep the room with a blue-white intensity that’s somehow both reassuring and terrifying. He takes command of the space without a word, and I realize I’m standing a little straighter, like my posture is something he might comment on.
Legend doesn’t waste time. “Good morning, Xander,” he says, his voice the kind of gentle that implies it’s never needed to be loud. “Or would you rather Warden?”
“Xander is fine,” I say, straightening my cuffs out of sheer nervous reflex. “Honestly, I’m only using the codename because it’s being forced on me. I’m not some superhero, just a wizard.” I say it with a shrug, but the words come out a little sharper than intended. Years of being shoehorned into other people’s narratives will do that to you.

Legend’s smile widens, genuine this time, and I feel the temperature in the room notch up a half-degree. “A wizard, then Myrddin would love you,” he says, and I get the sense that he means it. There’s a tiredness beneath the surface of his perfect PR grin, the kind that comes from decades of fielding everyone else’s expectations.

He gestures to a chair and waits for me to sit before taking the one opposite. Just two people at a table with nothing between us but the weight of implied consequences. The silence stretches, then Legend leans forward, elbows on the table, and fixes me with that look that belongs on the side of a postage stamp. “You know, I’ve always fantasized about wizards and magic. Back before heroes and villains were a thing, I used to play a lot of Dungeons and Dragons, right in the middle of the satanic panic. Though I was more of a Sorcerer guy myself.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod and pretend my heart isn’t doing backflips in my chest. This is the guy who could end me with a stray photon, and he’s complimenting my existential boundaries.

Legend continues, voice soft but never weak. “Let’s talk plainly. You’ve been cooperative, and your presence here has answered questions we’ve had for years. But it’s created new ones. I’d like to hear, in your own words, how you see your place in all of this. And what you want.”

“I want to go home.” The words leave my mouth without hesitation, blunt and unvarnished, like a punch in a therapy session you didn’t ask for. For a heartbeat, I see something flicker in Legend’s eyes—a recognition, maybe, or just the relief that comes from someone finally saying the obvious part out loud, but it’s more than just homesickness, and he knows it.

“There are… things at home. People. I don’t know how to explain it.” I force my gaze past the table, picturing the long track of days and nights that led me to this moment. “There’s an entire world that’s probably falling apart without me, and I’m not just being dramatic. These things have a way of spiraling. I was in the middle of something—big, bigger than me—and I’m pretty sure my sudden vanishing act made problems for everyone else. People are depending on me, and I don’t just mean in the ‘hope you remembered to feed my cat’ way.”

Legend’s posture softens, just a fraction. “Do you have a family? Friends?” He says it the way a priest might, with infinite patience and a touch of practiced empathy.

“I have both, actually. Not the way you’d think.” I drum my fingers on the tabletop, back to being the awkward kid in the principal’s office. “Some of them are just good people who took me in even though I’m trouble. Some are… complicated. There’s a guy who taught me magic, a woman who’s kind of like a sister, and this one family that took me in. Gave me a place to call home, even built an addition onto their home so I’d always have a place to stay. There’s a city—I miss the city. The stupid little things, like the way the L breaks down every weekend or the smell of garlic fries at four in the morning. I guess I always thought I’d have time to patch things up or fix the messes I made. But now I’m here, and I’m not sure anyone even knows what happened to me.”

Legend listens, unwavering. For a second, it feels like he might reach across the table and pat my hand, but he just folds his own together and waits. “You feel responsible.”

I let out a brittle laugh. “You learn pretty quickly that even if you’re not a superhero, people expect you to clean up after the magical shit. It’s kind of my job, and I’m not even getting paid. So, yeah, I want to go home. Not because this place is awful—though it isn’t winning any awards—but because I left everything in the middle of a disaster. I can’t fix it from here. And I don’t know if it’s the universe’s way of telling me to give up, or just another test to see if I’ll break. But I can’t just give up.”

Legend nods, deep and slow, as if weighing every word against the rest of my life. “I understand. Can you tell me more about the things you’re missing? What, specifically, is waiting for you back home?”

“That story will take more time than you probably have,” I say, and the words come out brittle. For a second, Legend just waits, his eyes steady, and I realize he means for me to fill the silence. I run a hand through my hair, buying time, and then decide to just spit it out. “A lot of it, I don’t know. That’s not false modesty. There are beings—entities—out there, bigger than any magic I’ve ever seen. Old gods, titans, things that mess with the fabric of reality just by waking up in the morning. One of them tried to walk Chicago off the map. That wasn’t even the main event. That was just the opening act.”

Legend’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. He’s either seen something like this before, or he’s very, very good at pretending. “You’re talking about an existential threat. Something beyond Endbringer class,” he says, not asking, just matching the pitch of my urgency.

“That’s putting it mildly. The one that hit Chicago was a Titan. Think of it as the god of monsters, only it’s smarter, meaner, and it doesn’t bother with small-scale evil. It’s as if Lovecraft’s nightmares grew legs and decided to unionize.” I can’t stop now, the words are tumbling out.

Legend’s eyes narrow, calculating. “And you fought it?”

I let out a breath. “We tried. You don’t fight something like that, not really. You just try to keep it distracted long enough for someone smarter to come up with a plan. We had a few heavy hitters—my mentor, a couple of gods, even a vampire or two who hated the thing as much as we did. Hell even the Fae queens turned up to battle. But every time we hit it with magic, it just… mutated. Like it was learning from us, getting stronger by the minute. I spent six hours straight throwing everything I had at its head, and it did nothing.” My hands were balled into fists at this point, the reminder of how far I still had to go fresh on my mind.

Legend’s mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s suppressing a smile or a shudder. “So what happened?”

“We got lucky. My mentor—I owe him pretty much everything—came up with a ritual to bind the Titan. It cost him, badly. I was supposed to anchor the spell, but I got knocked out of the fight at the last minute. Next thing I knew, half the city was gone and the Titan was sealed. But it’s not dead. Just sleeping. And there are more out there. Worse ones. Ethniu was like a petulant child compared to some of the old gods.”

I look down at my hands, which are shaking a little. “That’s what I left behind. That’s the mess I’m supposed to fix. Only now, I’m not even in the same universe as the problem.”

Legend finally breaks the silence. “That’s… a lot to carry.” He folds his hands together, thoughtful. “But you did everything you could. Sometimes, surviving is enough.”

"I've fought far too many times to pretend that surviving is always the better option," I say, the words scraping out of my throat like gravel. It's meant as a joke, a shield, but there's too much truth behind it. Legend doesn't blink. He just absorbs it, the way only someone with more blood on their hands than mine can.

He leans back in his chair, arms folding, and somehow manages to radiate both comfort and the threat of a firing squad. "I'm not going to tell you that it gets easier," Legend says, and the lines around his eyes pull tight, giving the lie to every magazine cover he's ever been on. "I lost more people than I can count before the Protectorate even had its name. I know what it is to wake up in a world that doesn't want you in it. But I also know that sometimes, you find a reason to keep fighting anyway. Even if it's just spite."

A laugh almost escapes me. "Spite's underrated," I say, and for the first time all day, I don't feel like I'm about to be dissected by the guy across the table. "But if I'm being honest, I don't know if it's enough anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see what could've happened if I'd done more. Or what will happen if I don't find a way back."

Legend absorbs that, too. His gaze doesn't flicker. "You feel like the only one who can fix it."

I hesitate, then nod. "I keep telling myself I'm just another grunt in the meat grinder. But I remember every face, every body. And every time it goes wrong, I wonder if it wouldn't have been easier to just... not come back." Legend's silence is a kind of permission. There's nothing performative about it, no mandatory pep talk. Just two people who know what it's like to have the world balance on their worst day.

I don't look up. "So yeah. Surviving isn't always the win. Sometimes, it's just a new kind of punishment."

We sit there for a while, neither of us blinking first, the silence stretching like a rubber band just shy of snapping. I know the rhythm—he’s letting me set the tempo. So I cut through all the pretense. “But that’s not why you are here, is it? You’re not the kind of guy who does house calls just to check on the cosmic orphan’s mood swings. You want to know what I can do for you. For this world.” My voice is flat, factual, but there’s a sting of challenge in it.

Legend’s lips twitch; I get the impression he might actually appreciate the candor. “Endbringers,” I say, not bothering to let him ask. It’s the word that hangs over every conversation in this world, the boogeyman in the closet, except the boogeyman occasionally flattens cities and salts the earth for giggles. “You want to know if I have any tricks that could help you with the ongoing apocalypse.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table. “Do you?”

I stare at my hands, knuckles white, then force the tension out. “Honestly? Your Endbringers remind me of the Titan back home. Except the Titan was…smarter. I don’t get that vibe from most of your monsters.” I can still see the devastation in my mind, the afterimage of Leviathan reducing a city block to kelp and slurry, the way Behemoth’s footsteps cratered the pavement. “They’re more like forces of nature. A hurricane with a grudge. Which makes them less dangerous, in a way. At least two of them—your Leviathan and Behemoth—don’t show much in the way of intelligence. Just raw, directionless hate.”

Legend’s eyes narrow, but he keeps his face neutral. “That tracks with our analysis, yes.”

I nod. “You can outthink a beast. You can’t outthink a god. Back in Chicago, the Titan seemed to know every move we made before we made it. It learned on the fly, adapted to our attacks, and bent reality when it suited. The Endbringers…they’re terrifying, but predictable. Strength alone can be surmounted. A smart enemy is far more deadly than one with brute strength.” I glance up, searching his expression for any sign that I’m not just repeating his own battle briefings.

Legend is quiet for a moment, digesting everything. His gaze flickers, not quite cold but clinical, like he’s mentally rewriting all the world’s war plans around the idea that maybe, just maybe, there are greater terrors lurking somewhere else. “What would you do differently, then? If you were in charge?”

It’s a hell of a question. I let my head drop back for a second, staring at the faint water stain on the ceiling, then say, “I’d stop treating them like walking disasters and start thinking of them as a disease. Contain, quarantine, adapt. But never get sentimental about casualties. The second you start hoping for a miracle, that’s when you get people killed.” I look him straight where his eyes were, one of the benefits of everyone wearing masks, and for a moment I see the hero behind the legend, the man who had to make those calls and watch the aftermath. “I don’t know if you can beat them conventionally. But I know you can buy time. And time is all anyone ever really needs.”

Legend’s mouth curves in the barest smile, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve said something right or just confirmed his worst fears. “You talk like someone who’s seen the end of the world before,” he says.

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “I’ve watched the universe try to kill itself more times than I care to count. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just the default state of things: entropy with a mean streak.”

He doesn’t smile at that. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Someone has to be,” I say, and let the silence reclaim the room for a few seconds. “If you want tactical advice, I’ll give it. But don’t expect me to have some silver bullet. Magic doesn’t work that way, not even in the stories.”

“Do you think it will work against the Endbringers?” Legend asks, and this time there’s a rawness in the question that says he’s lost enough friends to want a real answer.

“Yes.” I didn’t hesitate, and I didn’t blink. There’s a power in certainty, and the world—every world—senses it. The word hung between us, hard and clear as a bullet. “Magic and monsters both run on belief. You stop believing you can fight, you’ve already lost.” Maybe it’s trite, maybe it’s the worst kind of cliché, but I’ve seen it play out more times than I can count: the moment the will breaks, the body follows.

Legend doesn’t rush to fill the silence, which is a rare gift. I take the opening. “In my old universe, there was this thing called the Threshold. It’s what kept the monsters out—literally. Your home, your heart, your family, those things mattered because you believed in them enough to make them real. The day you lost faith, the monsters could just walk in. They didn’t even have to knock.” I crack my knuckles, remembering the cold, the hunger, the way hope always dies slowest. “That’s not just magic. That’s how people work, too. You lose belief, you lose everything.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You think your kind of magic will work here just because you believe in it?”

It takes me a moment to realize I’m smiling in spite of myself. “The real trick isn’t whether I believe it’ll work—it’s whether the universe does. And every time I’ve bet against that, I’ve lost.” I gesture at the walls, at the city outside them. “This world is built on people who believe hard enough to wear capes and punch entropy in the face. I don’t care what you call it—magic, parahuman powers, science run amok—you can’t do that without a core of belief that’s damn near religious.”

He nods again, slower this time. “But faith can cut both ways,” Legend says. “We had a guy in the Protectorate—really believed he could save the world. He nearly burned it down trying.” His voice is even, but I know the story. There’s always one, in every world.

“That’s the risk,” I say. “But the alternative is letting the Endbringers win by default.” I pick up my cup, take a sip, and almost spit it back out—the coffee is cold sludge now. “If you want a guarantee, go to church. If you want a fighting chance, you have to be willing to put everything on the line. Belief, hope, the whole damn self-destructive shebang.” I lean forward, lowering my voice to match his. “The moment you stop believing you can change things, is the moment you cede the world to monsters.”

We’re so close across the table I can see the flecks of blue in his irises. Legend doesn’t blink. “That’s a hell of a gamble.”

“Every fight worth having is,” I say, and drain the rest of the cup just to prove a point.

He lets the words settle, then: “What do you believe in, McClaine?”

It’s my turn to hesitate, just enough for him to notice. I could feed him some bullshit about justice, or hope, or the better angels of our nature. But I don’t have it in me anymore. “I believe in the work,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I believe in the fight. That maybe, if I keep moving forward, the people behind me get another day.”

Legend’s smile is brittle, but I think he gets it. “That’s enough,” he says. The world’s loudest silence falls over us, neither of us willing to move or look away first. I think he respects that, or maybe he’s just used to talking to people who don’t flinch from ugly truths.

Legend looks me in the eye, his face marble-still and absent any of the awkward “dad energy” most Authority Figures try to radiate when broaching a favor. “I’d like you to join me in New York.” No pitch, no build-up, just that—like he’s inviting me to a backyard barbecue and not the geopolitical crucible of a world at war. He leans back, steepling his fingers. “This world needs people like you, and I believe that I would be best suited to helping you develop in a way that helps both this world and yours.” Not a command, not a plea. An invitation, one built on the implicit assumption that I already know he’s not wrong.

I take a breath, tasting the bitter dregs of cold coffee, and set the mug down with a kind of finality. “Look, no disrespect intended, but there’s not much you can do to help me besides maybe helping me find a way back to my own dimension. I don’t need a mentor. The only ‘developing’ I’m going to achieve here is what I can wrestle out of this world with my own two hands.” Legend doesn’t blink, and for a second, I wonder if he’s about to launch into the official pitch, tell me all about the advantages of working under his personal supervision, the honor of fighting alongside the ‘best and brightest’ in the world. But he doesn’t. He just waits, giving me space to finish my thought, and it throws me off-balance enough that I actually do.

“You can’t teach me new ways to wield magic if that’s what you’re hoping for. Not because you’re not smart enough, or experienced enough, but because…” I hesitate, the words sticky with pride and something sour and unnamed. “Because this world is already changing me. Every day I’m here, it’s like my head is getting rewired, learning new rules on the fly. Magic isn’t a static thing, not even close. It’s more like a language, and you only get fluent by immersion. I can’t learn that in a classroom or under a microscope. I have to be in it, up to my knees in the mud and blood and whatever else this city wants to throw at me.” There’s a heat crawling up my neck. I hate sounding this earnest. But hell, what’s the use of lying to a guy who can probably read my micro-expressions like a teleprompter?

I look back toward the window, letting the silence stretch again, and I’m just about to let this awkward moment die when the other half of my brain—the stubborn, hero-shaped piece that never learned to quit—kicks in. “That said…” I grit my teeth because I know what’s coming next, and I hate it already. “I can’t leave this world to die. Even if it’s not my home, even if it’s not my fight, I can’t just walk away. I could tell myself that I only care about getting home, but we both know that’s bullshit. I was raised better than that. Or maybe I just got infected with the same virus as Harry.” I gesture vaguely at him. “Whatever the reason, I want to help. Brockton Bay is… It’s a disaster. But it’s also the first place in this whole nightmare that feels like it actually needs me for more than just muscle. People here are desperate, angry, and one bad day away from tearing each other apart. I think I can make a difference here. Maybe not a big one, but—” I shrug, palms up, like that’s all there is to it. “It’s my kind of chaos.” Brockton felt like Chicago in a way, familiar without all the emotional baggage I’d have if I went to this world’s Chicago.

Legend finally moves. He doesn’t frown or sigh or give me the “I’m disappointed in you” dad routine that I half-expected. Instead, he gives me a look that’s equal parts respect and warning, like a fellow soldier who knows exactly how badly the next battle is going to fuck me up, but won’t stop me from wading in anyway. “I respect your choice,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “Brockton Bay is unstable, but it’s also the epicenter of change right now. If you want to hone your craft, there’s nowhere better—or more dangerous.” He stands, smooth and deliberate, like every muscle is calibrated for maximum efficiency. “Just know that what you’re walking into isn’t a proving ground. It’s a meat grinder. The city will eat you alive if you let it.” He hesitates, then adds, almost softly: “But if anyone can carve out something good from this hellhole, I’d put my money on you.” He flashes a smile, not the practiced, press-release kind, but the real thing, and then he’s gone—out the door, down the corridor, leaving nothing but the lingering echo of challenge in his wake. I sit for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain out. The quiet settles over me again, heavy and familiar. I almost laugh. This is what I wanted—a shot at making a difference, even if it costs me everything. Especially if it costs me everything. Brockton Bay, city of the damned, here I come.

I don’t know if I’ve just made the best call of my life, or the last one, but either way, I’m all in.

Chapter Text

School, the bane of any teenager's existence, and a fresh hell for someone who's already lived through worse. I'd spent the last year hunting monsters, negotiating with literal gods, and running errands that would make the ordinary high school guidance counselor faint straight through the floor. The idea of sitting at a desk, logging onto a district-issue Chromebook, and pretending that trigonometry was the most pressing crisis in my life felt offensive on a visceral level, like being handed a water pistol at the end of a gunfight. The irony was that I wasn't even technically a dropout; I'd just been busy. Sure, I'd missed the better part of a semester, but it's not like the world had stopped turning in my absence. I still remembered how to read, write, and do basic algebra, probably better than most of my peers who'd spent the last year on TikTok and anxiety meds.

The backpack slung over my shoulder was a joke—half filled with old textbooks I'd scavenged from the lost-and-found and the other half with magical bric-a-brac that I'd forgotten to take out. I couldn't remember the last time I'd packed a lunch. I doubted the vending machines on this side of campus could handle anything more complicated than a bag of pretzels, let alone the metabolic chaos my body put itself through after a major spellcasting event. The scowl on my lips was more for show than anything else, an act of hostility meant to keep the sharks at bay. Modern high schoolers could smell weakness, but they respected a certain flavor of madness. If you acted strange enough, they left you alone. If you looked like you might short-circuit the building, they avoided you entirely.

I slouched into the main office, let the fluorescent lights strobe across my face, and waited. The secretary—a middle-aged woman with hair so perfectly helmeted it might have been bulletproof—barely acknowledged me, just pointed at a row of molded plastic chairs. I picked the furthest one from the front desk, ignoring the way it creaked under my weight, and tried not to imagine all the other butts that had sat here before mine. There was a weird energy to the place—every school had one, but here it was sharper, almost electric. Perhaps it was the presence of parahumans in Brockton Bay. Maybe it was just my own nerves, frazzled from a year of near-constant adrenaline spikes and sociopolitical whiplash.

The appointment was with the guidance counselor—some new guy, according to the paperwork. I'd already forgotten his name, which was probably for the best. The PRT had insisted on this meeting, citing Youth Guard policy and the ever-present specter of CPS oversight. It was all about appearances, which was hilarious considering the number of capes who wore masks for a living. The idea was to integrate me back into "normal society," as if that hadn't been a lost cause the minute I burned down a vampire den at thirteen. You would think five months to graduation would be close enough that I could just skate by, but the system didn't work that way. Bureaucracy, like entropy, always finds a way.

I tapped my foot against the linoleum and tried not to let my thoughts spiral. The last time I'd been in a school office, it ended with the principal unconscious and three janitors calling in sick for a week. That was before my magic had really started acting up—before the incident at the amusement park and before I learned how to channel my aura instead of letting it bleed out in random bursts of static. The new power set came with a learning curve. After the first time I accidentally fried every phone in a ten-meter radius, I started keeping my hands in my pockets and my chin tucked down. It was better to look bored than dangerous.

The office was a shrine to mediocrity. Inspirational posters lined the walls, each one more desperate than the last. "Failure is a Stepping Stone to Success." "The Only Way Out is Through." I almost laughed, but it came out as a snort, which earned me a glare from the secretary. I pretended not to notice. I had mastered the art of selective hearing over the past year—a necessary defense mechanism when dealing with both mortals and immortals alike. I'd learned that skill from the very best, Harry fucking Dresden.

The funny part was, I'd met with one of the Youth Guard agents last week. The woman had all the warmth and charm of a broken vending machine. She'd looked at my file, looked at me, and immediately started talking down to me like I was some half-cooked orphan waif with a penchant for lighting small animals on fire. I could have vaporized her from the inside out, but instead I just smiled and let her talk. That was what society wanted, after all: quiet compliance. She patronized me, then handed me a stack of forms as thick as my forearm and told me to "work on my communication skills." If Armsmaster and Miss Militia hadn't been there to keep the peace, I might have done something regrettable. Instead, I just counted backward from a hundred and compartmentalized the rage. Though the thoughts of immolation certainly were appealing.

It wasn't even that I hated authority. I just hated being underestimated. My life experience could fill a book, and yet every bureaucrat in a cheap suit treated me like a wayward mall rat. Never mind the fact that I'd saved a city—twice—or that I could dismantle most of the math teachers in a debate about the practical applications of geometry in kinetic barriers. They saw the foster kid and the half-healed burns on my arms. They never saw the real me, and I didn't bother correcting them.

The chair next to mine was empty, but it still felt crowded. I'd gotten so used to having someone at my elbow—Mouse, or Butters, or even just a ghostly presence from the Nevernever—that the sudden isolation felt like a vacuum. I focused on the low hum of the ventilation system, letting the sound distract me as my aura settled into a dull ache behind my eyes.

The scowl on my face was now less performative and more existential. Five months. Five goddamn months. If I could just keep my shit together until then, I'd be a free agent, able to disappear into the world without having to answer to anyone. The promise of autonomy was the only thing keeping me from punching a hole through the drywall. I sucked in a breath, held it, and started counting in my head again. In, out. In, out. At least Miss Militia had made this feel like a training exercise, rather than a punishment. Maybe she figured that teaching me how not to short out every electronic in a twenty-foot radius was a skill worth having. She wasn't wrong; the situation was just exceedingly frustrating.

Miss Militia herself was an enigma. She'd tried to get closer, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe she saw something of herself in me—a fellow outsider, someone who didn't quite fit the mold. The rumor around the Protectorate was that she'd grown up in a war zone, which would explain her obsession with discipline and order. I respected that, even if I couldn't relate. My own childhood had been a chaos of a different flavor, but I'd learned to survive all the same.

My meeting had been mercifully brief, which was a blessing, because any longer and I'd have started chewing on the edge of his desk out of pure spite. The guy, Dr. Carmine, had the look of a man who'd seen the inside of too many self-help seminars and still ended up depressed. But he took one look at me, really looked, and didn't try to play the "I'm your buddy" routine. He asked if I was getting enough to eat, if I had a place to stay. I told him yes, and he believed me, not because I was a good liar, but because he was too tired for bullshit. He offered a few pointers on surviving senior year with minimal drama, handed over a stack of class syllabi stapled at the corner, and told me how to find his office if I ever needed to "decompress." The man even threw in a couple of his own recommendations for local coffee shops, which honestly felt more like a challenge than advice. I left with a new appreciation for the bureaucratic dead-enders of Brockton Bay; at least they had the decency to let me keep my dignity.

My schedule was one of those Kafkaesque nightmares only a public school could devise: four periods before lunch, each one more pointless than the last, followed by a rotating block of electives and study halls. I found my locker in a corridor that reeked of cheap disinfectant, dialed in the combination, and immediately discovered that the previous occupant had left behind a fossilized apple and a note reading "XOXO, Lacey." I considered eating the apple out of spite, but decided against it. Instead, I tucked my backpack inside and braced myself for the trudge to first period.

Trigonometry. I'd been told by multiple adults that math was the universal language, which must have made me an intergalactic diplomat because I could sleep through a lecture and still ace the pop quizzes. Mr. Miles, the teacher, had a voice like a sedated beagle and the patience of a man who'd stopped caring years ago. He introduced himself, then handed out a worksheet so insultingly basic I nearly laughed out loud. I completed it in under ten minutes and spent the rest of the class doodling spell circles in the margins, careful to keep them inert. The girl next to me—a goth type with purple streaks in her hair and a binder full of angsty poetry—peeked over at my paper and immediately started copying my answers. I didn't mind. If she could survive the horrors of public education, she deserved all the help she could get. Plus, she was cute, sue me.

Mr. Miles called on me once, asking if I could explain the Law of Sines, and I gave him the answer in Latin, just to see if he'd notice. He did, but only enough to make a note in his attendance sheet. He didn't ask me any more questions for the remainder of the hour. I got the sense he was quietly rooting for me to drop out, or at least transfer to some other teacher's problem set. The feeling was mutual.

Second period was Latin, which I'd picked as my foreign language for the same reason people climb Everest—because it was there, and because I could. The teacher, Ms. Dennison, was one of those tragic cases who had clearly fallen in love with the subject in college and then spent the rest of her life regretting it. She wore a cardigan with elbow patches and had the nervous energy of a ferret on Red Bull. Half the class was football jocks, the other half was freshmen trying to get an easy A, and both groups hated being there with equal intensity.

I took a seat near the back, but Ms. Dennison spotted me immediately. "You must be Mr. McClaine," she chirped, as if my reputation had preceded me. Maybe it had. She launched into a lecture about the origins of the tongue and promptly mispronounced at least three words in the first thirty seconds. I tried to let it go, really I did, but by the third "veni, vidi, vici" massacre, I couldn't take it anymore. I raised my hand.

"Yes, Xander?"

"Salve, Magistra," I said, using proper pronunciation. "Also, the plural of 'gladius' is 'gladii,' not 'gladiuses.' Sorry."

She froze for a second, her smile brittle, and then thanked me for the correction. The jocks in the front snickered, and I caught one of them mouthing "teacher's pet." I shot him a dead-eyed stare until he flinched and looked away. I had developed the knack for how to intimidate creatures far more dangerous than a high school meathead. Though perhaps I counted as one, given my build. The rest of class passed in an awkward haze, but at least she got the conjugations right after that.

Between classes, the hallways filled with the usual crush of bodies, each kid trying to pretend they weren't hanging by a thread. A couple of them gave me the side-eye, but nobody called me out. I noticed a few Wards-in-training— recognizable by their slightly-too-good posture and the way they traveled in cautious packs— watching me with a mix of curiosity and unease. I didn't blame them. Most of them probably had a dossier on me, or at least a cautionary tale. I didn't go out of my way to intimidate, but I didn't make myself approachable, either. It was a delicate balance. If you let people get too close, they start asking questions you couldn't answer.

Gym class was right before lunch, and as soon as I walked into the locker room, I could sense the pecking order before anyone even spoke. There were the usual cliques: jocks, stoners, and future gym teachers. But in Brockton Bay, you also had what were now my teammates.

The coach, a barrel-chested man with a whistle permanently fused to his lips, put us through the usual drills: laps, push-ups, then a round of dodgeball for "team building." I wasn't sure what kind of future society was being built with rubber balls and barely repressed aggression, but I played along. The coach split us into teams, and I found myself drafted alongside Carlos, Dennis, and the goth girl from trig. Our opponents were a pack of football players and one kid who looked like he'd been body-swapped with a gorilla.

First round, I hung back, dodging and weaving with minimal energy. By the third round, it became a point of pride to outmaneuver the other team without actually breaking a sweat. The Wards, eager to impress, ramped up their reaction times, occasionally letting little blips of power slip into their throws. I could have matched them—hell, I could have run rings around them— but I kept things strictly mortal, letting myself get hit a few times just to sell the act.

After the final whistle, the coach clapped me on the shoulder and told me I had "potential." I wasn't sure if he meant at sports or at being a general delinquent, but I took the compliment. The Wards looked at me with grudging respect, and the goth girl actually smiled. I'd take my victories where I could find them, and getting smiled at by a pretty girl was definitely one of them.

Lunch was held in a cafeteria that doubled as a fallout shelter, which was fitting, given the social radiation that permeated the place. I braced myself for the minefield of open seating, but was surprised to see Dean Gallant, in costume, waving me over from a corner table. He'd saved me a seat, flanked by his girlfriend, Dennis, and was that Panacea?

Dean was the kind of guy you wanted to hate, but couldn't. He was too earnest, too damn nice. People like that should have been illegal, or at the very least, heavily taxed. He introduced his girlfriend, who was every inch the beautiful and intimidating presence she appeared to be in the news. I'd seen her fight before; she'd once flipped a car onto a group of ABB toughs and then stayed behind to patch up the injured. She was, in short, a better person than I, which oddly made me feel less self-conscious.

Dean and I had a weird rapport. The first time we met, he tried a little amateur psychoanalysis, assuming my tragic backstory would make me want to bare my soul to the nearest listening ear. I shot that down immediately and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he tried to "fix" me, I'd rearrange his teeth. He took it in stride, and I respected that. Since then, we'd settled into a mutual understanding: he'd keep his therapy to himself, and I'd stop trying to make him uncomfortable with my gallows humor. It worked.

As soon as I sat down, Dean grinned and passed me an extra carton of chocolate milk. "You looked like you could use this," he said, not unkindly.

"Thanks," I replied, popping the top. "You ever think about how these things taste like liquefied regret?"

He laughed. "Better than what they served last year."

We made small talk, mostly about the new principal and how the lunch lady would squint at you if you tried to take seconds.

Amy stares at me through most of lunch. The first few times, I let it slide—maybe she's got some beef with me, or maybe she's just the kind who scans unfamiliar faces for threats like she's reading MRI films. But after the fifth or sixth time, it becomes this tap-tap-tap of her gaze pinging off my face, a Morse code of awkward scrutiny. Every time I look up from my tray, there she is, eyes pinched and analytical, as if she's dissecting my aura with some parahuman sixth sense I don't know about. I try to ignore it by focusing on my food, but that's like ignoring a mosquito bite by thinking about the theory of relativity.

A few bites of congealed macaroni and cheese later, and I'm clenching my plastic fork so hard it starts to bend. I can feel the collective tension at the table rise, everyone noticing the Amy/Xander staring contest and not knowing which side to bet on. Vicky keeps glancing between us like she's waiting for a catfight, and even Dean, whose emotional radar is usually set to "politely oblivious," starts to pick up on the growing weirdness. Dennis just keeps chewing, but even he's got that smirk that says he's clocked the drama and is waiting for the punchline.

Finally, I snap. Not in a stand-up-and-flip-the-table kind of way, but my mouth runs off without permission from my brain. "You know, Amy," I say, pitching my voice just above background noise, "most people go on a few dates before they can't take their eyes off someone. Just saying, I'm free this weekend." The words come out smooth, but my insides tie themselves into a double Windsor knot as the entire table goes dead silent.

Dean blinks. Vicky's eyebrows hit her hairline, and she lets out an incredulous bark of laughter, instantly recognizable as the Victoria-special: equal parts delight and disbelief. Dennis chokes on his pudding and has to thump his own chest to keep from dying. For half a heartbeat, I wonder if I've just detonated the lunch table equivalent of a nuclear bomb. Amy's face doesn't change; if anything, she looks more annoyed, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't spot the faintest flush of color creeping up her neck. In a room full of capes, awkwardness is apparently the deadliest superpower.

Vicky recovers first, slapping the table with her palm. "Damn, Xander! Go right for the heart, huh?" She's grinning like she's just witnessed the world's greatest own, and maybe she has. "Amy, I think you got called out."

Amy doesn't rise to the bait. She just stares a second longer, then cocks her head. "Your pupils are dilated," she says flatly, "and you haven't stopped scanning the exits since you sat down. You also have a residue of dried blood under your left fingernail. I was trying to figure out what you did during third period, but thanks for clarifying your priorities."

My brain flatlines for a second. Then I notice the tiniest curl at the edge of her mouth, and I realize—holy shit, she's got a sense of humor. It's so dry it could dehydrate a cactus, but it's there. Now I'm the one who's a little pink in the ears, and the table erupts into a chorus of "oooohs" and mock applause.

Dennis chimes in, "That's a burn, man. You need aloe for that?" He's openly delighted, and for a moment, I want to glue his hands to his own ass just to see if he can still make jokes that way.

Dean swoops in with his usual peacemaker routine. "He's not so bad, Amy. He just likes to keep things interesting." There's a twinkle in his eye, like he's enjoying the spectacle almost as much as Vicky.

"What can I say? Being the resident Wizard makes you a little paranoid."

The words drop like a penny in a well: a tiny, echoing ripple that everyone at the table pretends not to notice at first. But you can feel it, the way the air gets a little tighter. Vicky's face goes through a whole slideshow of confusion in the span of a blink—furrowed brow, pursed lips, a flash of suspicion, then back to wide-eyed and beautiful. Dennis, who has never met a secret he didn't want to blab, leans forward so hard his chin almost hits the table, his eyes bugging with the anticipation of a kid right before the magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. Even Dean, whose poker face could win medals, gives me a look: not angry, not scared, but warning me with all the subtlety of a car alarm that I need to reel it in.

Amy, though, doesn't even flinch. She just sits there, eyes narrowed to surgical slits, lips pressed into a line so thin it might disappear. I hold her gaze for half a second before she looks away, uninterested.

"You know, you're supposed to keep the secret identity a secret." Dean finally says it, voice low and just for our table, but with that particular inflection that means he's deadly serious. The guy couldn't threaten a pancake, but he's got Dad Energy down to a science.

I shrug, feeling all the eyes on me, but not really feeling much of anything else. "Everyone here is a hero. Vicky was going to figure it out anyway, and Amy—" I nod at her, "was there during my power testing."

Vicky's face shifts from confusion to amusement, like someone just sent her a particularly off-color meme. "Wait. You're a wizard? Like, poof, magic wand, turn people into frogs?"

Dennis snorts. "He's definitely not the robe-and-pointy-hat type, Vicks." And then, like he can't help himself: "Though if he ever wants to cosplay, I have a Gandalf wig at home."

I shoot Dennis a sidelong glare and, for good measure, imagine hexing his pudding cup so it tastes like gym socks for a week. "It's a little more complicated than that. But yeah, I do magic. The point is—" I gesture around the table, "—in this city, if someone wants to out you, they'll do it before your lunch gets cold. I'm not about to develop a secret identity now. Never needed one before."

The silence that follows is less awkward and more contemplative, as if everyone at the table is doing the math, recalibrating what it means to share pizza with a guy who could maybe, possibly, light you on fire with his brain. I see the moment Vicky decides she's fine with it—she's the type who'd rather fight beside a dragon than run from one. Dennis is already thinking up new ways to bust my balls. Amy just looks at me, then at her tray, then back to me, her eyes flickering with something I can't quite read.

Dean lets out a breath. "Just…be careful, all right?" He's back to his usual, earnest self. "You know how it is around here. Word gets out, and suddenly you have the entire city watching, waiting for you to trip up."

I puncture my carton of chocolate milk and suck it dry. "I'm not worried," I say, and it's almost true. "Worst they can do is what they've already tried."

Dennis grins. "With any luck, you'll get your own fan club. Maybe we can put you on a lunchbox: 'Xander McClaine, Teenage Wizard. Collect them all!

Vicky cackles. Even Amy has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

Dean shakes his head, but he's smiling, too. "Just don't blow up the school, okay?"

"It's not like I leveled it," I protest, raising my hands as if someone's about to cuff me. "It was one time. And it wasn't technically my fault."

Dean's jaw drops. "You blew up a school?" His voice is a stage whisper, but everyone from the next table over is definitely eavesdropping now.

I sigh, fully aware I've just given them bait for years. "Okay, so, first off: school is still standing. The gym caught fire, but that's as bad as it got. And I wasn't even the one who started it, not directly. If anything, it's a testament to the architectural integrity of the Chicago public school system that the rest of the building didn't go up. Honestly, if you're going to blame someone, blame the ghoul. Or the janitor for storing so many flammable cleaning products under the bleachers. Rookie move."

Dennis leans in, eyes shining. "Wait, a real ghoul? Like, eats corpses and all that shit?"

"Yeah, and not the polite, in-and-out-of-the-morgue type. This one decided the JV basketball team was all-you-can-eat buffet day," I say, and I can see Vicky's face morph from amusement to mild horror and back as she tries to decide whether I'm bullshitting. "So, I show up, do the whole incognito hero thing—cloak, hood, half-assed Latin incantation. Standard Tuesday. The plan was to hit it with a binding circle, but the damn thing was hopped up on blood and broke through like it was sidewalk chalk."

"Let me guess," Vicky says, grinning. "That's when the fire started?"

I shake my head. "No, that was actually Plan C. Plan B was to banish it straight through the gym wall, except the circle backfired when it hit the metal bleachers. Forgot iron messes with the spell matrix. So instead, it ricocheted and set the scoreboard on fire. Which, if you know anything about high school gyms, is basically a giant flammable advertisement for Pepsi with exposed wiring. That's when things got crispy."

Amy, who has been silent, finally speaks. "You used magic around fluorescent lights and a live PA system. That's incredibly reckless."

"There were children in danger," I say, not even bothering to hide my exasperation. "Look, everyone made it out okay. The ghoul got dusted, nobody died, and the worst injury was some second-degree burns on the vice principal. He was a jerk anyway." I take a breath, finding myself grinning at the memory despite the disaster. "Also, the insurance payout meant they got a new gym with a retractable roof. You're welcome, Chicago."

Dennis is practically vibrating. "You started a fire by banishing a blood-crazed ghoul through a gym wall? That is metal as hell. Tell me there's a video."

"Not unless you count the news crew that showed up after the fact. I spent the next two months doing community service, repainting fire exits, and attending mandatory counseling."

Vicky whistles. "That's the most on-brand story I've ever heard. You really do put the 'hazard' in 'wizard'."

Dean just shakes his head in mock defeat. "Please don't blow up this school, Xander. I like having a cafeteria."

"Promise. I'm all about non-destructive magic these days," I say, crossing my heart.

Amy gives me a sidelong glance, then mutters under her breath, "For now."

"Et tu, Amy?" I say, stabbing both hands over my heart like she'd just shanked me with a betrayal of the highest order. "You saw the power test. You know I have control. I even scored top marks in the 'not blowing up the observers' category."

Amy doesn't blink. She just levels me with a glare that could freeze nitrogen. "You can also fling fireballs that turn the ground to glass." Her tone is so dry it sounds like it belongs in a centrifuge. A hush spreads over the table; even Dennis, who's usually a one-man improv troupe, locks his jaw and leans in like he's about to witness a public execution. There's a twitch at the corner of Amy's lip—practically a cackle by her standards. I guess I've finally earned a spot in her 'barely tolerable' club.

Dean tries to defuse, but Vicky beats him to the punch. She claps her hands, wide-eyed, "Wait, you can really do that? Like, just—boom, molten glass sidewalk?"

I shrug, trying to act like it's no big deal, but inside, there's a little gremlin fist-pumping in celebration. "It's not as dramatic as it sounds. Takes a ton of energy, and it's hell on the shoes. But yeah, if you need an emergency runway, I'm your guy."

Dennis whoops, "Dude, if I could do that, I'd never walk anywhere again, just ride around on glass slides all day."

Vicky snorts, "Please, you'd use it to cook hot dogs during gym. I know you."

There's a ripple of laughter—genuine this time, not just the forced social lubricant of anxious teenagers. Even Amy manages a half-smile, which is basically a standing ovation coming from her. Dean looks between us like he's still not sure if he should be worried or relieved.

Dennis, never one to leave a bit un-milked, picks up his pudding cup and holds it out like he's making a toast. "Here's to Xander, the only guy who could turn dodgeball into a war crime."

Vicky raises her milk carton in solidarity. "Long may his sneakers melt!"

Dean rolls his eyes, but he's smiling now, too. "Just don't get any ideas during Science class, okay?"

I bow in my seat, giving the table my best magician's flourish. "No promises," I say, and soak in the applause—even Amy's reluctant, polite golf-clap.

It's weird how I can forget about the magic and mayhem for five minutes and just…exist. No monsters at the door, no secret world to police, no looming threats from the wizard mafia or the city's entire collective of superpowered assholes. Just shitty food, cafeteria table banter, and the familiar, slightly sticky feel of a lunch tray under my elbows. I can almost pretend I'm normal—just some random high schooler who worries about pop quizzes and whether the gym showers will ever have hot water again.

There's a feeling in my chest—light, flickering, almost fragile. It's not happiness, but it's close enough that if you squint, you could mistake one for the other. I latch onto it, let it settle, because I know it won't last. Not for me, not in this city. But for now, surrounded by friends who are weird in their own ways, who get me without needing an instruction manual, I can actually breathe. For a second, I almost believe I'm just one of them, a regular kid with regular problems.

I catch Dennis watching me, expectant, like he's hoping for another story or maybe just waiting to see if I'll do something stupid with my powers. Vicky, on the other hand, is clearly plotting something. Even Amy, frosty exterior and all, seems marginally less likely to stab me with a spork than she did at the start of lunch. Dean's already gathering his trash, ready to herd us to the next period before any of us can get into trouble.

This is what I fought for, right? Not the praise or the headlines, but these dumb, precious moments where I'm not the wizard, or the orphan, or the experiment—just Xander. For once, it's enough.

But the universe hates leaving me unsupervised.

Because right then, the PA speaker crackles and a teacher's voice rasps across the room: "Alexander McClaine, please report to the main office immediately." Son of a bitch.

Chapter Text

I approached the principal's office with a weird cocktail of dread and curiosity curdling in my gut. The last time I'd been summoned to an authority figure's office, it was for setting off a chemical smoke bomb in chem lab—a happy little episode that got me a week of detention and a stern lecture about "potential." If I'd thought this was that kind of summoning, I might have braced myself for the usual—tight-lipped bureaucratic disappointment, the slow-motion head shake, maybe even a thinly disguised threat about "future opportunities."

Needless to say, I was a little on edge. My mind raced through the possible reasons for a post-mayhem meeting. Had the school decided to expel me for creative property damage? Was Armsmaster here to slap on a tracking anklet and send me to a Ward boot camp? Did the PRT have a juvenile division of Guantanamo waiting for unrepentant wizard teens? I replayed the last few hours in my head, searching for the moment I'd gone off script and broken a law I didn't know existed. The way my luck worked, I'd probably violated the Geneva Convention and would have to testify in The Hague.

I tried to play it cool, but there's only so much bravado you can muster when you're wearing a borrowed t-shirt. The school's administrative corridor was pristine and oppressively quiet, lined with inspirational posters about teamwork and integrity that looked like they'd been designed by someone who had never experienced either. Every step brought me closer to the office door, and every step made me wonder if I should just bail and become a teen vigilante living off ramen and spite.

I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked like a man about to be drafted. The door opened immediately, as if the people inside had been waiting for me the whole time. Inside, the principal sat behind the desk, posture rigid, expression neutral. She nodded at me with the practiced sympathy of someone who'd seen it all and still managed to care. The real surprise, though, was the man standing to the side, his PRT windbreaker spotless, his jawline weaponized, his eyes hidden by dark wraparound sunglasses. He looked like he ate protocol for breakfast and shat out official reprimands before noon.

"Xander McClaine," he said, voice flat and authoritative. "I'm Agent Thornhill."

"Okay, okay, let me get out in front of this one," I say, raising my hands, palms up like I'm surrendering to the gods of authority. "We've got something spooky on deck and the mighty Beard has issued a summons for my wizardly assistance." I cock an eyebrow at Agent Thornhill, just to see if he'll crack a smile or at least twitch.

I shoot the principal a look, trying to gauge whether she's in on the show or just an unlucky bystander. Judging by the way she's shrunk into her seat, it's the latter. Thornhill doesn't bother to confirm or deny, just gives a sharp nod that's probably taught in some government training manual. The man's an absolute unit of bureaucracy.

"Come on," I say, gesturing to the open door with all the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. "Let's make it quick—I get to skip chemistry, so this is already a net win for me." I stand up before either of them can respond, rolling my shoulders and trying not to look as relieved as I feel.

Thornhill is already striding for the hallway, his posture so stiff he could have a titanium rod for a spine. I half expect him to bark out a "ten-hut!" as we pass the secretary's desk. I fall in behind him, tossing a lazy salute to the principal as I go. She gives me a look that lands halfway between "good luck" and "don't come back."

"You know," I say, "if this is about the gym, I maintain that fire was an act of God. Or, you know, a science experiment gone wrong. I can't be held responsible for the laws of chemistry." I try on a grin, but Thornhill's sunglasses are as impenetrable as his sense of humor.

He doesn't bother with small talk. We cut through the maze of hallways, past locked classrooms and empty trophy displays. The building still hums with the echoes of a normal school day, but there's something weird about walking through it like you're being escorted to a secret government lair for debriefing. Maybe that's just my brain dramatizing things. Or maybe I've watched too many movies.

"Are we heading to the parking lot, or is this one of those times where you pull me into a janitor's closet because something's lurking in the mop bucket?" I ask, only half joking. Thornhill's jaw flexes, but that's the closest thing I get to a reaction.

He takes a hard left and I follow, curiosity warring with the urge to keep wise-cracking. I want to ask what the hell is so urgent, but I know better than to start the Q&A before the agent gives his opening statement. Besides, the suspense is almost fun. Almost.

We finally hit the exit doors, sunlight flooding in like it's trying to purify the place. Thornhill pauses just long enough to scan the perimeter. I get the sense he's less worried about me making a run for it and more about whatever's waiting for us out there. "You'll be briefed on the way," he says, finally breaking the silence. "We have a situation that requires your… expertise."

"Always happy to lend a hand," I shoot back, as we step out into the midday glare. The air outside feels different, charged, like the city knows something big is about to go down. Maybe it's just me projecting. Maybe it's something else.

He leads the way to a black government sedan—because of course—and I slide into the passenger seat, already bracing for whatever fresh hell is waiting for me at the next stop.

No sooner do I buckle up than another agent, who'd been lurking in the shadows of the back seat with the stoicism of someone who's learned to nap with their eyes open, leans forward and plops a manila folder in my lap. "Armsmaster had this printed for you to review," he says, the words clipped and perfunctory, like they'd taste bad if he held them in his mouth too long.

I flip the folder open, getting a whiff of fresh toner and recycled paper. The cover sheet has my name in bold caps, underlined twice, like I'm the headline act in a circus no one wanted tickets to. The next few pages are a mess of incident reports, security camera stills, and a biohazard-orange form stamped URGENT in the corner so aggressively that the ink bled through to the backside. I thumb through the paperwork, looking for the juicy bits, because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that official documentation only gets interesting when someone's fucked up big.

I sink into the car seat and flip to the first page of the report like I'm expecting a pop quiz. The first image slaps me in the face—a grainy, color-saturated photo of a girl's body sprawled on the worn linoleum of a church basement. Blood everywhere. Not random, not a crime of passion, but deliberate. The patterns call out to me, even through the cheap printer ink: lines and runes drawn in arterial red, looping around the body like a deranged Etch-a-Sketch.

The next sheet is a witness interview transcript. A janitor found her, says he "heard chanting and then nothing but silence." There's a time stamp, a blocky name, and a statement from the responding officers: *victim was surrounded by candles and animal bones, but the site was otherwise undisturbed.* The photos confirm it—the floor is clean except for the gruesome centerpiece.

My gut tells me it's not a random act of violence. It's too staged, too loaded with significance only a few would recognize. This wasn't a murder; it was a performance, a message. But the specifics? They don't line up with anything I've read or seen, and that's saying something.

"You guys call in the big guns because this is some tough work." I don't wait for Thornhill or the backseat agent to answer. Half of this job is showing you already know what you're doing, and I'm not about to give them the satisfaction of thinking I'm just a high school kid who stumbled into this by luck.

"This is a ritual sacrifice," I say, tapping a finger on the photo, "but the presentation is all wrong. If you were expecting a standard-issue summoning, you'd see salt, iron, maybe some classical symbology. Here, the circles are crooked and the runes are—" I squint. "Not even real runes. These are imitations, like someone tried to copy out of a low-rent occult website and half-assed the translation."

I thumb to a second set of crime scene photos, this time from a city park on the other side of town. Same M.O.—body, blood, attempts at ritual markings, but now with a different flavor. The symbols look more mathematical, almost geometric, and there's a pattern of pennies lined up along the body's arm like some kind of weird modern art installation.

"See, this isn't the work of a real practitioner. Amateur hour, if you ask me. But someone's trying to get attention, and they've got just enough knowledge to be dangerous." I shoot Thornhill a look over the manila folder. "Let me guess, every expert you called in has a different theory and none of them want to sign off on a cause of death?"

He gives the barest nod. "And the press is already asking if it's a serial killer. Or a new parahuman. Or both."

I close the folder, lean back, and crack my neck. "Well, you got the right guy. But I'll need the full scene—photos, evidence, even the witness interviews you didn't print. There's something off about the pattern, and I want to see if the victims connect. There's always a link, even if it's just the same barista at a coffee shop."

From the back seat, the second agent finally shows signs of life. "Armsmaster is at the scene. We're heading there now," he intones, projecting the same level of enthusiasm as a customer service rep reciting company policy. His badge, clipped to the breast pocket of a crisp blue shirt, practically glows in the sunlight. There's a silent agreement among all three of us that this ride won't feature any sing-alongs or small talk.

Thornhill merges into traffic like a man personally offended by hesitation, and we make a beeline for the city's less-charming side. The sedan glides through Brockton's bumpy grid, passing clusters of shuttered storefronts and freshly tagged graffiti.

The silence lasts a solid five minutes, broken only by the hiss of air conditioning and the surveillance-grade whir of the sedan's dashcam. I spend the time flipping back through the folder. The second crime scene photos, especially, bug me; there's a deliberate carelessness to the symbols, like someone wanted them to be seen and misinterpreted. This isn't a cover-up; it's a misdirection. I can appreciate the logic, even as it pisses me off.

We hit a red light, and Thornhill drums the steering wheel with the patience of a man who's never been stuck in traffic before. I use the lull to review the timeline on the reports. The murders are spaced too close together for a lone wolf, unless the killer's on some kind of high-octane spree or has a backup. I mentally bookmark that for later.

The sedan accelerates again, and I realize we're heading downtown, toward the river. "Scene's at St. Ignatius, right?" I ask, flipping the folder open to the address.

Thornhill nods, eyes locked on the road. "There's a press perimeter. You'll be badged through."

"Perfect," I say. "After we do the walk-through, I want to hit the morgue." I shoot a look over my shoulder at the backseat agent. "If we can get ahead of the killer's timeline, we might be able to predict the next target instead of mopping up after."

The car goes quiet again, but this time it's a silence charged with possibility. I can feel the thread of the case pulling me forward, unwinding one ritual at a time.

I don't realize we've stopped until Thornhill yanks open my door and gives me the "out" nod. The neighborhood around St. Ignatius is a mess of news vans, rubberneckers, and enough police tape to gift-wrap an entire block. The press cordon looks more like a cage match between hungry reporters and bored uniforms. As soon as I step out, the collective gaze of every camera lens and eyeball swings my way. Followed soon by the collective, pop, pop, pop, the electronics frying out. For a second, I think about throwing up a peace sign. I settle for shoving my hands in my pockets and feigning nonchalance.

Thornhill leads the way, acting as both guide dog and human shield. We thread through the sidewalk chaos, ducking past a guy with a boom mic and a woman in a pantsuit who's already halfway through a live segment about "a grisly new development in the ongoing ritual murders." The microphones jab at our faces like hungry snakes. A few reporters clock me as the oddity of the group—too young, too civilian, too not-stone-faced for this crowd—and I hear my name, "McClaine," hissed in a dozen variations as we pass. I don't break stride, but I clock every face that looks at me like I'm a sideshow.

Brockton PD's finest man the barricade. They're clearly under strict orders not to let the media circus get any closer, and also to keep the actual civilians away from the gore inside. Thornhill flashes his badge, and with a look of practiced indifference, the sergeant opens the line just wide enough for us to slip through.

The air past the tape is weirdly still. The church itself is an ugly brick rectangle, but right now the whole thing is lit up in red and blue from cruiser lights and the reflection off a dozen news drones hovering overhead. An ambulance idles at the curb—no hurry, no siren, because the victim is way past saving.

Inside the main foyer, a city detective greets us with a look that says he'd rather be anywhere else.

He grunts, then leads us down a side hall reeking of bleach and old incense. There are already markings on the floor—white chalk and something darker, maybe blood, maybe paint—trailing toward the basement steps. The detective leaves us at a doorway guarded by a pair of stone-faced PRT officers.

Down in the basement, the church's rec room is a horror show. Plastic sheeting covers the floor, but only as a half-assed afterthought; it does nothing to hide the iron-rich tang in the air. The body is gone, but the outlines remain: lines and loops, candles burned down to nubs, the ghost of a ritual frozen in the stink of chemicals and old stone. Forensics techs hover over every inch, bagging and tagging.

Standing in the center of the chaos, perfectly motionless, is Armsmaster. He's already gloved up and elbows deep in the case, examining the scene with the intensity of someone who could recite the atomic number of every element in the bleach mixture they're using.

He clocks me instantly, and I catch the briefest flicker of either annoyance or relief—hard to tell, with him. I stop at the edge of the sheeting and wait, because the man's a legend and you don't interrupt legends at work unless you want to get dissected.

He doesn't make me wait long. "McClaine," he says, voice clipped and efficient, "walk me through it."

I take a shallow breath, not wanting to inhale more corpse stank than absolutely necessary, and step onto the plastic. The evidence markers are everywhere, yellow and black checkered like caution tape's overachieving cousin. "Victim was definitely killed on site. Too much blood pooled for a move-and-dump. You'd need an IV drip and an industrial mop to fake this." I crouch next to one of the crumpled wax stubs, careful not to disturb a thing. "Whoever did this needed the fear, or the terror, or the pain even, to fuel their ritual. That's a classic emotional battery. But the rest doesn't fit."

I scan the perimeter. The lines on the floor aren't even circles—they wobble, like they were painted by someone drunk or desperate. Someone who didn't have time to practice, or who didn't care about the details. That doesn't gel with how precise these rituals usually have to be.

I glance up at Armsmaster as I make a slow circuit around the bloodstain. "This is me assuming this is someone actually attempting a ritual," I clarify, in case he's already about to call bullshit. "If it's just a psycho with a taste for the theatrical, they're cribbing notes from the wrong sources. But my gut says someone's trying to make something happen here. Even if they have no clue how."

He's watching with the kind of focus that suggests he's already run three thousand mental simulations and doesn't like any of them. "Explain."

"Magic has rules," I say, "and a lot of them start with intent. But it's not just belief—these circles, the symbols, they're wrong. Deliberate, maybe, but wrong." I tap a gloved finger on the photo from the folder, lining it up with the actual mess on the floor. "These marks look a lot like classical Hermetic, but if you trace them, they dead-end. They're not for channeling energy. They're for show."

Armsmaster looks at the marks, then at me. "Staging?"

"If it's staged, it's staged by a moron or by someone who knows just as much or more than me." I pause and give the man a long look. I didn't have to say how badly it would be if there was someone like me doing ritual murders."

The forensics guys are giving me nervous side-eye from behind their face shields, but I'm used to that. I trail a finger through the air above the blood, close my eyes, and focus, just in case. Sometimes, if you're lucky—and the universe wants to mess with you—you can still feel a residue, a charge, something left behind.

Nothing. Not even a tingle.

"Well, that's interesting," I mutter. "No aftertaste. If this was a genuine working, there'd be a flavor—static, ozone, maybe even something nastier. But I'm not getting a thing. It's like the magic failed, or never got off the ground."

Armsmaster doesn't blink. "And if it's the former?"

I straighten, stretching my back. "Then whoever did this is going to try again. They're not going to stop at one failure. The escalation makes sense, they attempt and see how far they get. Rinse and repeat until you find what you're looking for. Old school trial and error, it's how all new applications of magic are created."

He nods, the gears spinning behind his eyes. "Continue."

I turn back to the whiteboard of a crime scene. "If I had to guess, the killer either wants to pull something through, or they're using the murders as a distraction. Maybe both. The big tells are the victim choice and the public display. Ritual killers usually hide their work. This one wants an audience."

Armsmaster folds his arms. "You've seen similar?"

"Heard of," I admit. "But never this…sloppy. Or this intent on being caught." I thumb the edge of the next evidence photo, eyes narrowing at the shot of the victim's hands. "She's holding something. Looks like she fought. The killer wanted something from her, or needed her alive for the main event."

I walk the scene again, mentally replaying every ritual I've ever read about, every botched summoning or sacrifice gone sideways. "This looks like a desperate copycat, or someone trying to send a message to people like me. But the second site—those geometric patterns, the pennies—it's a completely different flavor. If it's the same killer, they're adapting. Fast."

Armsmaster's lips twitch, the closest he gets to a frown. "Possibility of multiple actors?"

"Possible, but I don't buy it. This feels like one person learning on the fly. Or improvising because they're on a deadline." I motion to the broken circle on the floor. "See this? That's a classic mistake. If you break the perimeter, nothing gets contained. Which means either the killer doesn't care, or they want whatever they're calling to break loose."

I finally look up, meeting Armsmaster's gaze. "Either way, we're dealing with someone who's either totally deluded, or knows exactly what they're doing and wants to pretend they don't."

Silence for a beat. Then, from behind me, Thornhill clears his throat. "We pulled traffic cams and building feeds. The victim entered alone, but left with company—about two minutes before the murder time stamp."

That makes me freeze. "So the killer walked her out after?"

"No," Thornhill says. "They both left, but only one came back. The victim."

I absorb that, and the pieces start grinding in my head. "So she was brought here, left, and then returned to die?"

It doesn't make sense at first, not even a little, but then something in my brain lights up like a blown transformer. I clamp a hand over my mouth, but the words leak out anyway: "She didn't come back alone." I say it again, more to myself than the room, and the air suddenly tastes colder, thinner, like someone just cranked the existential AC. "Whatever the guy is, whatever he's summoning—those things followed her back. She brought one home. Or…" I hesitate, thinking about every case file, every horror story whispered at three a.m. over too much coffee and too little sleep. "It hitched a ride. There are a lot of nasty things in the Nevernever that don't show up on security feeds."

Armsmaster's head snaps up, the helmet lenses narrowing as if he's zooming in on my soul. "You're saying she was shadowed. Possessed?"

"Yes and no," I say, digging deep. "The Nevernever isn't just ghosts and goblins. Some things there are… hungry, but smart. Sometimes a summoning isn't about dragging something here by force. Sometimes all you have to do is poke a hole, and whatever's closest slithers through. It finds the nearest living thing—latches on, rides it. Most don't last. But the strong ones, the old ones, they can piggyback for miles." I gesture to the bloody mess on the floor. "So whatever he tried to bring through, it followed her out. Came back with her, maybe even made her come back."

Thornhill's eyes are on me, wary. "You're saying our killer isn't alone."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. He might not even know what he's dealing with. Either he's got a leash on this thing, or it's a complete wild card." My brain's racing, piecing together the video footage, the timelines, the lack of direct evidence. "It might not even show up on video. Or maybe it's using her, like a puppet, to finish whatever started here. That's why the ritual circles are wrong—it's not about the process, it's about making a scene, making a marker for something else to find her."

Armsmaster takes it all in, tense as rebar. "You think she was under external control."

"If you want to call it that, sure. But we're not talking hypnosis or drugs, we're talking about an entity. A hitchhiker. You won't see it unless you know what to look for, and even then it's like staring at static until it's too late." I look back at the chaos—candles, chalk, blood—and feel the prickle of something very old, very patient, watching through the cracks.

"Assume it's still out there," I say. "Assume he's going to keep trying. But also"—I pause, feeling the weight of it settle—"assume she's not the last. Or that whatever came through with her is still hungry."

Thornhill's face has gone pale, but his voice holds. "What do we do?"

I think about it for a long, grim second. "We find the next target before the killer does. And we pray there's only one hitchhiker."

Armsmaster doesn't blink. "You're coming with me. You'll help ID the next scene before it happens."

I nod and do my best not to look at the blood again. "Yeah. Because if we don't, this city's going to be crawling with things that don't even have names yet."

Chapter Text

When we show up, the coroner’s van is pulling away, bright headlights raking across the alley and illuminating the spatter on the far wall. They haven't had time to clean up yet; the blood is as fresh as the morning dew. Yellow tape cordons off the entrance, and the few uniforms on-scene seem relieved to pass the torch to someone who won’t puke on their shiny boots.

I duck under the tape, stepping gingerly over the puddle of something that used to be someone’s liver. The crime scene techs are still at it, snapping photos and dusting for prints that will never, ever match to anyone on file. Magic kills have a way of making themselves untraceable, and this is textbook. The sigils and runes are more intricate here, less crude than the last killing, as if the artist has been practicing between jobs. I make a mental note to check the time intervals—see if we’re looking at a serial escalation or just a particularly enthusiastic amateur.

I get down on one knee, examining the chalk lines drawn around the locus of the body. The runes are almost perfect, and the thaumaturgic residue practically hums in the air—like ozone, but more aggressive, scraping against my teeth and making the hair on my arms stand up. Whoever this is, they're not just getting better; they're adapting to the forensic countermeasures as fast as we can invent them.

I make a circuit of the alley, talking to myself as I walk. “Entry wound here, blood spatter’s all forward. Killer was facing the vic, did this up close—personal. No defensive wounds, suggests the victim was either restrained or trusting. Maybe both.” I glance at the wall, where a smear of rust-colored blood suggests the killer leaned their victim up before starting work. “They’re getting confident.”

Thornhill stands just inside the tape line, arms crossed and chewing on his lip. “You see something we missed, McClaine?”

“More like something you couldn't see,” I reply, gesturing with my pen at the runic lattice crawling up the dumpster. “Thaumaturgic signature is almost spot-on. Last time it was all jagged and random, like the killer was improvising. This time, they nearly got it right. That’s not good.”

He grunts. “Means they're learning.”

“Exactly. Next time, they might get it perfect. And if that happens…” I let the implication hang in the air, heavy and sour.

“Time of death?” I ask, looking at the crime scene tech with the least amount of blood on his shoes.

He checks his notes. “Coroner’s not back with the post yet. But based on lividity and temp, we’re saying between midnight and three.”

“Matches the ritual timing,” I say, mostly for my own benefit. I know the flavor of this magic. I’ve used it. Not exactly like this, but close enough. It’s Black Court stuff, the kind of blood sorcery that would make even a Red Court vampire vomit. “We need the full autopsy, but my money's on exsanguination.”

Thornhill scribbles something in his own notebook. “You think it’s the same perp as last time?”

I nod. “It’s not just the similarities. It’s the progression. Whoever this is, they’re not just repeating the murder—they’re perfecting it. Which means they’re going to keep doing it, and they’re going to get it right sooner rather than later.” I pause. “And when they do, I don’t think we’ll be able to stop them with regular police work.”

Armsmaster, who’s been looming behind us the whole time, finally decides to chime in. “You said the sigils are improving. Is there any chance the killer is working with a mentor, or is this pure trial and error?”

I scan the alley, then the rooftops above, as if half-expecting to catch a glimpse of the killer watching us. “No, this is solo work. The mistakes are unique, personal. If they had a teacher, they’d skip these steps and go straight to competent. But they’re learning at a rate that’s…unnatural.”

Armsmaster considers this, visor whirring. “Could it be a parahuman power interfering with the magical pattern?”

“Possible,” I admit, “but the interference isn’t random. It’s targeted. If anything, the killer is using their power to enhance their learning curve, not just brute-force the ritual.” I lean against the cool brick, letting the weight of the implication settle in.

“What’s the end goal, then?” Thornhill asks, his voice tight. “If they keep getting better, what happens when they’re perfect?”

I swallow the answer, because it tastes like burnt copper and regret. “Best case? They open a gate. Worst case, we’re about to see thousands of bodies come up. You can do some real nasty work with human sacrifices.”

The silence hangs between us, taut and electric.

“Great,” Thornhill mutters. “So we’re on a clock.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And it’s ticking faster every time.”

We’re halfway back to the car when I catch a glimmer—just a tiny, iridescent smear—on a shard of broken glass lying in the gutter. I crouch, frowning, and pick it up with a gloved hand. The residue is faint but unmistakable, like someone used the glass as a focus or a lens.

I’m about to toss it into the trunk with the rest of the evidence when Thornhill stops me. “What is it?”

“Nothing yet,” I say, “but it might be a clue to how the killer is accelerating this fast.”

He frowns, skeptical. “You think they’re using tech?”

I shrug. “Or maybe the tech is using them.” I glance up at the sky, where the sunrise is just beginning to burn the city’s edges gold. “Either way, we need to get ahead of this one before they get ahead of us.”

Armsmaster is already halfway to the transport, his voice low as he calls in the update. Thornhill hesitates, then follows. The crime scene is already being repainted by the city’s morning noises—garbage trucks, crows, the distant wail of a siren that might or might not be for us.

I look at the glass shard one more time before closing the evidence bag. Whatever comes next, it won’t be pretty.

I turn to Thornhill, “I need a full grid map of Brockton Bay, every street, alley, and sewer line, especially the old city foundations. Can you get me one?”

He squints at me like I’ve just asked for the blueprints to the Batcave. “I mean, yeah, I could pull one from the city server, but what’s the angle? You think the killer’s got a favorite street corner?” Armsmaster doesn’t say anything—guy never does when something’s gnawing at his brain—but the subtle uptick in his helmet’s visor says he’s processing it on three different subroutines.

“It’s not the streets,” I tell them. “It’s what’s under them. Both vics so far died on top of major leylines. That’s not an accident. If we can figure out the geometry, we might just predict where the next one is scheduled.”

Thornhill raises a skeptical eyebrow, like I’ve just started quoting horoscopes. “Leylines? You mean those new-age hippie things?”

I grin, maybe a little too hard. “You ever see a hippie rip someone’s heart out with thaumaturgy that would’ve made Rasputin cry for his mom? These aren’t folk tales. Magic works on rules, even if we don’t like the rules.”

Thornhill shakes his head and fumbles out his phone, already calling dispatch to requisition the city grid. “You two realize I’m going to get roasted in the squadroom for this, right? ‘Hey, guys, the PRT is mapping the city’s magic veins.’ I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Armsmaster’s voice box finally clicks on. “It’s not without precedent. According to the PRT files, several mass-casualty events have coincided with disturbances in latent geomantic energy. If the killer is deliberately exploiting these, it would explain the escalation.”

“See?” I say, thumbing at Armsmaster. “Even the man in blue agrees with me.”

Thornhill doesn’t dignify that with a response, just starts tapping his phone with enough force to shatter a screen protector. I can’t help it—I love it when the old guard gets rattled. It means we’re onto something spicy.

“Even if that’s true,” Thornhill mutters, “how do you triangulate the next target? The city’s probably got a dozen of those magic hot-spots.”

I snap my fingers. “Exactly. But you can’t just pick any point. You need three, minimum, to build a working triangle. Maybe more, if you factor in arcane harmonics. The killer’s moving in a pattern—if I can get the map, I can plot it.”

Armsmaster’s visor flashes again. “I have a city schematic in my onboard archives. I’m currently running analytical variance according to known geothermal hotspots.”

While Armsmaster fidgets with his wrist console, Thornhill tries to play catch-up. “So you’re saying this whole thing is some kind of ritual, mapped out in advance?”

“Not mapped. Engineered,” I explain. “With each murder, the killer is building toward something. The sigils, the timing, the site selection—it’s a circuit, and the last node is going to be a doozy.”

“Let me work the math,” I say, more to myself than the others. “There’s always a tell—the really dedicated blood mages can’t help but leave a calling card. Just give me fifteen minutes, and I can tell you which site is next on the hit list. Once I have that map.”

Thornhill looks at me, a new respect edging into his skepticism. “For your sake, I hope you’re right. Otherwise, we’re going to be very busy, very soon.”

Thornhill trudges off, muttering darkly about bureaucracy and “damn magic cases,” but he doesn’t even get ten feet before I’m already hunched over the runes again, mind racing in overtime. The stench of burning ozone, copper blood, and hot garbage tickles my nose, but I ignore it. I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve smelled worse—try spending a week chasing ghouls through a Chicago slaughterhouse sometime. You learn to compartmentalize.

I speak up, mostly to keep my brain from looping: “There’s still something that isn’t sitting right with me.” I glance up at Armsmaster, whose helmet is canted at just the right angle to communicate skepticism, boredom, and mild condescension all at once. “Why would whatever creature is helping our killer do things this specific way? A lot of the nastier Nevernever types can’t think past their next meal—they’d just chow down and leave, not get artsy with the murder scene. This? This is deliberate.” He doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s waiting for me to actually say something useful, which is fair, since most of what comes out of my mouth is at least fifty percent sarcasm.

I crouch down and study the chalk work again. “Look here,” I say, pointing to a set of runes scrawled just left of the victim’s chest cavity. “This is a Nordic rune—see the crossbars and the staves?—but everything else is off the Hermetic grid. There’s no reason to mix systems like that. It’s like building a computer out of Legos and then jamming in a car engine for fun. It shouldn’t work.”

Armsmaster’s visor whirs, probably zooming in to see what I’m pointing at. “Could it be a mistake?”

I shake my head, hair falling into my eyes. “Mistakes don’t leave that much residue. This was intentional—a hybridization, or maybe an overlay. It’s risky as hell. Usually, you blow off a few fingers, if you’re lucky.”

He processes that in silence. I keep talking, hoping to find the thread that’s itching at me. “So why do it? Why risk total spell collapse unless you’re trying to achieve a result that neither system could handle alone?”

I pace, restless, boots crunching over broken glass and drying blood. “The way I see it, the killer’s either desperate or crazy—or maybe just smarter than we are. Either way, it means they’re building toward something that needs this kind of precision.”

Armsmaster finally speaks up, voice metallic and weirdly soothing. “Do you have any idea what the result would be if both systems were successfully combined?”

I think for a second. “If you could stabilize the overlap? You’d get exponential power with none of the normal failsafes. And you could—hypothetically—twist reality in ways no single discipline could manage. The last time someone tried this was in Berlin, 1923. The city burned for three days, and half the occult underground vanished overnight.”

Thornhill’s back by now, holding a city map that looks like it was last updated during the Eisenhower administration. “This what you wanted?” he asks, holding it out warily, like it might bite him.

“Perfect,” I say, and spread it out on the hood of Armsmaster’s ride, tracing the murder sites with a sharpie. “See these two points? They’re on opposite sides of the city’s main leyline. If I’m right, the next one’s going to be…” I do some quick geometry in my head and jab my finger at an intersection near the docks. “Here.”

Thornhill frowns. “That’s a condemned hospital. Place has been empty for years.”

I grin. “Nothing says ‘ritual murder’ like a hospital full of ghosts and bad memories.”

Armsmaster nods once, already plotting a route. “We can have a team there in twenty minutes.”

“Send them,” I say, “but keep them back until I get there. If our perp’s building something this volatile, you don’t want a bunch of PRT agents barging in and lighting the fuse by accident.”

Thornhill bristles at being benched, but Armsmaster—no hesitation, zero ego—just lifts a finger to his helmet and taps the comm. "Console, this is Armsmaster. Initiate rapid response. Deploy Assault, Battery, and Velocity to my location. Potential parahuman threat, suspected of multiple homicides and currently escalating toward ritual mass casualty. The likelihood of civilian hostages is high. Standby for coordinates." He doesn’t look at me while he rattles off the orders, but the silent communication is clear: stay sharp, don’t get sentimental, and try not to get anyone killed. The comms squawk for a second, then a second voice comes through, tinny and barely controlled: “Copy, Armsmaster. ETA seven minutes for ground team, Velocity on-site in ninety seconds. Uploading building schematics to your wrist HUD.”

Thornhill makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. "So, what, we're just going to wait for the capes to show up and hope they don't pancake the whole block?"

I smirk. "It's a condemned hospital, Thornhill. Worst-case scenario, they bring it down. Silver lining: one less haunted asylum in the city."

He gives me a look like he wants to deck me, but the real punchline is the sudden BLAM of air displacement as Velocity appears, skidding to a stop in the middle of the empty street, face obscured by that white mask with the lightning bolt visor. He’s wearing a new suit, one that looks like Nike and NASA had a fever dream together. He clocks Armsmaster instantly, then me, then Thornhill, in the time it takes most people to blink.

“Situation?” Velocity asks, voice already impatient.

Armsmaster doesn’t waste time. “Suspect is a possible parahuman with ritualistic tendencies. Two victims so far, both at leyline intersections. I believe the next intended site is inside that hospital. Unknown if suspect is alone. Assume hostility and extreme resistance.”

Velocity rolls his shoulders. “Assault and Battery are on their way. We making entry or waiting for them?”

Armsmaster gives a tiny shake of his head. “Recon now, containment on arrival. Xander, you’re point. You see anything weird, you call it.”

I nod, already moving. “I’ll try not to explode anything you care about.”

Thornhill, for all his grumbling, falls in behind us, hand on the butt of his sidearm. “Just so we’re clear, if I get murdered by a vampire-wizard in that place, I’m haunting you personally.”

“Noted,” I say. “But I’ll be disappointed if you don’t at least try to take it with you.”

We cross the dead lawn, up the cracked steps, and through the blown-out doors into the hospital. Inside, the air is colder, staler—a chemical rot that clings to the walls with a thousand years of lost hope. My boots crunch over glass and something that might once have been a mouse.

Velocity’s already at the end of the lobby, peering into the dark, until Armsmaster motions for him to hold up. I kneel by the main desk, running a gloved hand over its surface. There’s a slick trail of something—blood, too fresh for this building, and marked with a greasy, rainbow sheen.

“Was the last vic already here?” I ask, turning to Thornhill.

He shakes his head, face pale. “No, we just ID’d them at the last scene.”

“Then we’ve got a live one,” I say, and Armsmaster’s visor pulses blue in agreement.

He calls out, quietly but firmly: “Velocity, sweep but do not engage. If you see the suspect, don’t approach. Battery and Assault will be here in under two minutes. Xander, Thornhill—set up at the stairwell. We’ll push up as a unit.”

I stalk down the hall, leading the way. The silence is so heavy it’s physical, like we’re swimming through crushed velvet and memories. Every scuffed linoleum tile tells a story, and none of them end well.

At the stairwell, I peer up and down, senses stretching for anything out of the ordinary. There’s a hum, low and constant, as if the building itself is vibrating. Magic, definitely—someone’s weaving a circuit in real time. I glance at Thornhill. He looks at me with his best "we’re so utterly screwed" face, but he doesn’t say anything.

A shriek of static crackles over the radio: “Battery and Assault en route, one block out. Do we have a visual?”

Velocity’s voice, blurred but calm, comes back: “Negative. Building is clear up to the surgical level. Heavy magical residue, north wing. Recommend entry with caution.”

Armsmaster’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “You’re with me, Xander. If it’s what I think it is, we’re going to need a wizard on the front line.”

“That’s what you keep me around for.” I grin, but it’s all teeth.

We move, coordinated as hell for a group with zero trust, and reach the north wing access. The stink of ozone and copper is so thick I want to gag. Thornhill covers the rear, pistol trembling. Velocity blurs ahead, then drops back just as fast, reporting: “There’s someone in the OR. No movement, but I can hear something. Like chanting.”

Armsmaster glances at me, visor unreadable. “You ready for this?”

“Define ready,” I mutter, but my adrenaline’s already boiling.

The answer comes before I get a chance to psych myself up. The doors at the end of the hall bang open, and a wave of heat slams into us, carrying a roar of voices—human and distinctly inhuman—and the stench of burning flesh.

Assault and Battery arrive exactly then, slamming through the main entrance like a battering ram with attitude problems. Assault’s already grinning, Battery a wall of blue crackling electricity.

Armsmaster gives the order: “Stack up. Breach on my mark. Xander, neutralize the runes if you can. Everyone else, hit hard and don’t let up.”

I nod, drawing on the well of power inside me. All I can think is: here comes the fun part.

The old doors shudder, rattling on their hinges.

I take one last look at my teammates—Protectorate, PRT, and whatever the hell I am—and brace for the worst.

“On three,” Armsmaster says, voice low and iron. “One. Two. Three.”

We hit the doors like a hurricane.

Chapter Text

We blast through the heavy oak door like a battering ram made of attitude and bad ideas, the hinges shrieking protest. The ritual chamber isn’t the sterile, candle-lit movie set I was half-hoping for—no, it’s a humid, reeking mess, the walls crawling with writhing sigils that pulse and ripple with every inhuman syllable the cultists chant. There’s a circle scrawled in what I’m really hoping is paint, ringed by kid-sized dolls that are way too realistic for my taste, and, dead center, the source of the headache: a cluster of runes so elaborate they’re practically vibrating out of reality.

I zero in on them, ignoring the gaggle of robed weirdos and the pit boss in the center, who’s chanting in three different voices at once. I feel the ritual’s pull like a magnet in my molars, drawing on every scrap of ambient magic in the room—a flow I know damn well can be flipped back on itself if you’re fast and reckless enough.

I reach out with my will, eyes locked on the key runes, and shove. The air thickens. A wall of sound slams into me, the cultists shrieking at pitches that rattle my fillings. The runes resist, glowing sickly green, fighting me like a fistful of angry eels. My vision tunnels, sweat on my face, and I feel the blowback threaten to rip my own mind apart. Good. That means I’m getting somewhere.

A kid’s scream slices through the noise like a razor. It’s not fear of pain, not yet. It’s the kind of primal terror that makes your organs want to crawl out of your ribcage, and for half a second it grabs my attention like a pit bull on a pant leg. I snap my head sideways in time to see the drama play out in frozen, strobing animation: Armsmaster, the city’s most inflexible tin-can hero, blurs across the chamber, turning cultists into bowling pins as he beelines for the circle. The bastard’s timing is perfect. He ducks a thrown knife, shoulder-tackles a robed lunatic out of the way, and scoops up a girl who can’t be older than six. She’s covered in grime and tears, voice already fading from the effort, but Armsmaster has her tucked against his armored chest plate before she can even finish the scream.

The sight steals my breath, rage and relief wrestling for top billing in my skull. The cultist ringleader, caught mid-chant, tries to compensate, but the spell’s momentum is gone. Their circle of kid-sized dolls is missing a key player, and I can see the panic ripple out from the center like a heat mirage. My distraction is brief, but it’s enough for the ritual’s defenders to rally, and the pulsing runes hit me with a psychic backlash that makes my nose bleed instantly.

A wall of greasy, unwholesome magic tries to crawl in through my ears. I can taste copper and ozone and something that might just be the flavor of raw terror. But the vision of Armsmaster cradling that terrified little girl solidifies in my mind, a splinter of clarity that drives back the static. I seize on the image, wrap it around my will like barbed wire, and hurl myself back at the runes with everything I’ve got. They had no chance.

Their magic shatters under mine like wet tissue slamming into a brick wall. They’re not ready for someone to fight dirty, to get up close and tear the scaffolding out from under their spell while it’s still trying to stand upright. I can feel the panic hit them in waves through the ritual link—a stuttering, infectious fear that makes their intentions sloppier, their grip on the runes weaker by the heartbeat.

The cultists bleat their borrowed syllables, but the power’s already bleeding away from their circle, robbed of its anchor. I catch the leader’s gaze—three eyes open, two burning, one oozing—and watch the dawning, cartoon-bright realization that they are, in fact, fucked. For a split second, I almost feel bad for them. Then I remember the dolls. The blood. The kid still sobbing somewhere behind me, quieter now, as if even horror can get tired after a while.

So I don’t let up. I crank the pressure, feeding the spell more will than I knew I had in reserve, turning the runes into a writhing, shrieking neon snarl. The backlash ricochets through the chamber, knocking cultists flat, sending books, bones, and half-melted candles flying in a hurricane of psychic detritus. The leader’s scream is the last thing to go, ripped apart and scattered across the smeared floor as the circle collapses and the ritual gutterballs into oblivion.

What’s left isn’t silence, but the stunned, ringing aftermath of too much power set loose in too small a space.

I scrap the last vestiges of subtlety and snap a burst of wind at the cultist ringleader, catching him right in the chest and launching him clean across the room. He smacks into the drywall with a satisfying, full-body thump, the impact rattling a cloud of pulverized plaster and paint chips down onto his stupidly ornate cowl. The collision leaves a soggy, man-shaped dent in the wall; the guy's eyes roll for a second, like a slot machine stuck on zeroes. I keep him there, pinning him flat with a steady, invisible jet of air, just long enough to see his tongue loll out of his mouth in a perfect parody of a Looney Tunes villain—though here, the stakes are less dynamite and more, y'know, literal child murder.

The rest of the room erupts into chaos. The two closest cultists—neither of whom look old enough to legally rent a car, let alone summon a hellspawn—go into full panic mode. One trips over a length of ceremonial chain and faceplants into the sticky ritual circle, smearing the runes into muddy streaks and instantly breaking whatever backup magic they thought they had. The other tries to scramble for a dagger, only to get clocked in the temple by a hardcover copy of The Complete Works of Aleister Crowley, courtesy of the feedback storm I’d uncorked. The book stays open on the guy's head like a very heavy, very occult hat.

There’s a staccato pop-pop-pop as something in the ritual array short-circuits, shooting blue-green sparks in every direction. The chamber's temperature plummets, and the stink of ozone and copper gets replaced by a colder, wetter reek—like a meat locker full of rotten fish. The air is so thick with loose magic that I can taste it, bitter and raw, scraping my tongue bloody.

I try to keep tabs on the others—Armsmaster’s still shielding the little girl, but now he’s scanning the room for new threats, visor flickering as he data-mines the chaos. One of the downed cultists groans, groping for a dropped candle, but I flick a ballpoint pen at his knuckles and send the flame rolling harmlessly across the floor. The remaining cultists, seeing their ringleader pancaked into the wall and their ritual collapsing, break and run for the door, tripping over each other in a tangle of robe and panic.

I’m standing in the eye of the storm, still holding the wind on the lead cultist, when the last echoes of the ritual die out. What’s left isn’t silence, but the stunned, ringing aftermath of too much power set loose in too small a space.

Assault, Battery, and Velocity were already mopping up the human element of the equation. I’d expected a tangled melee of limbs and chaos, but instead it looked like pro-wrestling night at the local rec center, all high-impact slams and dramatic overkill. Assault had two cultists locked in a mutual headlock, spinning them around so fast their robes fluttered like cheap Halloween capes; he grinned like he was having the time of his life, and for a second I almost envied his enthusiasm for violence. Battery, methodical as ever, zapped and zip-tied another half dozen cultists with a kind of bored efficiency, tagging and bagging them while calling out the number of downed threats in an even monotone—“Six, now seven, eight and nine.” Velocity, who I’d only ever seen as a streak of red and white, was everywhere at once: disarming, body-checking, and finally piling unconscious cultists into a neat stack against the chamber’s far wall. I caught a flicker of motion as he borrowed my own tactic and used an overturned chair as an improvised net, trapping three robed idiots in a whimpering cocoon of cheap wood and splinters.

When the dust settled, there was this weird, collective shudder—like nobody could quite believe we’d gone from ritual apocalypse to complete cultist collapse in under a minute. For a heartbeat, all anybody did was breathe: the heroes sucking wind, the cultists moaning in confusion, the little girl whimpering as Armsmaster set her gently on a patch of clean-ish floor and patted her shoulder in what I guess was supposed to be comforting.

I surveyed the ritual circle. Still a mess, but inert, the runes caked over with ash and whatever bodily fluids accounted for most of their shine. My head throbbed, and I could still feel the afterimage of the shattered spell searing across my eyelids, but at least nothing else was crawling up my spine. I stalked the perimeter, swiping a handful of salt and a couple of Sharpie markers from a side table.

“Damn, Xander,” Velocity said, flicking sweat from his brow. “You just made every other intervention look boring as hell.”

I shrugged, not trusting myself to say something that wouldn’t sound like a brag.

“Hey, can we get someone to call Child Services?” I said, pointing at the girl and the cowering wrecks that had been the focus of the ritual. “This is way above my pay grade.”

Armsmaster didn’t answer, just tapped his comm and cursed as he moved to leave the abandoned hospital. Oops.

We haul ourselves up the half-collapsed stairs and out into the night, Armsmaster still cradling that little girl like she’s made of detonators. The street is already crawling with PRT agents in riot armor, cordoning off the perimeter and looking at the abandoned hospital with the kind of professional dread you get from too many late shifts and not enough hazard pay. Their vans have pulled up in a staggered line, floodlights painting the hospital’s crumbling façade in harsh, surgical white. Someone in a suit yells into a radio, trying to coordinate the incoming EMTs with the less-injured of the local BBPD, who look about as thrilled to be here as a group of cats at a dog show.

The first wave of agents clearly expected an old-school shootout or maybe some parahuman rampage; they sure as hell weren’t ready for a conga line of bruised cultists, half of them still leaking glittery blood or moaning about “the sacrifice.” I spot Battery at the front entrance, already debriefing a pair of grim-faced agents who are busy inventorying the stack of unconscious, robed bodies Velocity left behind as a peace offering. She catches my eye, gives me a little nod, and gestures at two medics to go inside and check on the kids we missed.

The PRT’s got a rep for being all business, but I see the cracks around the edges—agents blinking like they’ve stumbled onto a crime scene from a different country, maybe a different planet. They suck it up quick, though; within seconds they’re hustling cultists into containment vans, bagging up evidence, and taking down statements from the less-shattered survivors. Now and then, one of them shoots Armsmaster a look that says “holy shit, you and your team are nuts,” but mostly they keep their heads down and do the job.

Miss Militia wove through the tangle of PRT grunts and twitchy local cops, her stride just short of a march. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries or even a nod. Her eyes locked onto the cluster of us—specifically, me and Armsmaster—with all the warmth and subtlety of a surgical laser. She went straight to Armsmaster, her voice low enough to be private but sharp enough to cut through the static. “Director Piggot wants you in her office. Now. I’ll take care of the scene and the… minor.” She didn’t look at me when she said it, but her thumb jerked in my direction like I was a traffic cone, not a person.

It hit me, then, with a little stab of cold amusement: Armsmaster hadn’t even cleared this op—no official paperwork. No authorizations. Just a chain of command held together by duct tape and desperation, now about to be yanked so tight that somebody was gonna bleed. And that somebody was almost definitely my new boss, who looked like he’d rather be fighting a dozen Endbringers than report to Piggot after this mess.

Armsmaster didn’t argue—not with Miss Militia, not with anyone. His jaw clenched under the visor, his mouth a thin dash, and he handed the still-shivering kid over to a waiting EMT with a wordless nod. Then he was gone, a blue-and-steel streak disappearing into the night, leaving behind a half-finished explanation and a whiff of ozone.

I glanced at Miss Militia, hoping for a crumb of validation or maybe a “good job not dying.” She holstered her assault rifle and met my gaze with those pale, impossibly steady eyes. If Armsmaster was the muscle and Piggot the brain, Miss Militia was the soul of the operation—assuming you believed souls had no room for mercy or bullshit.

“Walk with me,” she said, already turning away, expecting me to follow.

I fell into step, trying not to limp too obviously. The adrenaline was fading, and with it came the full inventory of damage: bruised ribs, a cut on my temple, and a headache like someone had tried to sandpaper my brain. I ignored it, kept my mouth shut, and waited for the lecture.

We cut through a corridor of riot shields and body armor, the kind of tactical overkill that made you wonder if someone at the PRT bought in bulk. All around us, techs vacuumed up evidence: ritual knives, burned-out candles, blood-soaked altars. A couple of the younger agents shot me nervous, sidelong glances, as if the label “Ward” made me more bomb than kid. Maybe they were right.

If this went to hell during the after-action, I figured I’d be in the clear; Armsmaster was the head of the Protectorate, and I was technically just along for the ride. The paper trail would be a joke—hell, there probably wasn’t one. That’s the thing about the PRT: half the time, you’re just the body they shove in front of the crazy, and the other half is spent praying someone higher up the chain takes the fall if things turn ugly.

So as we wove our way out of the hospital’s battered lobby, I kept my head down and let the riot-helmeted PRT grunts block for me. Nobody was about to blame the Ward for the cultist bloodbath in the basement; not when all the news cameras would be on Armsmaster, and not when Piggot had a whole armory full of scapegoats to choose from. I played the kid angle, hunched my shoulders, and let the grownups do the yelling and paperwork. Classic survival instinct.

Not that it stopped the looks—from the med techs, from the beat cops, even from the paramedics bandaging up the unlucky. I could feel it—the side-eye, the quiet “how the hell did a kid get involved in this mess” shock that nobody bothered to say out loud. I gave a little half-smirk to anyone brave enough to meet my eyes, tried to project “traumatized but resilient” rather than “possibly the next school shooter.”

Meanwhile, Miss Militia cut through the crowd like a shark, leaving this little wake of respect and terror. She didn’t stop to explain or reassure; just led me out onto the cracked sidewalk, where the strobing blue and red of the squad cars made the whole night feel even more unreal. Out here, away from the blood and the broken bones, you could almost pretend it was a normal crime scene, not the epicenter of a magic nuke that had nearly gone off.

I expected her to start the post-op dressing down immediately. Instead, she just walked, boots crunching over loose gravel, and let me soak in the sudden cold. I wrapped my arms around myself, partly for warmth, partly for comfort, and tried not to think about the dozens of ways that night could have ended with me dead or worse.

We reached the edge of the perimeter, where the PRT had set up hastily-unfurled privacy tarps and a half-dozen battered folding tables, already covered in evidence bags and half-empty coffee cups. Miss Militia finally paused, turned, and fixed me with a stare so flat and even it was like being pinned to the wall by an X-ray.

“Armsmaster shouldn’t have brought you,” she said. Not angry. Just stating fact. “He knows better.”

I shrugged. “He said he needed my… expertise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what he told me, too. Next time, you tell him no. Or you call me, and I’ll tell him for you.” She let that hang for a second, then nodded sharply and moved on.

It was weird, being lectured by someone who cared whether I got hurt. Most adults in my orbit either resented my existence or wanted to use me as a blunt object, so the protective thing felt almost alien. It made me want to argue, to prove I could handle it, but instead I just nodded and looked at my shoes. For the first time all night, I let myself breathe. The adrenaline started to ebb, and the pounding in my head faded to a dull, manageable throb. I closed my eyes and just listened to the chaos around me: radios crackling, sirens wailing in the distance, the sharp, nervous laughter of cops who were still half in shock.

It was over. We’d stopped the ritual, saved the kid, and nobody on our side had died. In the world of Brockton Bay, that was as close to a win as you could get. Miss Militia clapped a hand on my shoulder—surprisingly gentle for someone with her rep—and said, “Go home, Xander. Get some rest. Piggot’s going to want to see you tomorrow, but for now, you’ve earned a night off.”

I nodded, too tired to muster sarcasm, and turned to leave—already picturing my shitty mattress, the warmth of a borrowed blanket, and the blissful nothing of dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The mattress in Wards' dorms is criminally thin, but I barely notice it as I crash after a day like yesterday. I wake up to a sliver of sunlight stabbing through the blackout curtain, right in my face, like a celestial "fuck you." My eyelids peel open gummy and reluctant, and my brain is a wet sponge, refusing to soak up reality. Even after sitting up and shaking out my tangled hair, I can't say I'm conscious enough to do calculus, let alone save the world from whatever flavor of supernatural disaster is next on the menu. School, today? Not a goddamn chance. I push my hair away from my eyes, grit in the corners, and try to summon enough motivation to roll out of bed. The cold hits first. My toes curl against the frigid floorboards, and I swear under my breath at the bastard who decided cost-saving meant cutting the dorm's thermostat to "arctic." My breath fogs for a second, visible in the shaft of light, and I debate just going back to sleep.

I force myself upright; however, each muscle group is auditioning for a role in a zombie film. My skin smells of old sweat and ozone—a side effect of last night's spellwork, maybe, or just the aftertaste of high stress and low hygiene. I glance around for clean clothes, find only a black hoodie and the less-wrinkled pair of jeans, and accept my fate. If I start the day looking like a burnout, maybe people will lower their expectations.

I yank a pair of fuzzy slippers out from under my cot—well, "pair" might be a strong word. One's a battered Hello Kitty, the other is just violently pink, probably once part of an off-brand Muppet. Both look like they've lived through a warzone and lost. I'd fished them out of the lost and found when I first arrived here, and every time I slip my feet in, I feel like I'm continuing an ancient tradition of dorm-dweller scavenging. The right one has a hole by the big toe, so my toe pokes out, like it's giving the world a casual middle finger. The left one still has a faded sticker on the sole that says 'Property of Kenzie'. I have no clue who Kenzie is, but thank you for leaving the lone slipper.

I shuffle toward the sink at the far end of the room, slippers hissing against the tile like tiny, angry cats. The cold air nips through the worn fabric, and I briefly consider whether conjuring a personal heat bubble counts as cheating, but I decide my pride can take the hit. I mutter the evaporation cantrip under my breath, and the air around my ankles warms, just enough to keep my feet from freezing off. The spell leaves behind the faint scent of burnt sugar and static, which is a fair price for not dying of hypothermia before breakfast. I really shouldn't waste my effort on such mundane applications of magic, but fuck the cold.

The bathroom mirror still hasn't fixed itself since the last time a telekinetic tantrum shattered it. I lean close to the biggest unbroken shard and squint at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, hair wild enough to get its own zip code, and there's a faint line of dried blood under my nose—probably from the backlash when I botched the shielding rune yesterday. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, which only smears it more. Great. Nothing says 'well-adjusted hero material' like looking like you just survived a bar fight with a cheese grater.

Time to face the world, or at least the ward common room, where the only thing scarier than literal monsters is the prospect of breakfast with a bunch of sleep-deprived teenagers who can level city blocks on bad days. I take one last look at the slippers—they really are hideous, but I'm keeping them out of spite now—and shuffle out the door, bracing for whatever fresh hell the day has planned.

The ward common room is a big, open-plan rectangle that serves as ground zero for 90% of our social interaction. Right now, it's a mausoleum of dead energy, the only signs of life being Missy and Carlos hunched over the battered card table in their civvies. Missy's hair, usually military-neat, is escaping its ponytail in sullen wisps. Carlos looks like he's been hit by a truck—the dark circles under his eyes have gone from "finals week" to "six feet under." The aroma of scorched toaster pastry lingers, a chemical haze that makes my teeth hurt. I don't announce myself as I zombie toward the kitchenette, letting my slippers' hiss do all the talking. Neither of them even looks up. The kitchen corner is a marvel of institutional depression: chipped laminate counters, a fridge covered in passive-aggressive reminders about cleaning up, and a coffee maker so ancient it's probably haunted. I paw open the can of generic grounds, scoop out a heroic dose, and dump it in the machine, ignoring the sign that says "Please Don't Overfill—It Makes It Bitter." After last night, I welcome bitterness. I punch the 'brew' button with a vengeance and try not to make eye contact with the sponge in the sink, which is growing a suspicious fuzz.

I glare at the coffee maker like it's a sworn enemy. The glass carafe shudders, makes a pained gurgling noise, and then coughs up a geyser of half-brewed sludge before going silent forever. Steam rises from the black morass, thick and viscous as motor oil, but not a drop more comes out. I jab the power button in a vain hope, smack the plastic casing so hard it nearly jumps off the counter, but the ancient beast just surrenders to entropy with a final, mocking click. I consider whether necromancy is strictly forbidden for appliances, but the thought dies with the machine. Of course, it craps out on me today. Why wouldn't it?

I stare at the sad, half-full pot and weigh my options: accept defeat and try to siphon an ounce of caffeine from the tar; attempt to fix the machine with my own two hands and possibly lose a finger; or go full magic on its ass and risk sending the whole kitchenette to another dimension. None of them seem less humiliating than the others. I settle for pouring whatever's left into a chipped mug, the viscosity closer to pudding than coffee, and try not to look at the oily sheen on top.

It occurs to me, as I'm scraping the last dribble into my cup, that maybe I'm being melodramatic, but honestly? I've earned it. Yesterday, I broke up a cult that was halfway through summoning something awful from the Nevernever. If I hadn't been there, the demon would've eaten the victim, the cultists, and then, presumably, the city. Instead, I got my sinuses vaporized by backlash from a containment glyph gone sideways, a nosebleed that still hasn't forgiven me, and a stern talking-to from the team shrink about "reckless disregard for personal safety."

And what do I get for it? A morning where even the coffee machine resents my existence.

I run a hand through my hair, massaging the frustration out of my temples and trying to ignore how thin my patience has worn. There's a meeting with Armsmaster looming on my horizon—probably to fill in the blanks about what the hell happened down there, and to see if any more cultists are slithering around the city's underbelly. The man's reliable when it comes to disaster, but his bedside manner is somewhere between "hostile witness" and "emotionless AI," so I'm not exactly looking forward to it. Still, I'll have to see him sooner or later. Brockton Bay doesn't exactly have a surplus of wizards or, for that matter, teenagers who can improvise a banishment on the fly. I take a sip of the black ichor. It tastes like burnt hope and regret. My tongue recoils, but my brain registers the caffeine and, for a split second, I feel almost alive. That tiny surge is all I need to get moving.

Missy and Carlos are still at the table, their conversation a low buzz in the background. I shuffle over, mug in hand, and flop onto a battered folding chair. Carlos glances my way, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might be concern or just the universal Ward language for "I see you survived, barely." Missy, on the other hand, doesn't even look up from the deck of cards she's shuffling.

"Coffee machine's dead," I announce, voice raspy even to my own ears. "We might need to start drinking battery acid for breakfast instead."

Carlos gives a sympathetic grunt and nudges a half-eaten granola bar toward me. Missy deals a hand with the kind of focus you only see in snipers and sociopaths. I take another sip, grimace, and try to pretend it doesn't taste like the Devil's own mouthwash.

There's a lull as I try to remember if I'm supposed to say something, or if we're just basking in our collective misery. I take advantage of the silence to scan the room, counting the scars on the walls and the duct tape patches on the furniture—relics of old fights, training mishaps, and the general chaos of housing a bunch of superpowered teenagers with more issues than a comic book store.

I remember last night, the way the cultists chanted in unison, the air thick with static and old blood, the moment when I realized none of them actually knew what they were doing. It was a tragedy, how many people got drawn into darkness because they thought it would give their lives meaning. For a second, I think about reaching out to Missy or Carlos, but the words stick in my throat.

Instead, I push the cards around on the table and say, "So, anyone want to take bets on what flavor of existential horror we get today?"

Carlos snorts. "I'm hoping for zombies. At least they're easy to clean up."

Missy looks up, deadpan. "Clones. I want to see the look on the Director's face when she realizes she's got two of you."

I shake my head, but it's good to laugh, even if it's just a little.

I down the rest of my coffee—sludge and all—and brace for the day. I get up to toss the cup, and Missy calls after me, "You heading out?"

"Yeah," I say. "I've got to check in with Armsmaster. See if he's uncovered any more spooky surprises."

Carlos gives a two-fingered salute. "Don't let him talk you into another death trap."

"No promises."

I toss the mug, and start toward the briefing room, feeling the beginnings of a headache but also, somehow, a little steadier than before. The key to surviving this place isn't just power or luck—it's the ability to keep moving forward, no matter how many times the universe punches you in the gut.

I walk into the briefing room right in the middle of the hot wash, already half-filled with the scent of burnt coffee and recycled air. Armsmaster is anchored front and center, blue and silver armor bright enough to give you a migraine under the institutional lighting. He's gesturing at a projected map of the warehouse district with his halberd like a weatherman who moonlights as a medieval executioner. From the narrative cadence and the absence of anyone else talking, I gather he's been holding court since dawn. There's a scattering of Brockton's finest capes on the benches—purples and reds and greens, all lined up like a bag of off-brand Skittles. I'm not technically invited, but the side door hadn't been locked, and my curiosity's always fatal to decorum.

I slip into the back row, drag a plastic chair into the shadow of a tipped-over whiteboard, and settle in like I've got every right to be here. Hood up, pockets stuffed, legs stretched out. No one bats an eye. I'm either invisible, or everyone's too tired to care, or I've finally become a background part of this place—just another piece of local color, like the duct tape over the window or the leaking ceiling tile. I exhale and try not to look like I'm counting the exits.

Armsmaster doesn't even pause; if anything, he ramps up the volume like he wants to punish my eardrums for daring to exist. "Reiterating for late arrivals," he says, and I have no doubt that's aimed at me, "the target warehouse showed active thaumaturgic signatures as of 0200. By the time the response team breached, the artifact had already been partially activated. Estimated collateral loss was limited to the immediate building and two adjacent lots, with only minimal civilian exposure. We're still running toxicology on the vapor cloud."

He clicks a button on the remote and flips the image to a screenshot from last night—a blurry, fisheye shot of the interior just as the containment glyph splits open and vomits a halo of neon blue. There's a body half-obscured by the explosion, probably one of the cultists, but Armsmaster magnifies the rune circle instead. "This was traced directly to a focus. Our resident wizard," another glance in my direction, "neutralized the effect with improvised counterwork, but we can't assume this was a one-off. The perpetrator was found dead, but not before activating at least three glyphs of unknown origin. We've got Wards and Forensics cross-referencing the diagrams with the local parahuman database, but early results suggest non-cape involvement."

I suppress the urge to raise my hand and point out that I was there, that I'd seen the glyphs up close and almost wore them as a skin graft. Instead, I take in the room: Brandish is sitting bolt upright with one hand clenched on her armrest, her partner Flashbang slouched beside her, eyes half-lidded but locked on the screen. Battery's in civvies, tapping something rapid-fire into her phone. Even the local PRT Director is in a corner, lips pursed so tight they look like a paper cut.

I get why they're all tense. Magic isn't supposed to happen here. Not the real kind. Not the kind that stains concrete with blood and burns holes in the sky. Maybe that's why I keep showing up to these things, even when I'm not on the list—it's the only way to know what kind of disaster I'll be cleaning up next.

Armsmaster clicks through more slides: sigil analysis, after-action reports, CCTV footage that would make for a great haunted house reel. He's got the whole thing mapped out to the second, every move traced and annotated, but there's a rift in his voice whenever he talks about magic. He doesn't trust it, or me, but he respects the threat. That's almost enough.

He wraps up the summary with a list of new protocols: tighter perimeter, increased patrols, and mandatory arcane monitoring on all future raids. "We're expecting escalation," he says. "Whoever orchestrated this is still out there, and they've already demonstrated a willingness to self-terminate for operational security. We need every available asset focused on intercept and containment. If anyone has additional insight, now's the time."

Heads turn, but no one volunteers. I roll the empty coffee cup between my palms, then clear my throat. "The array was sloppy," I say. "If they'd wanted maximum damage, they could have pulled in a lot more power. Feels like a test run. Or a distraction."

Brandish glances at me, first skeptical, then thoughtful. "For what?"

I shrug. "No clue yet. But if I were them, I'd be watching us now, seeing how we react. Maybe prepping the real show."

Armsmaster's mask gives nothing away, but his grip tightens just a little on the haft of his halberd. "We'll keep that in mind. Dismissed, unless you have further business." And with that, the room starts to dissolve—capes murmuring to each other,

I lever myself up out of the chair, putting a little too much force into the motion and nearly sending it skittering into the wall behind me. My limbs ache with the gritty aftertaste of last night's magic, but I'm damned if I let anyone see it. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck like I'm about to slug out a round in an alley, and fall into the parade of half-costumed capes drifting toward the exit. The air in the briefing room is thick with the silent tally of who looked the most rattled, who's already planning their day's cover story, and who's got enough dirt on their uniform to count as a lost cause. I'm halfway to the door and already planning which vending machine to rob for breakfast when the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

"McClaine, stay."

Director Piggot's voice cuts through the chatter with the surgical precision of a guillotine. Every head in the room pivots on a dime, eyes narrowing in a bizarre blend of relief and schadenfreude. I taste the beginnings of a smartass reply, but the look on Piggot's face—something between "wrath of God" and "disappointed gym teacher"—kills it in my throat. I settle for a barely-audible sigh and a backward glance at what little remains of my dignity. Piggot's seated in the far corner, perched on a folding chair that looks like it owes her money. Her hands are steepled, knuckles pale, and she's staring at me with the flat intensity of someone who's memorized your rap sheet and is inventing new crimes for you to confess.

Battery and Brandish, who had been loitering by the whiteboard, share a look that's pure "better you than me," and make themselves scarce. Even Armsmaster, who could probably bench press a tank for fun, seems to think twice before lingering in the Director's crosshairs. The last stragglers usher themselves out with the desperate politeness of rats abandoning a very boring, very fluorescent ship. Thirty seconds later, it's just me, Piggot, and the ghost of a coffee stain on the linoleum.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, waiting for her to start. It's not that I'm scared, exactly. I've traded barbs with literal monsters, survived the business end of a cultist's ritual knife, and once talked my way out of a deathmatch with a minor god. But Piggot's in a league of her own. She's the kind of hardass you'd hire to run a prison camp on Mars, the kind who could turn a group of retirees into a death squad and have them home in time for Matlock. I respect that, even if it means I'm about to get my ego sandblasted.

She lets the silence stretch until I start to sweat, then nods at the chair closest to her. "Sit."

I obey, because even I know when to pick my battles. The seat's cold, and I'm hyperaware of how the fluorescent lights make my pale-ass skin look like a science experiment gone wrong. Piggot regards me for a long moment, like she's trying to figure out what size box I'll fit in when this is over. I resist the urge to squirm.

"Your after-action report was… creative," she says finally, tone so dry it's flammable. "Would you care to elaborate on why you did not think to protect yourself?"

"Well, I had a plan," I lie, because it's the only thing keeping me from looking like a total idiot in front of the Director. "Mostly."

Piggot's eyes narrow. "You have a death wish, McClaine?"

"No, ma'am," I say, the words coming out instinctively sharp and cold, the way they always do when someone with authority tries to box me in. You'd think after facing down demons and waking up in more than one shallow grave I'd have learned to fake deference, but the truth is, I only ever drop my guard for people who've earned it. Piggot isn't one of them. Respect, sure. Fear, a little. But trust? That's reserved for people who know what it's like to bleed for something.

I'm still wearing last night's injuries like a second skin. My ribs ache where the kinetic backlash hit me, my palms are raw from scribing runes on broken concrete, and I'm pretty sure my left molar has a hairline fracture from where I bit down during the dissonance spike. None of that shows in my voice, which is pure steel when I answer. "It was simply the best of an ever-growing list of horrible options. If I had waited to disrupt the ritual, then whatever they were trying to summon would have made it out. I wasn't willing to roll those dice."

Piggot's eyes narrow to slits. There's no pity in her, only irritation that my logic makes sense and she knows it. "I understand that, Warden. I am no fool." She lands on the title with a deliberate thud, like she's reminding me I'm only a probationary member of the PRT's least orthodox task force, not a free agent. Her glare intensifies, and for a second I feel the urge to look away—but I don't. Not for her.

She presses on, voice low and tight. "There are guidelines in place for a reason. You are a child, McClaine. Seventeen years old, not even old enough to buy a drink, and you're out there improvising containment on forces you barely understand."

The word "child" hits the table like a gunshot. If I had hackles, they'd be up. Instead, I roll my shoulders, lean forward in my seat, and let my own anger surface. I'd spent a decade in systems that chew up and spit out kids like me—state homes, group placements, the occasional stint in juvie when I couldn't keep my temper in check. The only difference now was that the monsters had better PR.

"With all due respect, I haven't had the luxury of being a kid for a long time," I grind out. "My first case file was a triple homicide, and half my foster siblings didn't survive puberty. Whatever the Cape world throws at me, it can't top what I've already been through."

Piggot's face doesn't change, but her knuckles whiten on her cane. She's calculating, always, trying to figure out the least-worst option when all the options suck. She glances briefly at the folder on the table—my file, thick enough to wedge a door open—and then at me, as if she's weighing whether it's worth the risk to let me keep doing what I do best.

"I stopped the ritual," I say, pouring every ounce of conviction into my words. "No collateral damage, no casualties except for the asshole who started it, and the only reason I'm stitched together with tape and spite is because I put myself between the effect and your people. If this was six months in the future, after I get the stupid badge, you'd be praising the efficiency of the operation instead of reaming me out."

Piggot's lips compress to a rigid line. "And yet, it is not six months in the future. We are dealing in the present, and the Youth Guard is pushing to have you benched until further notice. They're threatening formal censure if you continue to operate outside prescribed boundaries."

That one lands harder than I expected. I'd heard about the Youth Guard, in the abstract—well-meaning bureaucrats with more rules than sense, tasked with keeping minors like me from getting smeared across city sidewalks—but I never thought they'd bother enforcing it on someone who's already been through hell. The fact that Piggot is actually worried about it means it's more than a slap on the wrist. "Is that what this is about?" I ask, my voice going flat. "You're not pissed because I saved people in a way that wasn't by-the-book. You're pissed because your bosses are breathing down your neck and you can't spin this into a win."

Piggot's eyes flash, and for the first time I see a crack in the armor. "You think I want to sideline you? The body count in this city triples every time a fresh gang war kicks off, and you're one of the few assets we have who understands both the magical and the parahuman vectors. But I can't protect you if you keep making yourself a target for every oversight committee with a grudge."

The room feels smaller, suddenly. I glance at the window, the door, the ugly government-issue clock ticking down the seconds until I say something I'll regret. My mind goes to the wards—the other teenagers pressed into service, trying to play superhero and survive high school at the same time. The only thing separating me from them is a willingness to go where no one else will. "I know what's at stake," I say, low and fierce. "Better than anyone. I'm not going to stop just because someone in a suit wants to tick a box. I do what I do because someone has to, not because it's safe or easy or gets me a pat on the head at the end of the day."

Piggot lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. "You will follow the rules, McClaine. Or you'll find yourself behind a desk faster than you can say 'insubordination.' Am I clear?"

I meet her gaze, refusing to blink. "Crystal, ma'am."

She studies me for a beat, the silence prickling at my already raw nerves. Just as the Soul gaze was about to begin, she averted her gaze. Finally, she leans back, the edge of her mouth quirking in what could almost pass for respect—or maybe just resignation. "Dismissed. And try not to get killed before your next psych eval."

I stand, feeling the burn of her scrutiny on my back, and head for the exit. As I reach the door, she calls out, "McClaine." I stop, hand hovering over the handle. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Next time you make a call like that, you do it by the book. Or at least make it look like you tried."

I can't help it—a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "No promises."

Outside the room, the hallway is empty except for a janitor half-heartedly mopping up the remnants of a spilled energy drink. I walk past him, my mind already racing ahead to the next disaster, the next problem that only I can solve because nobody else is crazy enough to try. But the Youth Guard thing sticks in my craw. I replay the last few minutes in my head, trying to figure out if Piggot's warning was an actual threat or just her way of reminding me who's in charge.

Chapter Text

The next few days don't just blur—they shred together like the tape off a malfunctioning VHS, all static and ugly jump-cuts. Armsmaster, that blue-suited knight of the city, turns up at my doorstep every single morning with a fresh printout, a half-brewed theory, and the barely-disguised gleam of someone who's itching for a fight but too professional to admit it. He's got me shadowing him, like Dresden's bastard apprentice, as we chase down every garbled tip on these new cult freaks calling themselves the Scions of a New Dawn.

For the record, Scions of a New Dawn sound less like a world-ending threat and more like a bad prog rock cover band, but their trail of human carnage says otherwise. Armsmaster shows me the surveillance footage: a line of normal people—office types, dock workers, even a couple high school kids—walking into an abandoned strip mall after midnight. He rewinds the clip, frame by frame. There are no glowing glyphs or ritual daggers, just a weird ripple in the air as the last person steps inside, like a heat mirage. Then, nothing. Building's empty, alarms never trip.

We're on a stakeout until dawn in a borrowed car that smells like the last three tenants all died in the back seat. I sip gas station coffee, and Armsmaster lectures me about parahuman cult psychology, taking the long detour around the fact that these people are either brainwashed, suicidal, or both. "You ever see something like this?" he asks. I shake my head, because most of my experience is with the kind of supernatural that leaves obvious scorch marks and a dramatic corpse.

The first night, Armsmaster almost gets himself killed tracing a Scion runner through the docks. He corners the guy on a catwalk, but the Scion just stares him down and steps backward—right off the edge, no hesitation, splattering himself across a shipping crate three stories below. No power signature, no death scream, just this blank-eyed devotion. It rattles even Armsmaster, and he spends the rest of the night triple-checking his gauntlet's biometric readings, looking for some sort of Master compulsion.

The city responds in typical Brockton Bay fashion: rumors spiral, every drunk at the Boardwalk claims to have seen a Scion initiation, and the PRT triple-patrols the neighborhoods with the worst casualty rates. The local capes are stretched thin, mostly trying to keep the gangbangers from getting inspired by all the new chaos. Armsmaster is convinced it's a prelude to something bigger. "Cult movements like these escalate. They don't just fizzle out," he insists, as he drags me to another meeting with Panacea and her increasingly nervous support staff.

But it's not all just grim predictions and body-counts. We stake out a condemned tenement and find a Scion recruitment rally in progress, complete with folding chairs and a sad little podium made from upturned milk crates. I'm ready to throw down with a couple dozen amateur zealots, but Armsmaster pulls me back, says he wants to watch the speech. The cult leader is a guy in his late twenties, clean-shaven and amped up on his own rhetoric, talking about the "final chrysalis" and the "birth of the post-human dawn." It's all nonsense, but the crowd is rapt—even the ones who look like they'd be heckling at a PTA meeting. It's charisma weaponized, and it creeps me out more than any spell I've ever seen.

By the end of the week, Armsmaster's barely sleeping, and I'm running on pizza-flavored Combos and caffeine. We make a good team, in a "buddy cop movie where neither cop is actually the cool one" sort of way. There's even a grudging respect forming between us, though I'd never say it out loud.

We spend those days chasing the Scions through every sewer tunnel and abandoned strip mall in the city, cataloging their graffiti tags and snippets of manifesto. Each night ends with a postmortem in Armsmaster's workshop, both of us stinking of adrenaline and industrial solvent.

The man hunts like he's trying to make up for every person he's ever failed to save, and if I'm honest, I get it. The Scions aren't just another gang—they're the start of something uglier, something that's got its hooks in the city's underbelly and is pulling up all the rot.

The person at the center of this cult—whoever they are—is no ordinary delusional prophet or bored trust fund kid. This is someone learning as they go, and fast. At first, it's subtle: the Scions' little stunts get more coordinated, the crowd-control tactics shift from blunt trauma to precision hits, and their esoteric slogans go from laughable to genuinely unsettling. I recognize the hallmarks of a nascent practitioner, someone who's only just found the throttle on their own power and keeps pushing it, consequences be damned.

The thing is, their growth isn't happening in a vacuum. The Protectorate and PRT have cranked up the pressure so hard that every move the Scions make gets met with twice the force. The cult's early wins—turning a handful of nobodies into a self-sustaining panic machine—get buried under an avalanche of raids, cordons, and nightly pings from Armsmaster's ever-watchful drones. If the Scion leader expected to quietly bootstrap their magical messiah act, they're sorely mistaken. Every time they adapt, we adapt faster.

But the learning curve cuts both ways. Each failed ritual or botched mass hypnosis leaves behind evidence: scorch marks on pavement, frayed nerves in the city's psychic background hum, oddball residue that even Armsmaster's lab techs can't fully explain. I start realizing that the Scions aren't just improvising—they're practicing, testing the limits of whatever new sorcery is fueling their movement. And every day the Protectorate blocks their progress, the cult leader will get more desperate, more reckless.

At this rate, the Fallen are going to show up, and that's a whole other mess none of us are ready to mop up. The last thing Brockton Bay needs is another group of true-believer lunatics turning the city into their personal holy war—and the way events are trending, every cult and crank within a hundred-mile radius is going to smell the blood in the water and want to stake their claim. Armsmaster keeps insisting that we can contain it, that the Protectorate's perimeter is ironclad, but I've seen enough of this city to know there's always a breach somewhere—usually in the human element, and usually when you least expect it.

I can't shake the nagging sense that we're only ever one move ahead of the Scions because they want us to be. The closer we get, the more it feels like they're learning from us, or maybe just enjoying the chase. Even the local villains—the ones who'd rather rob a bank than burn down a building—are getting twitchy, watching the slow-motion train wreck from their own corners and waiting to see who blinks first.

I give my head a sharp shake, like a wet dog clearing out its ears, to keep my thoughts from spiraling any further down the mind-maze. Focus, McClaine. Today's not the day to get dreamy about the big picture or what might be festering in the city's underbelly. Today's about the mask, the badge, and the dumbass costume that makes me look like a SWAT team cosplayer who moonlights at Ren Faires.

Big day, though. My official coming-out party. In about fifteen minutes, the Protectorate's PR machine is rolling me out as Warden—no surname, no hyphen, no "the." Just Warden, like I'm some kind of human security system, which, in this context, I guess I am. The Wards—Brockton Bay's junior cape team—get a new face, and the city gets to rubberneck at whatever circus the news cycle makes out of it. There's already a crowd massing outside the PRT building, most of them looking for cheap spectacle, a few holding up bedsheet banners with "WELCOME WARDEN" in the sort of spraypainted font that promises either instant fame or instant doxxing.

Not that I'm the only new meat on the menu today. Flechette, apparently the New York Wards' answer to "what if Robin Hood hated billionaires and also had a crossbow," is being shipped in at Legend's personal request, which explains the starched collar on all the brass. Half the senior Protectorate is here in ceremonial colors, and more than a few of them look like they'd rather be anywhere else. Even in a world that produces walking supernovas and kaiju-sized monsters, nothing inspires existential dread like a paperwork deadline tied to a public debut.

They've got us stashed in a side office, allegedly so we can "bond as teammates" before the curtain rises, but really it's to keep us from being mobbed by overeager interns or enterprising bloggers with phone cameras. I'm already in full costume, minus the helmet. Flechette—call her Lily and she'll correct you with a glare sharp enough to shave glass—sits in the corner, idly spinning one of her signature bolts between her fingers. She's smaller than I expected, wiry, with a face that toggles between "polite interest" and "I'd rather kill you than talk."

I try to strike up a conversation. "You ever do one of these before?"

She shrugs, barely looking up. "Three times. Gets easier if you assume nobody cares until you screw up."

"Cool. So, like a school picture day, but with more snipers on the roof."

That actually gets a smirk out of her, which I count as a win. The silence that follows is dense—not awkward, just loaded. We both know the drill: say the right things, look like a team, don't start a PR disaster before the ink on the press release is dry.

Through the frosted glass, I watch the event staff scurry around, taping down extension cords and double-checking nameplates at the press table. I catch a glimpse of Armsmaster, already in his full armor, talking quietly to Legend. The body language is all respect and mutual suspicion—neither one fully trusting the other, but both bound by the same job description. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that the Protectorate's obsession with optics borders on religious. The whole city could be on fire, but as long as they get a shot of the Wards lined up in matching uniforms, the day's a win. They care so much about "the message" that sometimes you forget there's an actual war being fought outside the building.

The room's wall clock hits 10:30, and a handler knocks briskly, ushering us out with the over-caffeinated urgency of a substitute teacher about to lose control of homeroom. I slide my helmet on—Viking-esque, angular, with a faceplate that looks cool but fogs up instantly—and step into the corridor. Flechette follows, her own mask pulled down in a sharp, clean line across her cheeks.

The hallway's lined with PRT troopers in parade stance, all of them trying not to make eye contact as we pass. I catch the faintest whiff of nervous sweat, metal polish, and cheap cologne. It's theater, all of it, but I can't deny the adrenaline spike as we get closer to the doors. I'm going to walk out there, cameras blazing, and announce to the world that I exist. Part of me wonders if anybody will remember this moment a year from now. The rest of me just wants to get through it without destroying all of the recording equipment. I had told them many times it wasn't a smart idea, but was overruled.

The handler gives us the final rundown in a whisper. "Go straight to the podium, let Legend introduce you, and only answer questions you're comfortable with. If you're not sure, defer to Armsmaster." I nod, half-listening, gaze fixed on the ripple of flashbulbs through the crack in the double doors. The sound is deafening on the other side—crowd chatter, camera shutters, the low thrum of a city holding its breath.

And then, boom: the oak doors swing wide, and we're on.

The conference room's been staged to look like a United Nations press event, all flags and marble and a central dais flanked by two rows of tables. The seats are packed with a mix of real journalists, Protectorate staffers, and a few faces I recognize from those sketchy parahuman blogs that always run with pixelated photos and wild conspiracy theories. At the front, Legend stands tall and impossibly serene in his iconic blue and gold uniform. Armsmaster is beside him, all inch-perfect posture and impassive visor. I take my place at the podium, Flechette just to my left. The lights are so bright I can barely see past the first row, but I spot a kid in a "Brockton Bay Wards" tee waving a homemade poster with both our names in glitter.

Legend starts the show. He gives the standard speech about community service, responsibility, the "next generation of heroes." There's applause on cue, a few camera flashes, and then it's my turn to step forward.

I see myself on the vid feed, reflected on the wall-to-wall monitor above the press dais, and the effect is… not subtle. The gray cloak drapes broad across my back like a battle flag caught in the wind, the lines cut from Harry's own Warden days but stretched and reinforced for my size. Even in the world of capes, where everyone's busy peacocking their trauma with ridiculous costumes and brighter-than-life hair, I stand out. I'm the guy who makes other guys look up and hope I'm on their side. If Harry were a scarecrow in a trench coat, I'm the power forward who squashed him into the pavement with one meaty hand, then stoically finished the game. Nearly seven feet, shoulders like a loading dock, fists sized for uprooting fence posts—and a build that could inspire chiropractors to quit in despair.

Somewhere in the second row, a blogger with a nose ring the size of a quarter mouths "holy shit" to nobody in particular. The local NBC affiliate's camera frame goes wide to catch all of me, and I can't help but notice it also catches the way Flechette eyeballs my silhouette with a look that's half pure professional curiosity, half "don't make me fight him." The best part? I play it cool. No swagger, no flexing, just the bored, steady presence of a mountain that knows the landscape will eventually come to it.

The helmet is Viking as hell—jagged faceplate, silver-blue eye slits, and a pair of not-quite-horns that curve up in a way that's supposed to evoke tradition but mostly just makes me look like someone you'd call when you needed a city block demolished before lunch. PRT said I could skip the full mask if I wanted to "humanize the brand," but I left it on. There's power in anonymity, and if I'm being honest, I kind of like the way it unmans the crowd.

That said, it's not the mask or the armor that really fills the oxygen out of the room—it's knowing that at any second, I could probably bench-press the room. I watch the line of reporters try to hide their micro-expressions as I step up to the podium, the let's-all-act-like-this-is-normal flinching at the sudden, audible thunk of my boots hitting the marble. I try to radiate calm, but I know my size broadcasts something else: inevitability.

Legend introduces me with the kind of measured, insincere warmth that's standard for any cape who's read the media playbook more than once. "This is Warden." There is polite applause, but it's the kind that dies before it reaches the back row. They're all waiting to see if I'll combust on camera or start throwing chairs.

I clear my throat and say, "Thank you, Legend. I'm honored to join the Wards and make myself available to the people of this city. If you have questions, bring them on." The words reverberate a little, maybe because I forgot to dial down the volume, maybe because nobody expects someone my size to be so direct, but I see heads pop up and fingers twitch above recording devices. Glancing up I notice the feed warble for a moment before settling. I took a few more breaths to keep myself in control. I would need to modulate my emotions perfectly to not destroy all the electronics.

The first question comes in fast: "Warden, how do you plan on addressing the recent surge in parahuman violence, especially given your unique… reputation?" The reporter's voice is steady, but I can see her knuckles blanch on the mic.

I look her in the eye—at least, I look her in the half-inch of air directly above her forehead, since I'm half a foot taller—and I say, "By being present. By being relentless. And by making it clear that there's nowhere in Brockton Bay for these assholes to hide."

There's a little stir, a ripple of amusement from one of the Protectorate rookies standing near the wall, but mostly there's the kind of silence that means you've actually made people think, not just react. I had already gone off script, fuck PR, fuck posturing. I'm a god forsaken wizard, not a prop for publicity.

Someone asks about the Scions. I give the stock answer, but add, "They strike at the city's soft points, so we'll shore those up first. That's the plan."

Another question: "What sets you apart from previous Wards?"

Easy. "Besides the fact I look like three Wards in a trench coat?" I ask, getting a smattering of laughter before continuing. "I'm stubborn, and I don't scare easily. Neither should this city." Legend gives me a sidelong glance, almost imperceptible, the way a dog will check if its leash is still attached. Armsmaster is stone-faced, probably already recalculating tactical projections for every villain within a fifty-mile radius, but I can tell he likes the answer.

Another hand goes up near the front, and I give the guy the nod. He looks like he's just stopped being a grad student, and only because CNN's dental plan is worth the trauma. He stands up, checks his notes, and says, "Darryl Fox, CNN. What are your powers?"

I don't even blink. The room expects me to play coy, to say "enhanced strength" or some other generic bullshit that'll pass the PRT's weirdly Puritan filter. But I'm not here to sell tickets; I'm here to be real. "Magic," I say. "I'm a wizard." There's a half-second of silence, the kind that hangs on the edge of a knife, and then the back row cracks up. Not just polite laughter, but a full, irreverent snort from a blogger who's probably been awake for fifty-two hours straight. Even the frontliners can't suppress a ripple of amusement, passing it down the line like a contagious yawn. I get it. To most people, "wizard" evokes a guy in bathrobes yelling at pigeons, not someone built like a freight elevator with a helmet that could double as a riot shield.

Legend recovers first, smoothing over the interruption with a diplomatic chuckle. "Warden brings a unique skill set to the table," he says, "and has demonstrated—"

But the next reporter is already on it, raising her hand with barely-contained glee. "So, could you clarify for the room: you said 'magic.' Is that like, actual spells? Are there, I don't know, wands and dragons involved?" She's trying not to smirk, but failing. I like her style.

I lean forward, letting the lights catch off my helmet. "No dragons," I say, "not unless you count the one here and Canada. As for wands, no—just willpower, focus, and occasionally some Latin. I can manipulate energy, summon defensive shields, and sometimes set things on fire if I'm in a bad mood."

It gets quieter. Legend looks mildly relieved—I'm playing ball, but on my own terms. The next question comes from a local, probably one of the city beat writers who's seen enough cape drama to be bored by it. "We all know Magic isn't real. So what? Are you riffing off Myrddin?"

I force a grin, leaning into the microphone like I've been doing this my whole life. "Myrddin? That'd be one hell of a resume topper if I even get halfway there. Guy runs an entire Protectorate branch, keeps a straight face in Congress, and probably has enough dirt on everyone in D.C. to salt the earth. Me? I'm not cut out for leadership, and trust me, nobody wants to see me in a suit unless there's riot foam on standby." A couple of the older journalists trade looks—half amusement, half not sure if I just insulted the national government or myself—but a few of the younger ones at the blogger table are grinning like idiots. I won them over with honesty, or at least with a lack of PR spin. I can work with that.

I shift my weight, letting the armor creak just enough to sound intimidating. "What I am—what I bring—is a skillset nobody else has. There's not another cape in this city who can do what I do, and that's not ego talking. That's fact." I let the last word linger, my voice dropping into the kind of register that makes people subconsciously stop writing for a second.

A golden moment passes, the room silent except for the faint mechanical buzz from Armsmaster's visor as he records every word. The CNN guy who asked about Myrddin half-raises his hand again, but I bulldoze through before he can launch a follow-up. "I don't care if you believe me," I say, because I don't. "Doubt's healthy. Keeps you from getting conned by the first two-bit illusionist who waves a wand and promises to make your mortgage disappear. But put me in the field and I guarantee you'll stop asking for credentials." I cross my arms, which is mostly for show, since the gesture makes my biceps bulge against the gorget and the crowd's collective posture sags a little.

Somebody at the back—probably one of the Wards, judging by the nervous energy—lets out a low "damn." Flechette, standing just off stage left, actually suppresses a snort, her lips twitching like she just tasted something spicy and couldn't decide if she liked it. The cameras catch every twitch, every breath. It's not lost on me that if I slip up, the clip will live on the internet forever, probably auto-tuned and set to a heavy dubstep track. I can live with that. At least it'll mean people remember me.

A different reporter, a woman in a crimson blazer with a voice that sounds like she's narrated more scandals than documentaries, cuts in. "If you're such an 'asset,' what's the first thing you'd do if you had free rein in the city? What's your opening move?" The words "free rein" hang in the air like a dare.

I meet her stare with the same bored confidence I've practiced in a hundred mirrors. "I'd do what I came here to do: make this city safer and make sure the next monsters that crawl out of the woodwork remember that Brockton Bay doesn't roll over for anyone."

She tries to interrupt, but I hold up a palm the size of a dinner plate. "And if you want to see a demonstration," I add, "just say the word." A ripple of nervous energy sweeps the room. Some laugh. Some scribble. Most just look at me like they're not sure whether to clap or duck for cover. It's the energy I want.

The beat guy, sensing his chance, jumps in. "Isn't that a little… arrogant?"

I let the barb slide, only because I'm waiting for him to really go for it. I can see it in his eyes—the urge to test me, to see if I'm just another paper hero.

That's when the expected happens: the room goes quiet again, and this time the tension is elastic, pulling at every face in the row. The CNN guy, Darryl, raises his hand, already half-standing like he's about to call out a wrestling move.

Legend is about to intervene, but I beat him to it by stepping closer to the edge of the dais. "Difference is," I say, voice steady, "I know exactly what I'm worth. And my performance in the field does the talking, not my PRT bio."

The room absorbs that. Someone at the back even gives a slow, deliberate clap before being shushed by a neighbor. I nod, satisfied. A pause. Then, exactly as expected, a voice from the side calls out: "Prove it, then."

"Okay," I say, and before anyone can try to backpedal or spin it, I step down from the dais, my boots thudding on the cheap auditorium carpet. The crowd parts in front of me like, well, like I'm Moses and they're not particularly committed to standing in the Red Sea. I make a beeline for the woman in the crimson blazer—the one who called me out. She's not as tall as I am; hell, she'd probably struggle to clear my chin even in heels, but she's got that fearless-journalist look, the kind that says she's been screamed at by better monsters than me and lived to get a book deal out of it.

I slow up a few paces away, careful not to loom or flex because that's not the vibe I want. Instead, I give her a chance to recover her dignity and close the gap herself. "Would you like to come up and see a bit closer? None of the equipment in here will survive. Magic really screws with technology, so I'd recommend you leave your phone behind so it doesn't explode in your pocket."

She laughs nervously, a little too loud, then realizes I'm not joking. She glances at the thick brick of a phone clutched in her hand, then at the other reporters—all of whom are now recording or streaming with the kind of zeal reserved for police chases or celebrity meltdowns. "You're serious," she says, already fumbling with her phone, shutting it off, and slipping it into her purse like she's stowing a grenade with the pin pulled. She glances up at me, a little less bravado this time, and says, "You going to burn the place down?"

"Only if someone calls me Gandalf again," I deadpan. That gets another ripple of laughter, but there's a nervous edge to it now, the way people laugh at a zoo when the glass between them and the tiger looks a little too thin. I wave her up toward the empty space at the front, and she follows, her steps unsteady as she tries to decide whether she's about to be part of a magic trick or a cautionary tale.

The rest of the room is silent, except for the faint whine of camera servos and the tick of a distant wall clock. Even the Wards are paying attention now, some with their arms crossed, some with their hands hovering over panic buttons. Legend and Armsmaster are both watching me with the kind of intensity that says they'll have a dozen questions after, but for now, they're letting me set the terms.

I take a deep breath. The air in the auditorium is stale, tangled with the scent of old coffee and burnt circuitry, and it vibrates just a little when I reach out with my senses. Magic feels like static, like standing next to a power station in a lightning storm, and I can tell already that the Thaumaturgy Bleed is going to make this demonstration way more dramatic than intended. I almost pity the janitorial crew.

I turn to the woman as I start to roll my shoulders and loosen the kinks in my neck. "You got a name?" I ask.

She blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, Samantha. Samantha Voss. Channel Five."

"Nice to meet you, Samantha. I'm about to wreck a small but meaningful part of your worldview." I look around, making sure everyone else is watching. "This'll mess with anything electronic, by the way. You might want to take a few steps back."

Samantha hesitates, torn between journalistic curiosity and a healthy sense of self-preservation. She takes one step back. Then, because she's stubborn, she takes two steps forward. I respect that. She gestures for the cameraman to keep rolling from a safe distance. The guy actually backs off, zooming in from behind a concrete pillar.

All eyes are on me. I give the room a half-bow, just for show, then focus inwards. The trick with magic isn't drama—it's control. Too much emotion and I short-circuit the nearest electronics. Not enough, and nothing happens at all. I picture the flow, the way Harry taught me: a river, not a bomb. The energy builds up at my fingertips, humming through the armor, making every hair on my arms stand straight up.

"Watch closely," I say. "I'll only do this once."

The auditorium sizzles with anticipation, only half of it chemical. The other half is pure, undiluted magic—mine, rolling off me in waves thick enough to fog glass. I can feel it radiating from my skin, making the little hairs on my arms stand up and the air taste faintly of ozone. The effect is immediate and brutal: the rows of recording devices that had been tracking every second of the press conference start to glitch in sync, like some invisible hand is flicking the world's shittiest strobe light. Cameras blink to blue screen, phones lose entire years' worth of memory, and the sound system crackles, then dies with a petulant squawk. The only screens still alive are the chunky, reinforced tinker-tech units the PRT brought, and even those are struggling—lines of static crawl up the display like digital ants on speed.

In the front row, the CNN guy's laptop coughs up a stream of binary gibberish, then goes totally black. He stares at the corpse like he's just witnessed a murder. Other journalists clutch at their dead tech, faces cycling rapidly from confusion to annoyance to a kind of wary awe. The realization is slow, but it lands: whatever I'm about to do isn't just another set piece in the endless, dreary circus of cape PR. They're stuck here, off the digital grid, with nothing but their own senses and whatever I choose to show them. I let the silence build until it's not just the absence of noise, but something alive, prowling the room. I can feel every gaze hooked on me, even the ones from the fidgety Wards at the back who'd been pretending not to care. I'm not sure if Samantha Voss, queen of Channel Five, is breathing; she's gone pale, knuckles white around her purse strap, but she's standing her ground. Points for professionalism.

I address her, but it's really for the whole room. "If anyone's still recording, don't bother. You'll get better mileage out of a sketch artist and a séance." The nervous laughter this time is more genuine. I lean forward, armor humming, and let my voice cut the tension: "To prove it's not just another parahuman trick, I'll show you more than one kind of magic. Different styles, different laws."

A ripple runs through the crowd—equal parts skepticism and something closer to hunger. I recognize it. The same look kids get when you tell them the haunted house is actually haunted.

I take a breath, taste the electricity, and sweep a hand through the air like I'm pulling a curtain. Blue-white fire arcs between my fingers, dancing in lazy ribbons, but I don't let it go wild yet. Showmanship, Harry always said. Give them the buildup. "First, a quick primer: what I do isn't like what the capes do. I don't have a 'power.' I have knowledge, will, and a deep, unhealthy disrespect for the laws of reality. The rest? Pure effort."

A couple of the science reporters perk up, pens hovering. I can tell by their faces they want to argue, but I bulldoze on before they can open their mouths. "Magic comes in flavors. There's what I call wizardry, which is more art than science—the stuff your parents warned you about. Then there's what the parahumans do, which is closer to cheating at a video game with hacks. Both can break the world, but only one will make your computer explode as collateral."

I raise my hand again, and this time the blue fire flares, then recedes into a spinning, intricate geometric shape—a sigil, floating and rotating in mid-air. The nerds in the back gasp. Samantha Voss squints, like she's trying to see the wires. "You seeing this?" I ask her, and she nods dumbly, lips parted. "Good."

I let the sigil hang in the air for another heartbeat, savoring the way it warps the light around it, then snap my fingers and snuff it out. The blue fire gutters, replaced instantly by lightning that crackles along my knuckles and leaps between my fingertips like a pissed-off Tesla coil. I'm sweating now—the effort of holding a precision spell and running crowd control at the same time is a bitch and a half. I really should have brought my staff, but apparently, Paranet-issue wizard sticks were too intimidating for polite corporate events. My hands are shaking a little, but I play it off as theatrical flair. "And just in case anyone thinks it's all a fancy heat lamp," I say, grinning at Samantha, who is now eyeing me the way a cat watches a blender. "Let's change the channel. Infriga."

The word rolls off my tongue colder than a Siberian divorce. The effect is instant: the air contracts, every molecule of water vapor within ten feet of me flash-freezes, and a sheet of frost blooms out across the auditorium floor in a spiderweb pattern. It races along the cheap linoleum, under the rows of folding chairs, and up the aluminum legs, dusting shoes and ankles with a rime of white. A few people yelp as the chill bites into them; others just gasp and watch, breath suddenly visible in the dead summer air. Above, a drift of snowflakes—real, actual snow—spirals gently from the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, settling on the shoulders of the front row like a seasonal Hallmark card gone wrong.

Samantha's eyes are huge now. She glances sharply at the other reporters, as if to check whether they're seeing the same thing. They are. The CNN guy is gaping at the snowflake that just landed on his nose. A guy in a Fox News windbreaker is snapping photos with a disposable camera, since his phone is now a very expensive paperweight. Even Legend is watching with a look I can only describe as 'respectful horror.'

"That's three for the price of one," I say, dusting a snowflake off my own shoulder. "But I can do more. In fact, I'm contractually obligated to do more, or the PRT will withhold my hazardous duty pay." That gets a half-laugh, half-groan from the back of the room, where the Wards are now distinctly less bored and distinctly more 'what the hell is happening.'

I decide to up the ante. "Some of you are probably thinking 'parahuman hoax' or 'tinker toy special effects,'" I say. "It's not. Ask Armsmaster, if you don't believe me. He's already run a dozen diagnostics on my gear, and I'm pretty sure he's about to run another twelve." I give Armsmaster a wink, and he looks away, heroically refusing to take the bait. "But just in case you want peer review, here's something no parahuman can do."

The crowd leans in. I pause, savoring the moment, then reach out and snap my fingers again, this time pointing to the far end of the auditorium. There's a potted tree there—one of those sad, decorative ficuses imported from the only greenhouse that can survive the city's rolling magical blackouts. I flex, focusing the spell, and with a sound like a gunshot the entire tree is flash-frozen in a block of clear ice. The ice blooms out in a perfect sphere, catching the fluorescent light and throwing rainbows all over the back wall. The temperature in the room drops by at least ten degrees. Everyone gasps, even the ones who thought they were too cool for theatrics.

I turn back to the crowd, voice steady but a little softer. "The point is, magic doesn't play by the same rules as powers. That's why it can do this," I gesture at the ice-covered tree and the drifting snow, "and why, if you're not careful, it'll do a whole lot worse." I look up, catching the eye of every reporter who's still conscious. "You wanted proof? You got it. But if you still think I'm faking it, feel free to come up and lick the ice cube. Just don't blame me if your tongue gets stuck."

The laughter this time is more genuine, even if it's mostly the nervous kind. I step back, letting the effects fade; the snow stops, the frost recedes, and the ice around the tree cracks, then evaporates into a fine mist that coats the air with the scent of clean, bitter cold. Samantha looks like she wants to ask another thousand questions, but I can see Legend motioning that it's time to wrap up. I bow, this time with a little more humility, and address the room one last time. "Magic isn't a replacement for science. But it doesn't care about your peer-reviewed journals, either. It just is. And on days like this, that's more than enough. Any other questions?" I ask, "Or should I just start juggling lightning until someone from OSHA shows up?"

Legend's voice booms above the chatter, cutting through the haze of ozone and the dead shock on a hundred upturned faces. "I believe that your time is up, Warden. We still need to introduce Flechette." There's no hint of impatience, only that gentle, inhuman calm that makes normal people want to confess their childhood crimes. The room's spell snaps, and I feel myself physically reeled back to reality, like surfacing from a deep, freezing pool.

Legend sweeps forward with a smile that's all public relations, and gently but firmly steers me offstage. The audience erupts behind us—now that it's over, the press pack unfreezes and pelts each other with questions, some aimed at me, some at the PRT handlers, most just yelled into the void. "Are you Eidolon's secret son?" "Is that armor OSHA certified?" The volume is an order of magnitude above anything from the actual demonstration, and for a second, I'm almost impressed. Capes are easy to impress. Reporters, you have to nuke from orbit.

As I'm funneled off the main floor, I catch a last glimpse of Samantha Voss. She's already on her feet, marching after Legend and me, digital recorder clutched like a holy relic, but the mob swallows her. The last thing I see is her scowling at the blue-haired intern who tries to trip her to get ahead. The rest of the room is pure feeding frenzy: the Wards huddle closer to the back wall, eyes wide, half of them looking at me with a kind of terrified hero-worship, the other half like they're already plotting to never piss me off. Even Armsmaster, stoic bastard that he is, is glancing at the ice-locked ficus with open curiosity.

Backstage is marginally less insane, if you ignore the PRT attachés scrambling to schedule media blitzes, and the janitor frantically mopping up the frost spiderweb I left. Legend guides me into a green room that smells like recycled air and burned coffee, then double-checks the door to ensure no stray reporters have wormed in. He gives me a look—equal parts proud dad and detonator technician—which is probably the most confusing emotional cocktail I've ever received from a living legend. "Nice work, Warden," he says. "Next time, warn us about the sudden temperature drop, or we'll have OSHA in here for real."

I give him a salute, trying not to look as drained as I feel. The adrenaline's running down now, leaving behind the kind of deep-bone exhaustion that only comes from forcibly rewriting the laws of physics in front of an audience. I want to collapse into one of the ugly couches and disappear for a solid year, but the schedule's not finished with me yet.

Instead, Legend hands me a bottle of water, then gestures subtly toward the far end of the room, where another figure is waiting. At first glance, she looks like just another PR intern—slight, sharp-featured, hair cut in a sweep of metallic black, uniform so precise it could have been measured by laser. But the way she stands, silent and motionless, has nothing to do with nerves or imposter syndrome. It's predatory patience.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, how mad do you think Piggot is going to be?" I ask, stretching out on the ugly couch like it's my therapist. Even exhausted, I can't help myself; poking the bear is a time-honored tradition, and I refuse to let Legend's near-infallible composure intimidate me out of my birthright.

Legend doesn't even blink. The corners of his mouth tug upward in a way that says he's played this game for decades longer than I've been alive. "I do not believe ten to be a high enough number to measure that." He sits in the armchair opposite, posture perfect, blue-silver eyes twinkling with the promise of incoming paperwork.

I clutch my chest with mock horror. "You're telling me I've surpassed the scale? Is this what it feels like to make history?"

He taps his chin theatrically, all deadpan. "In my experience, Director Piggot reserves her highest ratings for existential crises and budget overruns. You may have finally merged the two."

"Sweet. I love efficiency," I say, accepting the water bottle from him and chugging a third of it in one go. "Should I expect a formal reprimand or just the usual three a.m. email written entirely in uppercase that I'll never read?"

"First, you'll be debriefed by at least two Watchdogs, then interrogated for breach of protocol, and then—if you survive—Piggot will invite you to her office to explain, in detail, how you've ruined her week." Legend's voice is soft, but the subtext is volcanic. The guy is a master of understated threat.

I grin and lean back, ice bag pressed to my wrist. "You ever think she only keeps you around so she has someone to blame when a wizard nukes the city block?"

Legend's laugh is a low rumble, almost human. "I have considered more than once that I'm here as a sacrificial lamb." The mirth fades, replaced by a glint of steel. "But today, I'm just glad you survived. I mean it. Don't underestimate yourself, Warden. You did well out there."

It's stupid how much I want to hear that. Sure, I've had authority figures say "good job" before, but usually there's a knife in the handshake or a bill stapled to the compliment. That wasn't just a pat on the back; that was sincere, and it lands harder than any punch I've taken. For a second, I let myself just feel it—the weird warmth, the sense that maybe I'm not completely fucking this up. This was the kind of praise you could wring out and drink on a cold night.

I immediately regret letting my guard down, so I cover it with a flippant grin. "Careful, Legend. You keep up with the wholesome encouragement, and I'll start thinking you want me to stick around." But my voice cracks on the joke, and what leaks through is raw, unfiltered happiness.

I try to rein it back in—God forbid I look like I care too much—but I can't help the real smile that forces its way out. The kind of smile you get when someone's seen you eat shit and still says you mattered. I keep my eyes low, suddenly fascinated by the label on my water bottle, because it's easier than meeting Legend's gaze when I know he can read me like a library book.

I finally look up and realize I'm alone with Legend, the other girl having vanished with all the stealth of a ninja at a dinner party. I stand, rolling my shoulders, feeling the echo of the frost still clinging to my bones. "Well, I'm technically off the clock now," I say, already picturing how far I can get if I beeline it straight for the roof access. "And, what an absolute shame, I don't have a communicator on my person for Piggot to ream me on. Or even attempt to drag my ass back to her office." 

Legend's eyes twinkle. He knows the game. He's probably got money on how many minutes before the Director tracks me down, and I'm betting the under. 

"Don't let her catch you on camera," he says, rising from his chair with the grace of a man who could outrun light. 

I slip out of the green room and into the maze of institutional beige hallways, making a show of sauntering as if I actually belong here and am not actively evading the law, or at least administrative summons. The PRT's Brockton Bay branch is a brutalist horror show of poured concrete and plexiglass, but I have to admit, it's got some great hiding places if you know where to look. 

I walk for a minute, pace casual, and let the adrenaline drain out. Without the lights, the noise, the air thrumming with power, the building feels like a tomb. I almost wish I had someone to share the silence with, just for the human static. That's when Velocity appears, blur-popping into existence directly in my path. 

"Stars and Stones!" I yelp, genuinely startled, and stumble back a pace. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, man." 
Velocity's mouth is a thin line, but I can see the effort it takes for him not to laugh. "Director Piggot requests your immediate presence in her office." He says it like he's reading from a script, which he probably is. 

"Are you sure she doesn't want to just detonate my collar remotely?" I ask, craning my neck like a condemned prisoner eyeing the gallows. "Because that might actually be quicker for both of us." 

He shrugs, strangely sympathetic. "Look, I'm just the messenger. But if it helps, she's already redlined her blood pressure twice this morning. You might actually outlive her." 

I give him a look. "Not unless she's switched to decaf, and you know she literally keeps an espresso IV under the desk." 

He grins at that, which is about as close as Velocity ever gets to outright rebellion, and then he's gone, leaving a faint blue afterimage and a gentle scent of ozone. 

I sigh, deeply, and consider my options. I could run—get lost in the city, hide out in an abandoned building until the heat dies down—but that's not me. Not anymore. Besides, Piggot is probably petty enough to just send the entire Wards team to flush me out, and I am not about to let myself be tackled by Clockblocker on live television.

So I do the only thing I can: I march toward the Director's office with the stately resignation of a gladiator entering the arena. There's a part of me that wants to practice my speech, maybe come up with a fresh angle for why nearly freezing a national hero in front of the press is, technically, good for morale. But bullshit is a finite resource, and I spent most of mine on the demonstration.

The walk feels like a funeral procession, but I try to keep my head high and my footsteps loud enough that any surveillance mic picks up how little I care. The closer I get, the more the tension ratchets up; every agent and aide in the corridor suddenly finds something fascinating to stare at on the floor, or ducks into a side room before I can pass. It's a little like being radioactive, but instead of giving people cancer, I just make their morning that much shittier.

I round the last corner and see the familiar steel door with Piggot's nameplate. Two watchdogs flank the entrance, as if I might try to escape out a window and make for Canada. I give them my best "this is fine" smile, and they don't even blink. Knocking feels redundant, so I just open the door and step inside, bracing for impact. Piggot's office is exactly what you'd expect: stark, minimal, and utterly devoid of anything that might suggest warmth or whimsy. She's seated behind a desk that looks like it was carved from a single block of black obsidian, hands folded neatly like she's about to deliver a court-martial, not a disciplinary chat. She doesn't rise. She doesn't even look up for a full five seconds, letting the silence build into a tangible force. When she finally speaks, her voice could cut glass. "Mr. McClaine. Sit." 

I do, resisting the urge to salute or otherwise make a mockery of the chain of command. The chair across from her desk is surprisingly comfortable, which only makes me more suspicious.

She lets the silence drag. "Would you like to explain why I have fifty-seven voicemails from the Mayor, four from the Governor, and one, from what I can only assume is a paid actor, claiming to be the Secretary of Defense?" 

I open my mouth, and for once, the sarcasm dies before it can even reach my tongue. "Ma'am, I—" 

She cuts me off, a hand slicing the air. "Save it. I saw the demonstration. You made your point. You have also made mine, repeatedly, about why I have nightmares every time your name appears in an email." 

I could try to apologize, but I know it'd only make things worse, so I shut up and wait. 

Piggot steeples her fingers. "You're not in trouble. Not real trouble, anyway. But you are the subject of a great deal of interest, and not just from the people who sign my paycheck. There's a delegation arriving from Washington in two days, and they want you on your best behavior. That doesn't mean less reckless. It means less… showy." 

I nod, fighting the urge to ask if that's even possible. 

She gives me a look that could muzzle a rabid wolf. "What's your read on the Wards team so far?" 

I blink, processing. "Honestly? They're good kids. They want to help, even the ones who pretend not to care. But they're scared, too. Not of the job, but of what happens if they screw up. They need someone who can make them feel like they're not alone in the crazy." 
Piggot surprises me with a tiny nod. "Good. Because you're not just a weapon, Warden. You're a role model. If you can manage to do that without leveling another city block, the President might give you a medal." 

I can't help it; I snort. "I'll keep the collateral to a minimum. Promise." 

She doesn't smile, but the edge softens just a hair. "Dismissed." 

I rise, the weight of the entire exchange heavier than I expected. "Yes, ma'am." There's a strange quiet as I exit the office. The Watchdogs don't even look at me. I let myself drift through the corridors, not sure where I'm headed next, just knowing I'm still breathing and haven't been fitted for a shock collar. That's what passes for a win around here.

Unfortunately, the victory lap is short-lived, because as I clear the corner, Velocity is waiting for me again, arms folded and smirk firmly back in place.

"Enjoy your reaming?" he asks, voice low and conspiratorial.

"Man, I just got rid of that migraine," I groan, but there's no heat to it. If anything, it feels almost good to have survived the crucible.

Chapter Text

Gallant and I get the Boardwalk for my first official patrol shift. The area is supposed to be the safest chunk of Brockton Bay—lots of families, tourists, and PRT officers within spitting distance, which makes this less of an actual patrol and more a walking, talking billboard for the Ward program. Gallant's armor is polished to a mirror shine, the blue and silver gleaming in the late morning sun as he struts alongside me.

PRT said the point was visibility, but this was less about crime prevention and more about optics. We're the first line of defense against purse snatchers and loitering. In an open plaza, an old guy hustles a chessboard at a folding table. He tries to get Gallant to play, but the hero politely declines, quoting some regulation about "direct civilian engagement." I say screw it and play a round, lose in six moves, and shake the guy's hand. It's the only fun I have for the first hour, unless you count getting hit on by a trio of bored high school girls who want Gallant's autograph and my phone number. I sign it, just "Warden."

Gallant is every bit the Boy Scout: polite, efficient, never stops scanning the crowd with that helmet visor. He tries to coach me on how to carry myself, how to stand with my shoulders back and eyes forward, how to look "approachable but vigilant." I try it. I just look constipated and skeptical. We both decide to table the suggestion for now. Brockton Bay PD runs a foot patrol nearby, and they give us a wide berth. We catch a few stares from beat cops. One of them, a freckled Irishwoman with a predilection for nicotine gum, makes a point to say, "Don't let the newbie get shot, Gallant."

A little after noon, the crowd thickens: a field trip empties a yellow school bus onto the sidewalk, and suddenly there are a hundred screaming kids swarming the duck pond by the fountain. "Brace yourself," Gallant says. "Kids love capes."

They do, but they love me more because I actually talk to them. I show off a little magic—enough to spook the teachers, but not enough to violate the PRT's "no unapproved thaumaturgy" clause. I levitate a juice box, which nearly gives the chaperone a coronary. Gallant sighs, but I can tell he's amused.

Midway through my second demonstration, the air changes. It's not magic, or at least not wizard magic. It's the subtle, ozone-thin feel of parahuman tension: the way the crowd's noise stutters, then sharpens. Two figures in cheap hoodies start booking it down the promenade, a half-block away. One's clutching a purse, the other's got a knife. Gallant's posture snaps military-straight. "Target, two o'clock. Possible parahuman, unknown class."

I break into a run before he finishes the sentence, vaulting a park bench and sending a flock of pigeons skyward. The taller thief glances over his shoulder, sees us closing, and ducks into the alley behind a boba shop. Gallant's faster, his boots powered by microservos and adolescent adrenaline. He shouts, "Brockton Bay Wards, stop!" His voice has that weird, radio-filtered reverb that makes you want to obey, even if you're not being chased.

We corner the two idiots in a dead-end service lane. The knife guy turns, waving his blade, and I see the shimmer around his hand—the telltale sign of a proto-shield, probably Tinker tech or a minor Brute rating. The other kid, the one with the purse, is already panicking, his lip quivering and his fingers white-knuckled around the stolen bag. I don't even hesitate. "Drop the knife and toss the purse," I snap, advancing. "We don't want to hurt you."

He snarls, knife guy, with all the bravado of an alley cat that's cornered but refuses to admit it. His knuckles are bloodless, grip locked around his cheap kitchen blade as if he's spent the last hour psyching himself up for this one moment of idiocy. He charges—no hesitation, no warning, just a grunt and a burst of panic speed. The smell of sweat and old oil hits me. I don't bother stepping back. I raise my blasting rod. Not because I need the focus—it's a crutch these days, a security blanket. But in the middle of a public square, showmanship matters. Control matters even more: one slip, and suddenly the Boardwalk has a new pothole shaped like an ex-con, and I'm at the center of a paperwork typhoon.

For half a second, I consider cribbing one of Harry's spells, maybe going for the classic Fuego, and make a statement. But that's lazy, and I have my own style to prove. "Cintas Lorin," I mutter, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the lingering city noise. The words vibrate on the air, not just sound but meaning, old and stubborn as bedrock. A black orb the size of a grapefruit flickers into existence at the tip of my rod, dense and hungry, the afterimage burning into my vision like a camera flash.

The knife doesn't just fall. It rips from the guy's hand like he's suddenly lost all his muscles, flies in a perfect, physics-defying arc, and slams into the orb hard enough to send a metallic screech ricocheting down the alley. The effect is a weird cross between a magic trick and a physics demo: the blade warps, bends, and flattens itself against the surface of the orb, the magnetic field holding it so tight the handle cracks. The orb hovers there, spinning lazily, knife welded to it like a badge of honor. Knife guy yelps and stumbles, thrown off balance by the abrupt loss of his only bargaining chip. He looks at his empty hand, then at me, then at the rod, and for the first time all day I see actual fear instead of bravado. The shimmer around his wrist flickers and dies, like his confidence went with the weapon.

Gallant is next to me in a heartbeat, his palm raised in a defensive gesture. "Nice work," he mutters, low enough I almost miss it. His eyes don't leave the kid, but I catch a flicker of surprise—or maybe respect—beneath the mirrored visor. "You're not supposed to use that in public," he whispers. I shrug. If the PRT wanted me to stand around looking pretty, they should've issued me a baton and a cup of coffee. The other kid, the purse-snatcher, freezes mid-backpedal. You can see the gears turning in his head, frantic math as he realizes he's down a partner and up against people who can literally bend the laws of physics. He drops the bag and bolts, but not toward the street; he dives for the chain-link fence at the end of the alley, scrambling for the nearest escape.

Gallant takes off after him, microservos in his legs whirring, and I'm left with knife guy, who's clutching his wrist and trying not to cry in front of an audience. The orb fizzles out, dropping the knife to the ground with a clatter. I step forward, boot nudging the blade away just in case he finds new reserves of stupidity.

"Sit," I tell him. He sits. It's almost disappointing how quickly the fight leaves him.

Behind me, I hear the sound of a commotion: Gallant shouting, steel-toed boots pounding asphalt, a trash can getting kicked over. The Boardwalk crowd is starting to realize something's happened, and a few tourists are braving nearer for a look. I scan for any signs of capes in the vicinity—not just heroes, but villains with nothing better to do than gawk at the new guy with the magic stick.

PRT is going to love this, I think, but I file it away and kneel to the would-be mugger's level. "You're done," I say, voice soft but final. "You want to make a scene, or you want to walk out of here with all your teeth?"

He shakes his head, and I see the bravado fully collapse. He's just a kid—no older than sixteen. He mumbles something about not wanting trouble, like he didn't just try to stab a Ward in daylight.

"Good," I say. "Because if you run, you'll make me look bad. And that would really piss me off."

He nods, eyes glued to the ground. Above and behind me, Gallant comes striding back with the other kid in tow, one arm locked behind his back, the purse dangling from Gallant's other hand like a trophy. The hero's armor is scuffed, and there's a smear of something vaguely orange on his leg, but otherwise he looks annoyingly put-together.

"Both suspects contained," Gallant says, voice back to official. "Nice job," he adds, this time with the smallest hint of a smile.

I stand, dust off my jeans, and salute with the blasting rod. "Teamwork makes the dream work."

He doesn't roll his eyes, but you can tell he wants to.

"You're writing the report," I say, and Gallant's groan is pure, undiluted agony.

For the first time since I became a Ward, I don't get my ass chewed off by Piggot. In fact, when I trudge back into the PRT's warren of fluorescent-lit offices, I'm not even halfway through my "this is why I shouldn't be in trouble" speech before she's already congratulating me. She says I showed restraint. She says I "demonstrated excellent judgment in the field." She even says the phrase "model conduct," which would be hilarious if it weren't so deeply unsettling. For a second, I wonder if it's a test—maybe this is some weird psychological stress experiment and the real punishment will drop later, once the shock wears off.

But no. There's a file folder instead of a citation, and a commendation instead of a lecture. The paperwork gets signed, the two idiot kids get processed, and I get sent to the Wards' common room with an honest-to-god smile from the desk sergeant. The rest of the Wards are coming off patrol, trickling in with their uniforms half-unzipped and masks pushed up. Everyone's decompressing, talking shit, and recapping the morning. I can't shake the feeling that I've walked into some parallel universe. The walls are plastered in fan art and con posters, the air smells faintly of microwave burritos and burnt ozone, and no one looks like they want to cave my head in.

Dean's there—Gallant, now out of his helmet and armor, looking impossibly clean-cut for someone who just chased a thief through a dumpster. He's sitting on the battered couch, reading something on his phone, but he looks up when I walk in. He flashes that all-American quarterback smile, the one that's supposed to make you forget he can fire lasers at you with a thought.

I think about the alley, the look on the kid's face when he realized he was outmatched. In the afterglow of not fucking up, the only thing I can think to do is drop onto the couch next to Dean and exhale all the weirdness out of my lungs.

"I should buy a fucking lottery ticket," I mutter.

Dean glances over, arching an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"Because," I say, "I pulled the most textbook Ward move of my career, and all I got was praise. From Piggot. I feel like there's a hidden camera in here and I'm about to get clowned on by a reality show host."

Dean laughs, and it sounds genuine, like he can't help himself. "You're being dramatic. Piggot loves it when we don't make her life harder. You should enjoy it while it lasts."

"I'd enjoy it a lot more if it didn't feel so unnatural," I say, picking at the edge of a throw pillow that's seen better days. "I'm serious—last time I sneezed in the break room, she threatened to duct tape my nose shut. Now I stop a mugging and suddenly I'm Citizen of the Month?"

Dean shrugs. "Maybe she's just waiting for you to relax before she springs the trap."

I snort. "That would be on brand."

The common room TV is playing an old cartoon in the background, muted, while Carlos and Clock argue over which flavor of protein bar tastes least like sawdust. I zone out for a second, watching Dennis try to open a bottle of Gatorade with his teeth, and think: this is about as close as I'm ever going to get to a normal post-work hangout.

Across from us, Vista is working through three math textbooks at once, highlighter in one hand and a fidget cube in the other. When she sees me, she gives a little salute with the fidget cube, then goes back to drawing bright yellow lines through equations.

Dean leans back and gives me a look. "You really feel like you need to up your game?"

I nod, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being seen as anything other than a lovable fuck-up. "Yeah. 'Model conduct' isn't my brand. If I'm not causing at least one mild panic attack a week, who even am I?"

He grins. "You're a Ward. Sometimes that means acting like a professional."

"Yeah, and sometimes it means getting chewed out every other day for not following protocol," I say. "Honestly, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Murphy's Law doesn't take days off in Brockton Bay."

Dean toys with his phone, sees it start to go screwy and turns it off, then looks up again, this time more serious. "You know, you can just be you"

I roll my eyes. "And who exactly is that? A half-ass wizard with a decent right hook and a talent for paperwork?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe you're actually good at this, and that scares you more than being a disaster."

For a second, I just sit with that, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest. "You're getting weirdly philosophical for a guy whose last three texts were about chicken nuggets," I tell him.

"Balance," he says, deadpan. "If I didn't keep you on your toes, you'd get complacent."

I can't tell if he's joking or not, so I don't push it. Instead, I ask, "Who's on patrol with me tomorrow?"

Dean glances at the duty roster on his phone, then back at me. "Looks like it's just you and Vista. Try not to make her jump off a bridge."

"No promises," I say, which gets a half-laugh out of him.

I settle in, letting the low hum of the common room and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights lull me into something like comfort. For once, I'm not bracing for disaster. It feels… unsettling. Maybe Dean's right and that's what scares me most.

"Hey," Dean says, after a minute. He's not looking at me, just staring at the cartoon on TV. "You ever get the feeling you're the only one here who actually wants to be normal?"

"Absolutely not, fuck being normal," I say, a little too loud. The words come out before I can even think about reining them in, but it's true and it needs to be said. "I just don't want people crossing the street when they see me walking their way. Or, I dunno, kids hiding behind their parents at the grocery store. That shit actually stings." I glance at Dean, who's sporting the kind of jawline that probably gets him free sundaes at Ben & Jerry's, and make a show of flexing my biceps. I look like a professional wrestler back in the eighties, juiced up on steroids. "I look like your classic barbarian, man. Give me a leather kilt and a battle axe and I could probably unionize the local Norse reenactment society."

Dennis cackles from across the room, nearly choking on his blue Gatorade. "You say that like it's a bad thing! Have you seen what passes for 'normal' in this city?" He gestures with the bottle at Vista, who's now simultaneously working on her math homework and solving a Rubik's cube with unnerving efficiency. She doesn't even look up, just flips him off with the hand holding the highlighter.

Dean grins, warming to the bit. "So, what, you want to start a cosplay club on the side? We could get you a cape. Or, you know, not. You don't really seem like a cape guy."

I pretend to consider it, tilting my head. "Halloween is right around the corner," I say, letting a grin split my face. "Maybe I'll just show up as Conan. Shirtless. Scare the shit out of the freshmen. Bonus points if Piggot sees it and has an aneurysm."

"Don't tempt Chambers," Carlos says from the kitchenette, where he's microwaving the world's saddest burrito. "You'd end up on a recruitment poster. 'Join the Wards: We have abs now.'"

"Do you have abs?" Dennis asks, one eyebrow up.

I smirk. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

Dean just shakes his head, but I can tell he's fighting down a smile. It's a game, this banter, a way to let the pressure bleed off before we get thrown into the next life-and-death bullshit the city has planned. For a second, I let myself relax into it, feeling almost—almost—like I belong.

Truth is, I don't even know what "normal" means, not after a lifetime of bouncing between foster homes and then getting tossed into the deep end of the supernatural pool. Maybe the best I can hope for is being weird in a way that doesn't make everyone else uncomfortable.

Vista looks up from her homework, eyes narrow with scrutiny. "You'd have to grow out your hair," she says, dead serious. "Conan has, like, a mane. Yours is just sad."

"Says the girl who cut hers with safety scissors last month," I shoot back, and there's a ripple of laughter around the room—real, not forced.

Dean leans his head back and stares at the ceiling, like he's trying to find the answer to life's big questions in the water stains. "You know," he says, "if you actually show up in a loincloth, I'll donate my next three paychecks to charity. There's no way you'd do it."

I make a solemn face, give him the three-finger Scout's honor. "You underestimate my commitment to the bit."

He snorts. "No, I think I just overestimate your self-preservation instinct."

And that's it—that's the whole exchange, but it leaves me lighter than I expected. Maybe I'm not normal, but at least I'm not alone in being weird.

Dean nudges me with his elbow. "You know, for a guy who says he doesn't care what people think, you spend a lot of time worrying about it."

I wave my hand. "Eh, it's not that I care what they think. It's that I care about what they think becoming my problem. Like, if their opinions fuck with my ability to do my job, then it's an issue." I'm not sure if that makes sense, but it makes sense in my head, and that's all I need. "Words and thoughts don't affect me," I say, and I mean it, "but if I have to spend my day cleaning up after someone else's drama because they can't keep their head straight around me, then that's a problem."

Dennis leans over the back of the couch, eyes glinting with the promise of mischief. "So, wait, if the entire city decided you were the mayor of Edgelord 

Central, you wouldn't care unless they made you sign autographs?"

"Exactly," I say, pointing at him for emphasis, "except you'd have to pay me per autograph. I'll sign your forehead, fifty bucks a pop."

Vista makes a noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "You say that like you don't want the attention, but you're the loudest person in the building. You literally can't walk into a room without announcing your presence."

I shoot her a finger-gun. "That's called alpha energy. It's a power move."

Carlos, finally done cremating his burrito, plops down at the kitchen table and tears off the plastic wrap with the violence of a man who's lost too much to ever microwave in peace. "He's not wrong," he says, mouth already full. "If you walk into a crime scene in this city, and nobody notices you, you're probably dead."

Dennis cocks his head. "Or you're a ninja."

"Or you're a ghost," I add, "but then you'd still hear about it. Someone would be like, 'Did you guys feel a sudden drop in temperature and crippling sense of existential dread?' and everyone would look at me."

Dean, who's been listening with that half-amused, half-exasperated face he does, finally weighs in. "So you're saying you want to be effective, but you don't want to be memorable."

I pretend to think about it. "No, I want to be memorable for doing my job right, not for being the freak show at the end of the parade."

Vista, not even glancing up from her math, says, "You're both."

I stick my tongue out at her, and she returns the favor, which is about as warm as our relationship gets.

Dennis, now emboldened, goes for the throat: "So, if you're so immune to people talking shit, would you let us post your baby pictures on the team page?"

"I don't have any baby pictures," I say. "I was summoned from a pentagram fully grown. First thing I did was punch a demon in the nuts and ask for a sandwich."

Dean snorts into his fist. "You see? This is what I'm talking about. You're terrified of being average, but you're more normal than half the people here."

I shake my head, chuckling. "If I'm normal, then the world needs a tune-up."

Carlos raises his half-demolished burrito like a toast. "To the new normal: chaos and bad Mexican food."

The room echoes the cheer, and for a second we're just a bunch of stupid kids, none of us special, none of us monsters, all of us laughing at the same dumb joke.

Dean leans back, thoughtful. "You know, for all your talk about not caring, you're the only one who ever shows up when someone's in trouble. Even if it's just picking up Dennis after he locked himself in a utility closet again."

Dennis protests, but no one buys it. I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Somebody's gotta do it," I say, quiet, and that ends the conversation for a moment, like a balloon popping.

But Dennis can't let it go. "So what are you gonna do when you graduate, Mr. Alpha Energy? You sticking with the Protectorate, or going full Hogwarts dropout?"

I hadn't actually thought that far ahead. The future had always been this blurry, foggy thing, and I'd gotten really good at living day to day. I open my mouth to wing it, but nothing comes out, and for half a second, the silence is as heavy as a cinderblock on my chest.

"I dunno," I say finally, "maybe join the circus. Or become a motivational speaker." I give Dean a lopsided grin. "What about you? You gonna keep playing team dad until we all move out, or do you have bigger plans?"

Dean meets my gaze, and for a moment, there's something behind his eyes that makes me think he actually hates this question—like he's got some secret plan that he's afraid to say out loud.

But then he just shrugs. "One day at a time, man. That's all any of us can do."

I nod, and for a moment, I let myself believe it.

Before things can get too sappy, I vault off the couch and stretch like a guy trying to shake off an impending existential crisis. "I'm going to hit the gym," I announce, already halfway out of the living room and hoping someone will give me an excuse to not think so damn hard about the future.

Clockblocker doesn't miss a beat. "Don't," he calls after me, "you'll Warden Smash everything and then there'll be no dumbbells left for us mortals." His voice has that perfect blend of mockery and genuine concern, which is warm in a Dennis kind of way. I flip him the bird over my shoulder, an expertly executed one-finger salute that gets an approving cackle from his direction. Behind me, I hear Carlos mutter something about "protein shakes and puberty" and Dennis launching into a riff about how the gym equipment is people-shy after last week's 'incident.' Vista gets in on it too, without looking up from her homework, suggesting I invest in a set of custom weights made out of concrete and self-loathing. I shoot her a finger-gun as I retreat, paying it forward.

But the truth is, I actually like the gym. Not the performative flexing part, but the grind. The reliable rhythm of reps and sets, the heavy clink of metal plates, the rubberized scent of sweat and Lysol—there's a weird comfort in it. The gym is where you go when you're trying to turn anger into progress, or at least into sore muscles. I push through the door and take the stairs two at a time, passing a couple of officers who eye me with suspicious deference. I grunt a hello at them, leaning into my reputation as that guy, the one who bench-presses his feelings.

Inside, the gym is empty, which is ideal. The lights overhead are harsh enough to bleach the graffiti off the cinderblock walls, and the only music is the sticky pop-punk coming through the busted ceiling speakers. I scan the racks out of habit, making sure nobody left their towels or water bottles lying around. Last week, someone left a half-eaten protein bar wedged between the squat rack plates, and it bothered me more than I want to admit.

I start with deadlifts, because I need to feel something in my lower back besides stress. The bar is cold and nicked, like it's fought its way through generations of angry teenagers and come out bent but unbroken. I load it up, chalk my hands, and pull until I feel the world shrink down to breath and gravity. It's almost meditative, the way the pain cuts through everything else. No parahuman drama, no magical bullshit, just the simple arithmetic of force and mass. I can almost fool myself into thinking I'm normal, if only for a sixty-second set.

But of course I'm not, and the evidence is right there in my reflection: six-ten, two-seventy-five, veins ropey under the skin, hair a shade darker than the bruises that never quite fade. I wonder what my birth parents looked like—maybe they were built like this, or maybe I'm a genetic outlier, some cosmic joke. There's a rumor online that the Wards recruit only pretty people, like it's all a marketing ploy, but the truth is you get what you get. Sometimes you get an Adonis with trust issues. Sometimes you get me.

After deadlifts, I hit the bench press. The bar bends under the weight, but I trust it to hold. I close my eyes, trying to sync up my breathing, but all I can think about is Dean's voice in my head: One day at a time. That's all any of us can do.

The last few months, my powers have been getting weirder. Stronger, too, but not in a way that feels safe. Sometimes I worry that I'll snap the bar in half and send an end flying through the wall, or worse, that I'll lose control at the wrong moment and become another case file for the higher-ups. Nobody wants to be a cautionary tale, least of all me. So I lift, over and over, trying to burn off the extra energy before it burns me first.

A couple sets in, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I freeze, every muscle going taut. Old habit—always be ready for an ambush, even if it's just Dennis coming to throw a basketball at my head. But it's not Dennis. The footsteps fade, and I'm alone again, the silence almost as loud as the voices in my skull.

I finish my set and sit up, dripping sweat, elbows on my knees. The mirrors in here make the room look twice as big and twice as lonely. I stare at myself, half-daring my reflection to blink first. I look like the kind of guy who should have it all figured out, but the truth is, I've never known what to do with myself when things aren't on fire. That's the secret nobody tells you: being strong doesn't make you bulletproof. It just means you take bigger hits before you go down.

I dry off with a scratchy towel that smells of detergent and defeat, then wander over to the row of battered exercise bikes. I pedal without thinking, letting my legs do the work while my brain spirals in circles. I try and fail to picture my life after this—after the Wards, after high school, after the next city-shattering crisis. The image is a blank, and maybe that's all it'll ever be. The gym is where I put the pieces back together. Where I remember that even if I can't fix myself, I can at least keep moving forward. Maybe that's enough. So I keep lifting, keep counting reps, keep sweating out the demons. It's not therapy, but it's close.

Chapter Text

I barely have time to slouch deeper into my beanbag prison before a set of hands seize me by the arm and another set wedge themselves between my ribs and the suddenly traitorous upholstery. One heartbeat, I’m laughing at some dumb meme on the new Tinktech TV Armsmaster installed in the Wards common room, the next I’m frog-marched out of the common room and down the hallway with Victoria Dallon in full-on kidnapper mode, Dean trailing just behind like he’s my designated hostage negotiator. “What the hell is going on?” I say, trying to dig in my heels. No dice—the floor’s too clean and Victoria’s got a brute rating that I can’t match. The hallway’s less a hallway than a parade of shame as her platinum hair bobs just ahead of my face, and every damn Ward on duty is peeking out to watch the show.

“We are taking you shopping,” Victoria says, like that explains anything. Dean gives me a little shrug over her shoulder, the international symbol for, “I’m powerless to stop her.” If the world ever ends, it’ll probably be because Victoria Dallon had an idea and nobody else felt like dying to oppose it.

“You guys got paid today, and you can’t keep looking like a slob,” she says over her shoulder, no mercy in sight.

“I look fine,” I protest. “This is the height of wizard chic.”

“You look like a cross between a conspiracy theorist and an eighties groupie,” Dean pipes in, trying to sound helpful but mostly sounding like he’s enjoying this way too much.

“It’s a look,” I say, desperate. “It’s mysterious.” But Victoria’s smirk says she is not fooled, and I’m starting to fear for my mortal soul and for my vintage Black Sabbath tee.

“Relax,” she says, “I promise I’ll only make you try on, like, one million things.” The way she says it, I know she means it. She drags me through the elevator and out into the glass-and-chrome hell of Brockton’s fanciest mall, all while giving me the rundown on how this is a vital mission for the good of the team image.

I glare at Dean, hoping for backup, but he just snorts and says, “She’s right, you know.”

There’s no hope. I’m doomed. My fate is sealed. I resign myself to it, praying that I survive the ordeal with my dignity intact. But as we approach the first store—a place with mannequins so skeletal they’d make the Hunger Games cast look plump—I realize the true horror: I am about to become Victoria’s living dress-up doll. And judging by the gleam in her eye, I might never be the same.

Amy shoots me a grin, pure evil from one Dallon to another. She’s perched on a divider next to the storefront, arms folded, eyes gleaming with unholy delight. You’d think, as the Only Sane Person in her entire family, she’d have some solidarity with a fellow captive, but no—she’s living for this, soaking up every second of my humiliation like it’s the sun, and she’s a plant that runs on secondhand embarrassment.

I mouth “help me” at her as Victoria drags me through a gauntlet of peppy, pastel-shirted sales associates, but Amy just shakes her head and makes a little “tsk-tsk” gesture. “You brought this on yourself,” she mouths back. It gets worse. Victoria pulls me into a changing room with all the subtlety of a SWAT raid, and Dean—sweet, supportive, traitorous Dean—starts rifling through racks like he’s been secretly prepping for this day his whole life. He and Victoria are a tag team of style interventions, pulling out jackets with more zippers than sense, pants so skinny I’m not sure they qualify as clothing, and shirts that look like they were designed by someone tripping on acid at a glam rock festival. Victoria tosses a sequined blazer at my head; Dean lobs a pair of what I can only describe as “aggressively turquoise” jeans after it. Amy, ever the peanut gallery, provides real-time commentary from outside the curtain. “You know, Xander, that color would really bring out your eyes if you weren’t already allergic to dignity,” she calls out, voice muffled by her laughter.

I glare at the three of them over the mountain of fabric accumulating in my arms. “You people are monsters,” I say, and Vicky just winks.

“There are worse things to be,” she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder with the casual confidence of someone who’s never once worn an embarrassing outfit in her life. “Now get in there and make some fashion magic happen.”

I consider running, briefly, but Victoria physically blocks the exit with her entire body. Dean keeps handing me clothes with the polite but unstoppable force of a Tinker-built conveyor belt. And Amy? Amy leans in and whispers, “I’ll buy you a cookie if you survive this.” Like that’s a worthwhile trade for my soul.

So I do the only thing I can: I embrace the horror. The curtain closes, and my fate is left in the hands of three of the most diabolical people I’ve ever met, which is saying something, considering I once dated a Succubus.

What follows is less a fitting and more a full-contact sport. Victoria critiques, Dean consults, and Amy heckles, occasionally offering genuinely good suggestions just to keep me off balance. By the time they’re satisfied, I’ve tried on so many outfits even my own reflection seems confused. There’s a pile for “definite maybes,” a pile for “maybe if you were dead,” and a pile for “never speak of this again.” Victoria is glowing with victory, Dean looks quietly smug, and Amy… Amy hands me a cookie, true to her word.

“See?” she says, not even trying to hide her smirk. “You didn’t die.”

I snatch the cookie and take a huge bite, a scowl on my lips. “Not yet,” I say, mouth full of chocolate chips. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

I turn my best hate-beam glare at Vicky, though let’s be real—if I had any genuine hate left it would’ve been incinerated by the “distressed” neon crop top she just forced me to wear. “Some of those clothes were way too tight,” I say, peeling the memory off my skin like an ill-advised wax strip.

Vicky’s eyes go wide with innocent outrage. “That’s the point, Xander! You have incredible arms and you should show it off. It’s a community service. All the straight girls will appreciate my contribution.” She bats her lashes and wraps an arm around Dean, who grins like he’s just scored the winning touchdown.

Dean gives my biceps a theatrical once-over, then looks at Amy for independent verification. “I mean, she’s not wrong. This feels like a moment for public awareness.” He nods solemnly, as if my humiliation has become a civic duty.

“Hang a sign on him and start charging cover,” Amy says, rolling her eyes. “Or just make him wear one of those shirts with the little mesh panels. If you’re going to objectify him, you might as well monetize it.”

I throw my head back in mock agony. “You’re all monsters. Is this what passes for friendship nowadays? Emotional waterboarding?”

“I prefer to call it personal growth,” Vicky says, squeezing Dean a little tighter and giving me a look that says, go ahead, argue with me—but you won’t win.

Amy folds her arms and leans against the food court railing, surveying the crowd like she’s the undisputed queen of casual shade. “Honestly, no one’s going to be looking at the clothes. You could wear a trash bag, and if Vicky says it’s fashion, half the city will follow suit by next week.”

Vicky perks up. “Do you think Trashcore could be a thing? I mean, if anyone could pull it off, Xander could.”

I flinch. “If you want me to wear a trash bag, just say it. Don’t sugarcoat your evil schemes in fake trend forecasting.”

Dean snorts so loud a couple of mall-walkers glance over. “Careful, Xander, she’s going to turn you into an influencer by accident. First, you get a signature look, next thing you know, you’re pitching protein shakes.”

“I will haunt you all as a sponsored ghost,” I promise, snatching a cookie chunk from Amy’s hand before she can protest. “You’ll never escape my tragic fashion sense, even in the afterlife.”

Vicky gives me a proud, approving look—like a mad scientist watching her monster discover a new way to terrify villagers. “That’s the spirit,” she says. “Wear it with confidence. Or at least enough sarcasm to make it look intentional.”

I sigh, but there’s a little bit of pride in it. Okay, maybe my arms don’t look so bad. Maybe I don’t hate the new jeans. Maybe, just maybe, I’d wear the sequined jacket again if I had to save the world—or at least survive another Dallon family shopping trip.

Dean nudges me with his elbow. “We should celebrate. You made it through a full Dallon retail assault and you’re still breathing. That’s worthy of at least, like, two more cookies.”

Amy raises her eyebrows, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “You better eat them quick. If Vicky gets her way, you’ll get a crash course in caloric budgeting before the next team photo.”

“Oh my god,” I say, “just admit you’re all jealous of my metabolism and move on.”

Vicky levels a finger at me, deadly serious. “I will not rest until you have an aesthetic worthy of your hero status. That’s a promise.”

I swallow the last of the cookie and brush imaginary crumbs off my shirt. “You know what, V? Bring it on. I bet I can out-weird any outfit you put me in.”

She grins, the challenge accepted. “Careful, Xander. I have access to every thrift store in the city and zero shame.” That, more than anything, is a threat I believe.

I cross my arms and raise my head with the haughtiest look I can muster, shooting back, “I’ll let you have this win with grace, but I’m sure as hell not buying those crop tops. Laugh all you want, but there is not enough fabric in that store to cover my dignity right now.” I make a show of flicking one of the rejected tops away, watching it flutter to the reject pile like a wounded bird. “This does not fit me.”

Vicky leans in, resting her chin on the mesh-and-glitter stack she’s already claimed as my new wardrobe. “That’s just psychological resistance,” she says. “Like how some people have to see themselves with bangs three times before they realize it’s not a war crime.” She tosses her hair with a casual confidence that screams “born winner,” and fires back, “I disagree completely. Trust me as a woman, you rock that crop, and you’ll have the girls at school fawning over you. Including that cute goth girl that keeps making doe eyes at you from behind the vending machines.”

The air freezes. Dean and Amy both whip their heads to me in perfect stereo, like synchronized sharks scenting blood. “Oooh, goth girl?” Dean says, voice dripping with theatrical scandal. “Do we get a name?”

Amy hops onto the bench beside the changing room, swinging her legs. “I know her, I think. She does the weird graphic design for the Paranormal Club flyers, right? She’s got the spiderweb eyeliner and that snarky way of talking, like she’s permanently auditioning for The Craft reboot?”

I slam the dressing room curtain shut, retreating into my last bastion of personal space. “She does not do that,” I call, trying to sound cool but basically dying inside.

Vicky’s voice floats through the curtain, syrupy-sweet and cruel. “What’s her name, Xander?” She’s got that gleam in her eye, the one that means she’s already got a plan and I’m the only one not in on the joke.

“Why do you want to know?” I counter, but it’s a feint. My face is burning so hard that the mirror is starting to fog.

Amy snickers, already pulling up her phone. “She’s going to play matchmaker. You’re doomed.” She thumbs a text with the speed of a professional spy. “Honestly, I’m shocked it’s taken her this long.”

Dean appears next to the curtain, his reflection grinning at me through the mirror. “We’re friends, man. You can tell us. Maybe we can get her to show up to the next game night. Maybe she’ll even appreciate your bold new look.” He waggles his eyebrows in the universal sign of ‘I’m going to torture you with this forever.’

“Hell no,” I say, but my resolve is crumbling. I look down at the pile of clothes Vicky’s curated for me, all bright colors and weird patterns, the exact opposite of the black hoodies and jeans I usually default to. Maybe something in me wonders what it’d be like to be the guy people actually notice, instead of the one who drifts through the halls like a rumor. The thought is almost enough to make me try on the crop top again—almost.

“Just for the record,” I say, peeking out from the curtain, “her name is Veronica, and if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I will make you all go bald.”

Vicky claps like she’s just won the lottery. “That is the cutest thing I have ever heard. Please wear the crop top for your next date. Please.”

Amy’s already plotting, I can see it. “If you do it, I’ll send her a picture. I’ll bet you five bucks she asks you out.”

Dean bumps fists with Vicky, forming a tiny coalition of absolute chaos. “I’ll double down on that,” he says. “If you can get her phone number, I’ll buy you the world’s fanciest burrito.”

I try to look annoyed, but deep down, I’m actually enjoying their attention. My team’s like that—relentless, merciless, but always in my corner. I sigh, roll my eyes, and pull the crop top back over my head, stretching it across my torso. It looks ridiculous. It also, I’m forced to admit, looks kind of good on me.

“Also for the record, nothing will happen between Veronica and me. I’m not dating someone who can’t protect themselves.” I say it quietly, but the finality is unmistakable. Dead serious, like I’m laying down a law. “I get into way too much bad shit that I would be a horrible partner if I thought they couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right to either of us.” My tone probably comes off way more melodramatic than intended, but that’s the cost of honesty.

Amy’s the first to call me out, voice pitched loud enough to slap me across the face. “Oh my god, Xander, you sound like a PSA for emotionally unavailable superheros. ‘Sorry, babe, it’s too dangerous to love me.’” She fans herself, swooning with a melodrama that would make Vicky blush. “Will you at least write her a breakup letter on a napkin, or just ghost her with a tragic backstory?”

Vicky drops her chin into her hands and gives me the “you sweet idiot” look. “You do realize most people just go on dates and talk about music, right? You’re not signing up for a suicide pact. Veronica’s not exactly a damsel; didn’t she bite that MMA guy who tried to push her in the lunch line last semester? He had to get a tetanus shot.”

Dean just whistles in that low, you-messed-up way. “I dunno, man, that sounds like some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. You can’t date someone because you might get hurt? That’s everyone, everywhere. At least this way, you both know what you’re getting into.” He shrugs, then adds, “Plus, if Veronica can survive high school with those eyeliner wings and not poke her own eye out, she’s probably invincible.”

Amy’s already back at it, this time with a full mock debate podium voice. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: Exhibit A—our own Victoria, who can literally fold a car in half, but still drags her boyfriend to candlelit dinners and weird movie marathons. If it’s good enough for the Dallon household, it’s good enough for you, Xander.”

Vicky snaps her fingers, eyes bright. “Dean’s got a point, actually. You’re not letting the other person decide for themselves, you’re just assuming they can’t handle it. That’s kind of patronizing, don’t you think?” She’s grinning, but it cuts. “Maybe Veronica would surprise you. Maybe she’s tougher than you.”

I try to deflect, but the logic is annoyingly solid. “It’s not about tough. It’s about, like…not making someone else collateral damage.” The words taste sour, like I’ve said them too many times before. “Trust me, I’ve seen what happens when people get caught in the crossfire. If I cared about someone, I wouldn’t want them anywhere near it.”

Dean’s got that look, the one that says “this is a teachable moment and I’m not letting it go.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, slightly too hard. “Dude, you’re not singlehandedly responsible for the safety of every friend you have. People make their own choices. You can’t just shut the world out because something might go wrong.”

The silence sits for a second. Amy breaks it, as always, with a punchline. “Besides, Xander, you’re basically a disaster magnet. If we applied your logic, you’d never be allowed to love anything. Not even pizza. And that’s just tragic.” I want to argue, but I can feel the push and pull—the way this group always drags me back from my worst instincts. They’re right, probably. I’m just so used to being the blast shield for everyone else that the idea of letting someone close feels like a risk I’m not wired to take.

Vicky can see the conflict on my face, because she softens, her voice dipping from playful to genuine. “Look, all I’m saying is, don’t write people off. Sometimes, letting them in is worth it, even if it gets messy.”

Dean nods, solemn. “And if you ever do get in trouble, you know we’ve got your back. You’re not alone in the crossfire, man.”

Amy grins, leaning in for the kill. “So, are you wearing the crop top or not? Because if you don’t, I’m texting Veronica right now to tell her you’re chicken.”

I huff out a laugh despite myself, the tension breaking like a cheap plastic hanger. “Fine. But if I get my ass kicked, I’m haunting all of you as a sarcastic poltergeist.”

Vicky perks up, victorious. “That’s the spirit!”

Dean gives me a side-eye worthy of an Oscar. “Honestly, Xander, with those arms, you could probably bench-press your way out of any awkward date.”

Amy, never to be outdone, fires off the final volley. “Or you could just charm your way through it, like you do literally everything else. Seriously, you’re the only person I know who could make ‘existential dread’ sound like a party invite.”

I bite back a grin, tug the crop top straight, and step out of the changing room like I own it. My reflection smirks back, equal parts unsure and unbreakable.

We hit the food court in a blaze of questionable fashion, arms linked, laughter echoing through the mall. For the first time in a while, I let myself imagine it—maybe getting coffee with Veronica, maybe not ruining it, maybe just being a regular guy for a day.

Dean slides me another cookie, his way of cementing the truce. “To new beginnings,” he says, and it’s only half a joke.

Chapter Text

I've never cared much for the Docks, not since I first set foot in Brockton Bay and got a snootful of industrial runoff and wet rot. The place always smells like the city's last dying breath, mixing brine and rust and a hint of something necrotic that clings to your clothes no matter how long you stand under a hot shower after. But I walk it anyway, hands shoved deep in the pockets of my battered coat and head bent against the wind. Today's my day off, my one sanctioned slip from the leash, and I'm not about to waste it sitting around the PRT's fluorescent hellhole, playing team-building exercises with people who think "trust fall" means letting you hit the floor and then writing it up as a disciplinary issue.

I'd told Aegis I had "personal errands" to run. The guy's about as subtle as a brick but even he knows better than to press when I start quoting wizard business. Truth is, I needed to find myself a place—a real place, not some sanitized cell in a government building—where I could set up a proper lab. There are things I want to keep to myself. Not for selfishness, but for safety. Harry always said the wise keep a few cards hidden, and the suicidal lay them all on the table. I'm not in the market for martyrdom. Not this week, anyway.

The Docks are perfect for this sort of thing. They're the city's basement, full of empty warehouses and crumbling shophouses and condemned tenements where no one looks twice at strangers. I make my way down, stepping over needles and broken glass, squinting at the faded murals and anarchist tags that battle for wall space. Every few blocks, a crew of ABB muscle hustles some poor bastard for protection money, but nobody bothers me. Either they've heard the cape rumors, or I reek of "not worth the trouble." I like to think it's both.

There's a rhythm to the Docks that I've come to appreciate. It's the only place in this city where the rules are written in real time, every alley is its own little kingdom. Case in point: I round a corner and nearly eat a crowbar to the face, courtesy of a twitchy Asian kid in a dirty red tracksuit. He sizes me up, flicks his gaze over the scar that bisects my eyebrow and the faint shimmer of silver in my eyes, and decides—wisely—that I'm someone else's problem. I give him a nod and keep walking—no need to escalate.

I'm not just wandering. I have a target in mind. The old Sable Shipping warehouse, abandoned since Lung firebombed it back in the spring. Prime real estate for someone who doesn't mind a little asbestos and black mold. The roof is half gone, but the basement's supposed to be untouched—a ready-made bunker for a wizard with no love for sunlight or prying eyes. I clutch the folded city map in my coat, checking cross streets as I go. As I pass a row of boarded-up storefronts, I catch a movement in the corner of my eye: a shadow that ducks into a doorway, just a little too deliberate to be a rat. I ignore it, mostly. Out here, everyone's got secrets to keep, and none of them are mine to ferret out. Still, I can't help but flex my hand, feeling the pulse of static in my palm, just in case. Harry's voice is always in my head at times like this. "Never walk into a place you can't walk out of," he'd say. "And never trust a city that's sinking into the ocean." I can't say he was wrong.

I'm barely a block from the warehouse when I feel it—a tingle in the air, the hairs on my arms lifting in warning. Magic, raw and unfiltered, the kind that sets your teeth on edge and makes your bones ache. I slow my pace, scanning the side streets, looking for the source. Nothing. The feeling intensifies, crawling up my spine like a colony of fire ants.

I guess this is the part where the day stops being mine.

I cross the street, duck through a hole in the chain-link, and work my way to the warehouse loading dock. The scent of burnt oil is overpowering. I slip inside through a busted service door, keeping to the shadows, listening for the telltale clink of metal or the soft crunch of boots on concrete.

Instead, I hear voices. Two of them. They're arguing, low and urgent, in a language I don't recognize at first. Not English, not Spanish, not even the usual Dockside patois. The cadence is weird—harsh consonants, clipped vowels, familiar and not. The Bleed, maybe? Or some old tongue dredged up by whatever passes for magic in this city?

I flatten myself against the wall, focus, and let just a trickle of energy leak through. My vision blurs, then sharpens, and I see them in silhouette: one thin and ratlike, the other built like a refrigerator wrapped in leather. Both are holding something that glows faintly blue, shaped somewhere between a lantern and a weapon. I'm not here to start a fight. But if they're after the same lab space as me, I'm willing to bet things will get loud before long.

I wait. I watch. I listen. I breathe.

You never realize how loud a city is until you really listen, and then you can't unhear the layers: the distant wail of a siren, the slap of sneakers on wet pavement, the faint, mewling cry of something feral in the rafters overhead. And underneath it all, the heart of the Docks beating slow and steady, waiting for someone to make a mistake. I intended to make sure it wasn't me.

That's when the thin one stops mid-sentence, looks straight at the patch of shadow I'm hiding in, and says, clear as day, "You can come out, wizard. We were expecting you."

Well, damn.

I step out of the shadows, every sense dialed up to eleven. I make a show of it—hands jammed deep in my duster's pockets, the left curled around the smooth lacquered wood of my blasting rod, the right gripping the cold, coiled steel of a magnum revolver that's about as legal as a politician's promises. The move is calculated: just enough to show I'm not here for games, but not enough to spook anyone itchy enough to start shooting before asking questions.

The air in here is thick with ozone, like the aftermath of a lightning strike, and the blue glow from the weird lanterns plays hell with my night vision. I keep my head up, posture loose, and shoulders square but not aggressive. There's a fine line between confidence and cockiness, especially when you're outnumbered. I let my gaze drift over the pair, cataloging details.

The thin one—a ratty, angular dude with a mop of greasy hair and skin like he hasn't seen sunlight since the last decade—gives me a lopsided grin. His teeth are sharp, filed to actual points, and he's got a jacket that looks like it was stitched together from leftover upholstery. There's a tattoo crawling up his neck, something serpentine and shimmery that moves on its own when he talks. His hands, long and twitchy, never leave the faintly glowing device held at chest-level—a cross between an oil lantern and a plasma cutter, with a pulse that syncs up perfectly to the rhythm of my own heartbeat. Not a weapon I recognize, but the kind you don't want pointed at you either.

His partner is a whole other story. Built like a warehouse support beam, skin the color of old walnuts, head shaved and gleaming in the blue light, and hands big enough to palm a terrier. He's got a face like a smashed thumb: all flat planes and battered ridges, with a nose that's been broken so many times it's just a suggestion. His jacket—leather, patched, armored at the joints—barely contains the bulk, and I notice the bulge of at least two more weapons holstered at his hips. He doesn't blink, doesn't twitch, doesn't even seem to breathe. Classic muscle, the kind that waits for a signal before turning anyone within arm's reach into a human stress ball.

Neither one moves as I cross the floor—my boots echoing in the empty warehouse, glass crunching like bones underfoot. The rat-like one tracks me with black, bottomless eyes, his mouth twitching around the edges like he's already rehearsing the first line of a threat. The bigger guy just waits, unmoved, his hands flexing occasionally like he's resisting the urge to crack his knuckles or my skull.

I stop about five yards away, close enough that my voice will carry but far enough that they'd have to work for it if they wanted to close the gap. I keep my weight centered, hands still in pockets, and let myself smile just a little. It's the kind of smile that'd make a therapist earn their pay.

"So," I say, voice echoing in the dark, "I'm going to take a wild guess and say you're not here for the real estate."

The thin one's grin widens. "Depends," he says, accent slippery—maybe Russian, maybe not—"on what you mean by real."

They both watch me as I approach, the blue glow painting their faces ghostly and half-unreal.

"So you're here for the leyline that runs underneath the building," I say, dry as dust. My voice bounces off the bare concrete like a ricochet bullet, and I savor the second it takes them to recover. They weren't expecting me to know. Hell, half the time I'm surprised when I do, but being underestimated is my favorite trick. I make a note not to call up my Will yet—the last thing I want is either of them clocking my power spike and deciding it's time to light this place up. I play it cool, letting the tension stretch and snap around us, a silent dare to see who blinks first.

The rat-faced one's grin gets even more toothy, which is a feat considering how many he's jammed into his mouth. "You're sharper than the last wizard they sent," he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his tone. "He didn't make it past the first trap." He pats the glowing device like it's a beloved family pet, the pulse intensifying until it throbs in my own temple. I don't flinch, and that seems to please him. So there are other wizards here, perhaps this world wasn't as without magic as it appeared.

The big guy still hasn't spoken, but his eyes move—just a fraction, just enough to let me know he's sizing up the angles for a blitz. I'm willing to bet every dollar in my pocket (currently three, thanks again, PRT) that he'll be the first to throw down if things go south. His shoulders roll, almost imperceptible, like he's loosening up for a sprint.

My mind runs through every leyline map Harry ever made me memorize, cross-checked with the ancient scrawls I'd cribbed from that one weird weekend in Boston. If this is the real deal—if there's a living, breathing vein of magic underfoot—it's worth more than all the crack houses in the Docks put together. It's also the kind of thing people kill for, or die trying. I weigh my odds and decide it's even money at best.

"So who sent you?" I ask, going for bored but landing somewhere around 'mildly homicidal curiosity.' "ABB? Coil? Scion? Thanks to your big friend here I know it's not Empire. Or is this a freelance kind of gig?"

The thin one snorts. "We do not work for children," he says, his English flawless and spiked with ice. "We are here for the artifact that anchors the line. Everything else is a distraction." He flicks a glance at his partner, just a sliver of movement, but it's enough to communicate a whole paragraph of unspoken threat.

The big man finally breaks silence, his voice deep and flat as a funeral bell. "You walk away, now, nobody bleeds. You want to stay, you pay toll." He bares his teeth, not in a smile but in that way predators do when they want you to see what you're up against. The offer is generous, by Dockside standards, and I know better than to take it at face value.

I let the moment hang, then shrug like I'm just here for the ambiance. "How about this," I say, "you take your artifact, I take the basement, and we pretend this awkward meet never happened?"

The rat-faced one laughs, a short, sharp sound with no humor. "You're funny, wizard. I almost regret what comes next." His hand never leaves the lantern-thing, the blue glow now leaking out in little tendrils that crawl over his skin. I can feel the leyline under my boots now, humming like a live wire. If I reach for it, I'll have maybe half a second before they react, but maybe that's all I need.

The standoff is perfect—beautiful, even. Nobody here wants to die, but everyone's willing to. That's Dockside etiquette for you.

"Last chance," the big one rumbles. "Decide."

"I was never any good at choices." And I mean it. Every instinct I've got is screaming for a brawl, but Harry's old lessons die hard.

The rat-faced one's eyes narrow. "Then we test you." He shifts his grip, the lantern flaring, and suddenly the air tastes like burnt sugar and ozone.

And that's when all hell breaks loose.

The next instant is a mess of motion and sound: the rat-faced guy whips the lantern my way, blue fire spitting out in jagged arcs, while the big man lunges like a freight train in a flak vest. I twist, dropping low, and fling a word of power like a knife at the thin one's knees. The blast rod is in my hand before I finish the syllable, and the world tilts as the leyline updraft slams into my senses. Every nerve in my body lights up, adrenaline and raw magic mixing like cheap tequila and rocket fuel.

The blue arcs burn trenches in the concrete, missing me by inches as I roll behind a crate. I slam my shoulder into the side and come up firing—a bolt of force, white-hot and ragged, aimed center-mass at the big guy. He takes it square in the chest and staggers, but doesn't go down. Instead, he grins, blood streaming from his nose, and charges again.

The thin one's chanting now, something old and ugly, and the lantern's glow intensifies until it's hard to look at. I throw a shield up just in time to catch a spray of crackling energy, the impact numbing my arm clear to the elbow. "You're outclassed!" he shrieks, voice distorted by the power churning around him.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I shout back, and vault the crate, landing close enough to smell his breath (garlic and copper, weirdly enough). He's fast, but I'm pissed off and running on pure spite. I shoulder into him, jamming the barrel of my magnum into his stomach, and squeeze. The gunshot is thunder in a bottle, deafening in the tight space. The rat-faced guy drops like a string-cut puppet, lantern clattering to the floor, leaking blue flame. The big man roars and throws himself at me—so I duck, grab the lantern, and hurl it at his face.

It bursts like a grenade, catching him full in the eyes. He shrieks, hands clawing at his head, and runs headlong into a support beam hard enough to knock himself silly. For a second, everything is quiet except for my own heartbeat and the dying sizzle of blue fire. I drag in a breath, gun still up, rod still crackling with residual Will.

I nudge the thin one's body with my boot; he's not getting up, but he isn't dead yet either. The big guy stays down, groaning but not dead. I holster the magnum and pick up the lantern, careful this time—it's not hot, but it's heavy with something that makes my skin crawl. I look around, half-expecting backup or a last-ditch curse from one of them, but nothing else happens. Just the burnt-oil reek and the leyline singing beneath me, brighter and louder than ever.

I wipe a streak of blood from my cheek and mutter, "So much for a quiet day off." But I can't help grinning. This is what I live for.

I step over the bodies and head for the basement stairs. Behind me, the warehouse is already filling with a misty, iridescent fog—the aftermath of magic gone bad, and a sure sign that I'd need to get moving before the PRT scanners picked it up.

I make my way down, lantern in hand, ready for whatever comes next. And if I'm lucky, maybe I'll even find the damn artifact before anyone else does.

The stairs creak under my boots, every step echoing like a gavel strike. The leyline hum is deafening now, vibrating the marrow in my bones. I almost miss the next trap: a tripwire strung six inches off the floor, nearly invisible in the gloom. I step over it, make a mental note to thank Harry's paranoia, and keep going.

At the bottom, the basement opens up into a long, low chamber lined with rusted metal racks and the remains of what looks like a 90s rave gone nuclear. Spray-paint sigils crawl up the walls; half of them are bluff, but a couple spark with real power, and I steer clear. The artifact itself is obvious the second I see it—a fist-sized chunk of quartz, suspended in mid-air above a crude stone plinth. It glows with its own inner light, refracting the blue of the lantern into a hundred splintered rainbows. I check for more hostiles. Nothing. Just me, the leyline, and the prize.

I approach, heart pounding. Up close, the quartz hums with potential—a battery waiting to go off. I set the lantern down next to it, guessing (correctly, I hope) that the two are linked. I reach out, let my Will brush the surface of the quartz, and immediately get hit with an avalanche of sensation: memories not my own, visions of the city as it was a thousand years ago, the taste of saltwater and old fear. The artifact resists me, but not for long. I pour in a sliver of intent, coax it gently, and the quartz settles, its glow stabilizing.

I jam the quartz into an inside pocket, wrap the lantern up in a rag, and start my way back toward the stairs. I expect some kind of echo of the earlier fight—maybe the wet rattle of a dying breath, or a last curse spat at my retreating back—but the warehouse is quieter than a tomb. My boots hit the first step, and I pause, pricking my ears for movement. Nothing. Just the high-pitched whine of power settling after a detonation.

When I reach the main floor, I scan the spot where the thin one dropped, expecting to see a fresh pooling of blood or at least a twitch of fingers. The body's gone. Not just shifted or dragged off—gone. So is the big guy, who by all rights should still be out cold and drooling on the concrete. There's blood—smears and droplets tracing little Rorschach shapes across the ground—but no trail, no sign of which way they went. I curse, low and ugly. Should have zip-tied them. Hell, should have used a binding spell, even a weak one. Rookie mistake to leave corpses unaccounted for in this town; they have a nasty habit of getting up and making your life hell. I scan the perimeter, magnum in one hand and lantern in the other, my finger itching for the trigger.

The air's still thick with that shimmering mist, but something's off about it now—the color's changed, darker and streaked with oily reds instead of blue. I shuffle sideways, keeping my back to a half-collapsed support pillar, and listen. Distantly, footsteps slap against concrete, fast and uneven. I move to intercept, silent as I can be, and catch sight of a bloody handprint wavering on a steel door at the far end of the warehouse.

I stalk closer, every muscle tight and ready. If they're still moving, they've either got backup or a death wish. I bet on the former. As I inch up to the door, I catch a muttered phrase—something guttural and wet, like a prayer left too long in the mouth. Then the world lurches sideways: a fist-sized chunk of rebar whistles past my nose, just missing by a hair, and clatters off a rusted barrel behind me.

I drop, roll, and come up with the magnum barking twice. This time, the big guy's silhouette takes both rounds in the chest. He drops, but not before flinging a crate at me with the casual violence of a bear tossing picnic trash. I duck just in time; it explodes across the wall behind me, showering splinters and dust.

I scramble to my feet and peer around the doorframe. Rat-face is there, hunched over and clutching a fresh wound high on his shoulder, guess I didn't actually get him in the stomach, eyes blazing with hate and something worse—fear. He's muttering again, a spell or a curse, and the air around his hands thickens to a syrupy blackness.

No way I'm letting him finish. I jab my blast rod at his face and spit out a counter-hex, straight from Harry's old arsenal. The backlash is instant: a howl of pressure, then the mist in the room congeals, pinning rat-face to the wall like a bug in amber. He thrashes, but it's useless. The more he struggles, the tighter the magic pulls him in, until he's just a convulsing shadow behind a glassy sheet of force.

I approach, magnum leveled. "You want to tell me what's so important about the artifact?" I snap.

He spits bloody foam, lips curling. "You don't even know what you hold," he rasps. "You're a child, playing at war."

"Yeah, well, I'm the child with the gun." I cock back the hammer for effect. "Last chance. Talk."

Rat-face doesn't so much as blink, despite the bleeding hole in his shoulder and the fact that I'm standing over him with a gun. He gives me the same condescending, sideways sneer I've seen on every wannabe mage who ever underestimated Dresden—like I'm the substitute teacher covering third period detention, not the guy who just shot him. There's a glint behind his discomfort, something almost smug, as if pain is beneath him. "You won't kill me," he says. "You're one of the good guys."

I feel my eyebrow go up, and the old, familiar burn of annoyance crawl behind my eyes. "Newsflash, buddy," I say, voice clipped, "the world's got enough good men." I keep the magnum leveled at his face, but lean in so he can hear the quiet certainty in my tone. "What it needs is someone who can get shit done."

He laughs, which is ballsy given the circumstances. "You think you scare me?" the rat-faced man says, lips peeling back to showcase a mess of bloody teeth. "You're just like the other one. Dresden's whelp. Pretend all you want, but you'll hesitate. That's why you'll lose."

For a split second, I wonder if this is some kind of gambit—if he wants me pissed off, wants me to shoot him before he's finished whatever curse he's been brewing in those hollowed-out cheekbones. But his hands are still pinned by the miasma-glass to the wall, the only movements he can manage are his mouth and the trembling twitch of his shoulder where the bullet went in.

Instead of arguing, I jam my hand into my coat and pull out the quartz artifact. It throbs against my palm like a dying bird, humming with a frequency only half in the real world. I hold it up so he can see it, catch the way his eyes dart wide and desperate for the first time. "Let's cut to the chase. Who wants this so bad they sent you?" I ask. "What's in it for them?"

He spits at my feet, barely missing the tip of my boot. "Wouldn't you like to know, wizard."

I grin, the way Harry used to—full of teeth, no humor. "You know what your problem is?" I step closer, almost nose-to-nose, and with my free hand, I dig my thumb straight into the weeping hole in his shoulder. He chokes on his own bravado, makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a hiccup. I twist for good measure, the way Murphy taught me.

His head slams back against the wall, teeth bared. "Okay! Okay, fuck—stop—" His words come in spasms. "It's for the Coven. The Black Orchid—they want it because it's a key. Some kind of lockbox up north. We just had to get it and hold it until pickup."

"The Black Orchid," I echo, letting the information roll around on my tongue. "Who's your contact?"

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a gurgle. "Like I'd live long enough to tattle." His gaze flicks to my hand, still holding the artifact, then back to my eyes. "You think you're clever, don't you? You think holding that makes you safe? It's already marked you. You're dead—you just don't know when yet."

I apply a little more pressure. "I'll risk it. Names. Now."

He rattles off a string of monikers—most I recognize as bottom-tier muscle, two that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "The pickup's in two days, at the old slaughterhouse on Abernathy. You'll never make it out alive," he adds, but I can tell he doesn't even believe it.

I let go of his shoulder. He slides down the wall, leaving a trail of blood and curses, the spell I used still keeping him stuck like a moth on a pin. The magnum goes back into my pocket. My hand shakes, just a little, from the rush of everything—adrenaline, pain, the leyline hum still thumping away in my guts.

"Thanks for your help," I say. "You might want to get that patched up." He tries to spit at me again, but it's mostly blood and air.

I tuck the artifact away, grab the lantern, and start for the exit, every sense on high alert. If there are organized groups after this, it must be important. I'm already making a mental checklist of wards and countermeasures I'll need before the slaughterhouse meeting.

Just as I reach the warehouse door, I glance back over my shoulder. Rat-face is watching me, hate burning in his eyes, but he's also scared. Good. I want them scared. I step into the street, dawn just breaking over the skyline. The city feels different now, the leyline still pulsing in the concrete, the future ticking toward something ugly and inevitable. I blend into the pre-rush hour crowd, a shadow with a stolen artifact and a two-day head start before the next round of monsters comes knocking.

Let them come. This time, I'll be ready.

Unfortunately, that meant I needed to find a new building to hole up in. Going back to the last place—even if my pursuers were leaking more than a slaughterhouse drain—would be asking to get ambushed. Word spreads fast in the underworld, faster among the magical sort.

The artifact hums and squirms against my palm, blood-warm and eager. I don't dare open my jacket until I'm well clear of the warehouse district—no way am I letting some hobo on meth see a glowing rock and bring the whole Neighborhood Watch down on me. Besides, I need somewhere with privacy, and ideally, running water.

There's a shitty motel I know two blocks up, the kind with hourly rates and bulletproof glass between you and the front desk. I pay cash and take the stairs, ducking past some girl in a parka who's clearly seen better days. The second I'm in my room, I wedge a chair under the doorknob, pull the curtains, and lay the artifact out on the stained bedspread.

Up close, it looks even less like a traditional binding stone. There's no sigilwork, no easy thumbprint of the previous owner—just a lattice of fractures inside the quartz, each one pulsing with that sickly, oceanic light. I reach out with a probe of energy, gentle, like testing live wire. The feedback nearly blows my head off. Not literally, but the surge is enough to make me reel.

I blink away the migraine and try again. This time, I get a taste of what's in there: not a person, not a demon, but a presence, ancient and coiled up like a rattlesnake in a jar. It's not a stone for trapping souls; it's a keystone, a compass, maybe even a detonator for something bigger. And it's hungry.

I take a breath and steady myself, trying to recall every mnemonic Harry ever drilled into me. Layered shields, counter-disruption hexes, mental wards. I set up a quick perimeter using what little salt and pepper I can scrounge from the motel's pathetic kitchenette, then balance the rock on the nightstand and pull out my blasting rod for good measure. Once I'm sure nobody's watching and that the wards will at least buy me a few seconds if things go sideways, I get to work.

The artifact is like a puzzle box, every layer of energy wound tighter than the last, but there's a logic to it. Not human logic, but close enough that I start to see patterns. There's a resonance in the fractures, a sequence of vibrations that almost sounds like a voice if I listen too hard. I jot down notes. I mutter a few choice obscenities when the lattice nearly fries my eyebrows off with a discharge of static.

Hours go by. My jaw aches from clenching; my hands shake from caffeine and nerves. But eventually, I get a breakthrough. The keystone isn't just a battery. It's a tether. Something on the other end is pulling, waiting for the signal to come through, and the artifact is the only thing keeping the channel open, but not active.

If the Coven—this Black Orchid outfit—wants it so bad, it means the thing on the other end is just as dangerous as what's in here. Probably more. I shiver despite myself and force down the rising panic. There's work to do, and not a lot of time.

I eat a granola bar from the courtesy basket, wash it down with sour motel coffee, then get back to work. Every time I touch the quartz, the vision gets sharper. I see a frozen forest beneath a sky like a bruise, hear the rushing of waves, taste iron and ozone. Whatever's waiting up north, it's ancient, hungry, and bound only by the slimmest thread of magic.

I don't sleep. I watch the sun drag itself up through a polluted haze and bleed daylight across the city.

I stare down at the crystal, the fractured lattice throbbing with a malign pulse. The thing in my hands is less artifact and more unexploded munition, the kind of problem that makes even seasoned wardens lose sleep and develop drinking habits. It hits me, then, with a cold certainty—there's no way in hell I can let this thing stay anywhere near the city, not with the kind of monsters sniffing around and the leash on this bomb growing thinner by the hour. I mutter, "This is way too dangerous to keep here," and the words sound so pathetic, so desperately inadequate to the scale of the problem, that I laugh at myself. Then I stop laughing, because I don't want to alert whatever is listening in from the other side of the keystone.

There are two types of wizards, Dresden always said: the kind who think they can out-clever every threat, and the kind smart enough to call for backup before the shit hits the fan. I've spent my whole life trying to be the former. Tonight, I don't have the luxury.

I pack up in a hurry, double-bagging the quartz in a pair of socks and wrapping it in a towel. Nobody ever checks the towels for magical WMDs, right? I triple check the perimeter—nothing but the lingering tang of ozone from the ward lines, and the faintest greasy trace of blood magic from where Rat-Face bled out his best threats. The motel's ancient air unit rattles like a dying animal. There's a siren a few blocks away, but it doesn't sound close enough to matter. I let myself breathe for a second, then crack the door.

The hallway is deserted, as always—nobody ever loiters in this place for longer than a transaction. I move fast, keeping my head down, the towel bundle pressed tight to my chest. I duck into the stairwell, deciding to skip the elevator. Too easy to get boxed in, too many cameras, and besides—if the artifact started singing at the wrong frequency, I didn't want to be trapped anywhere with no way out but down. The concrete steps echo beneath my feet as I make my way to the lobby. The clerk, a guy with a mullet and a t-shirt that read "Customer Is Always Wrong," barely gives me a glance as I slap the keycard onto the counter and keep moving. I'm not even out the door before he's got his eyes glued back to the battered TV behind him.

Outside, the air is heavy with dawn smog. I pick a direction and go, weaving through the alleys and side streets, every nerve on fire with the sense that I'm being watched. I keep expecting some magical strike team to drop from the rooftops, or a squad of ABB goons with enchanted shotguns waiting to paint the sidewalk with my brains. Paranoia is survival, in this business, and today it's working overtime.

When I'm a good four blocks from the motel, I finally allow myself to slow down and think. If I can't hide the artifact, and I can't destroy it, and I can't trust the coven to stay off my tail, then there's only one card left to play: escalation. I need to get this keystone out of the city, or at the very least into hands with more resources than I can muster running on adrenaline and vending machine granola bars. This is the kind of threat that needs the big guns. The ones with government funding, plausible deniability, and a twenty-four-hour clean-up crew.

I find a payphone in front of a shuttered laundromat, the kind that probably hasn't seen a working dial tone since the Bush administration. I pick up the receiver and am shocked when it actually gives a dial tone. I root through my coat and pull out a battered roll of quarters, then jam a few into the slot.

"Protectorate Anonymous, please state your—"

I cut her off. "Warden, code number zero-zero-four-one-six-five. Patch me through to Armsmaster, situation is urgent."

The line goes dead quiet, hollow with that plastic echo unique to payphones. I know these lines aren't just tapped—they're probably layered with a dozen automated filters, keyword detectors, and the kind of black-budget AI that makes the NSA look like mall cops. It's a game of chicken now: the operator deciding if I'm legitimate or a Joker running interference, and me trying not to sound so desperate I get flagged for a psych hold. My palms sweat all over the handset as I listen to the faint, arrhythmic hum of copper wire and government suspicion.

Seconds drag like hours. I tap my boot on the cracked pavement, counting heartbeats, trying not to notice the bored teen behind the glass of the convenience store next door, or the way every shadow in the alley seems to twitch. The artifact in my jacket is a block of ice against my ribs. I imagine the whole city holding its breath, every possible worst-case scenario converging on me because I dared to make this call.

Finally, a faint click. The operator's voice comes back, cool and just a little bored: "Your ID checks out. What's your status and location, Warden?"

I stare at the receiver, pulse hammering. I don't want to give away my position, but I know stonewalling will only make them suspicious. "Situation code Yellow-Delta," I rattle off, using the old SI-standard for "immediate threat of mass casualty, magical vector unknown." "Artifact breach, possible hostile pursuit. I need to talk to Armsmaster, top priority. Use whatever flags you have to, just get me through."

There's a pause. She's probably scrolling a script, weighing my tone, maybe even stalling while backup triangulates my position. I don't care. Let them come. I need this off my hands—or at least, need someone else to see the bomb ticking in my lap.

"Understood. Please hold for escalation." Another click, this one metallic and final. I'm dumped into a silence so deep I can almost hear the leyline vibrating beneath the city. The payphone grows heavier in my grip as I imagine a dozen suits hunched over monitors, every word I say timestamped and filed in some government crypt.

I use the hold to gather my thoughts. The longer I wait, the more I feel the artifact leaking dread into my bloodstream. It's waking up, or something on the other end is. Somewhere, a dog starts barking—no, not barking, howling. It echoes against the tenements, bouncing off brick and metal like a siren. The city is a corpse, and we're the maggots tunneling through its veins. I try to calm down, focus on the basics: don't panic, don't reveal anything you don't want broadcast, and—if possible—don't piss off the only people with access to orbital strike capacity.

Another click. The voice on the line is an octave lower, clipped and all business, like a robot trying to win a shouting match. "Warden, this is Agent Cassidy. We have your position and code. Be advised, your call is being monitored for security compliance. What is your request?"

This is it. I make my voice as hard as I can, hoping to communicate just how fucked everything is without actually screaming. "I need Armsmaster, now. I have a magical time bomb in my arms, a probable end-of-world scenario if containment fails. You can throw me in the tank for breaking protocol after, but if you don't escalate this in the next five minutes, the city's going up like Pompeii."

The line goes silent again. I can almost hear the gears turning in whatever bunker is on the other end. Somewhere, a siren blips, then stops. Even the city air seems to freeze.

There are two types of people who get through to the Protectorate on a priority line: the ones who are so unhinged they get tranquilized, and the ones who are so calm under pressure that everyone else starts panicking. I'm aiming for the latter but I know I sound like the former, and I can only hope the person on the other end is smart enough to know the difference.

They hesitate—just a breath, but I catch it. Then, with a finality that makes my ears pop, they say, "Holding for link. Do not disconnect." I wipe my free hand on my jeans and brace for impact. The next voice I hear will either save the city or get me killed in a broom closet.

The line jumps from dead silence to crystal clarity, which means I've got the full attention of half the alphabet agencies and probably a few organizations that don't even have acronyms yet. "Warden. This is Armsmaster. Your channel is patched. Say again your situation."

I exhale, slow and steady. "I am in open daylight, in possession of a hypergeometrically active artifact. It's a keystone—unknown origin, but with some extra-dimensional flavors I haven't seen before. I've already had two unfriendly contractors after it, and the artifact's containment is degrading. I need assistance ASAP."

There's a mechanical edge to Armsmaster's tone, like he's reciting from a playbook but improv-ing as he goes. "Confirm: you are not in costume? No standard ID or public insignia?"

I glance down at my rumpled jeans, my hands covered in a thin sheen of sweat and motel grime. "No, I'm off-duty, if you can call it that. This thing forced my hand and I had to bug out."

He grunts, a sound that probably doubles as a laugh for cyborgs and drill instructors. "Understood. Establishing perimeter. Are you maintaining visual on threats?"

"Negative, but I feel them. Like a migraine made of static and teeth. Some of these guys weren't even in the phonebook until last night, and now they're all over my ass." I press the phone harder to my head, like that'll shield me from the leyline's low, psychic hum. "I'm not joking, Armsmaster. This isn't just a local cult dust-up. If this thing gets loose, even for a second, the city's gonna turn into a scene from The Thing. I need you to believe me, here."

He's silent for a calculated half-second. "You have exfil coordinates?"

I scan the block, forcing my mind to the present. "I'm near Bascom and 105th, in front of an abandoned laundromat. I'll stay put, but I'm not exactly hard to spot. If you see a guy in a goodwill jacket clutching a towel like his life depends on it, that's me."

"Hold position. Do not attempt further transit. Support inbound." He clicks off, and for a heartbeat I think he's left me deliberately hanging, but then there's a low series of beeps as some background system overlays the channel with a secure encryption band.

I breathe. Sort of. The artifact in my arms pulses with a heatless, psychic cold, and I realize my knuckles are white around the towel. The payphone receiver is shaking in my hand, and my heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon barefoot through broken glass.

I hear the whoop of a siren, far off, maybe coming my way. Or maybe that's just my brain cooking off the adrenaline. Either way, I'm committed. It's not like I can ditch the artifact, not unless I want to see what happens to the city when the leash finally snaps.

The only thing left to do is wait and pray nobody gets any ideas about jumping me before Armsmaster shows up.

I'm still composing the words for "come quick or you'll need a mop," when the next voice on the line nearly gives me a coronary.

"Warden what in the hell are you doing?" Piggot's voice detonates through the line, like an airhorn up my cochlea. If they could weaponize her tone, the Geneva Convention would have to invent an entirely new subclause.

In theory, I should cow to authority. In practice, every time Piggot calls, my allergy to bullshit triples in severity. My tongue itches with comeback, but for a half-second I actually try to play nice. "Securing a catastrophic breach," I say crisply, "and not dying in the process. That's all you care about, right?"

She doesn't miss a beat. "Your instructions were explicit! Maintain a low profile, and do not engage." She hammers the words, each syllable a nail in my professional coffin. I've listened to enough of her control-freak rants to know the rhythm. Every time the PRT so much as twitches, Piggot's on the other end of the line, riding the phone like an electric bull. I tune her out just enough to keep my blood pressure sublethal, but not so much I miss anything actionable.

I lean against the payphone like it's the only thing keeping me upright and let her go off. The bored clerk in the convenience store is now openly staring at me, maybe trying to decide if he should call the cops or record a viral meltdown. I stare him down with a look that says, "Don't make me bring you into this." Miraculously, he gets the hint.

Piggot's still going. "—and you're on a recorded line, McClaine. Every word of this is being piped directly to the Chief Director's office. If you have even a shred of professional dignity left—"

I cut her off. "I'm the only reason Brockton Bay's not a crater, Director. You want the artifact intact, fine. You want plausible deniability, fine. But unless you want to explain to a Congressional Oversight Committee why you let a biohazard the size of a Subaru loose on the population, you'll let me do what I was trained to do. Which, for the record, isn't listening to you lecture me on comms protocol while I'm actively being hunted."

Her breath comes in loud, angry gusts, the kind of breathing that means she's debating whether to scream or to order a drone strike on my location. She's probably got a blood pressure cuff on her desk just for me. "You are out of line," she says, dangerously calm. "You are not operating with agency jurisdiction. And you sure as hell are not authorized to escalate up to Armsmaster without my approval."

I don't even bother to hide the contempt. "If I waited for your approval, the city would be a wax museum with everyone's brains melted down their collars. You assigned me to this hellhole because no one else could hack it. And now you're mad because I'm actually keeping it together. Typical."

For a moment, there's nothing but the hiss of the open line and the faint, staticky rumble of my own pulse. Then: "You think you're indispensable? You're a liability, McClaine. You are a single hair away from being benched and replaced with someone who can follow orders."

"Do it," I say, grinning with all the teeth I can muster. "Find yourself another Ward who can handle magical fallout, parahuman crossfire, and eldritch contract killers. I'll book a flight to Cancun and let the next idiot on your list deal with the miasma. See how long the containment lasts without me."

The line is quiet, but I can almost hear her jaw grinding. Somewhere behind the glass, a police cruiser drifts by, slow, searching. I turn my back to the street, keeping my voice low.

Piggot tries again, switching tactics. "Look, you're covered for two more hours. That's it. If you're not in a secure PRT holding by then, I will have every asset in the city hunting you down."

"McClaine. Listen very carefully. I am giving you one chance to fix this. Deliver the artifact directly to a Protectorate unit. Do not let it out of your sight, and do not, under any circumstances, attempt containment on your own. Do you understand me?" She added after a few moments.

"Crystal clear," I say, and damn if I don't mean it.

She almost laughs—a sharp, disbelieving bark—before catching herself. "You will be in my office the moment the situation is resolved."

"I'll fill you in once I'm done saving the city." I reply sarcastically.

She doesn't attack me on that at the least. "McClaine, if you ever speak to me that way again, I will make your life hell."

Piggot's words weren't bluster or power games—she meant them as an immutable law, and I respected that. But if she expected me to fall in line just because she'd raised her voice, she'd misread the situation. I wasn't a child, and I wasn't a tool; I was the only person in this city, maybe in this country, with the know-how and the lack of self-preservation instincts needed to face down the kind of shit currently simmering in my arms. She could snarl and threaten, but at the end of the day, she'd have to accept that I was never going to be the obedient little soldier that made her life easy.

"Understood," I said, but I made damn sure my tone carried an edge. "Just don't go treating me like some adolescent with a god complex and we'll get along fine." I didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, because what was she going to do—bench me harder? There was a pause, long enough for me to imagine her grinding her molars down to chalk. She didn't yell back, and that was a win in my book. She'd gotten her point across, and I'd gotten mine: we were stuck with each other, for better or worse, and neither of us was ever going to fully control the other.

I hung up, or as close as you can get with a payphone, and let the receiver dangle on its cord. My hands were still trembling, but less from fear and more from the aftershock of adrenaline. It felt like I'd just walked away from a head-on collision with a freight train, and the only thing left to do was limp to the next disaster.

I pressed my back against the glass, feeling the cool seep through my jacket and into my bones. The artifact was still there, heavy and silent against my chest, as if it were waiting for its moment to turn everything inside out. I slid down until I was almost sitting on the curb, drawing my knees up to protect the precious package. The city felt eerily quiet now, every sound amplified—the distant wail of an ambulance, the shuffle of pedestrians who gave me a wide berth, the static thrum of the leyline at the edge of my hearing.

Any second now, Armsmaster's people would swoop in—either to help or to drag me in by the neck, depending on which way the wind blew. I couldn't even guess what kind of containment team they'd send, if any. I tried to imagine the debrief. Staring down a table full of PRT brass, Piggot glowering at me like a disappointed parent, Armsmaster poking at the artifact with a ten-foot pole and a taser, and someone from the D.A.'s office asking if I wanted to plead guilty or go for insanity.

That was all in the future, though. The present was a cracked sidewalk, a convenience store clerk still rubbernecking through the window, and the artifact humming in my lap like a coiled snake. The weight of what I'd just set in motion started to hit me. If the containment team didn't show up, or if they fumbled the handoff, it was game over for a lot of people. If the artifact ate its way through the towel and into my skin, I'd be lucky to die before the transformation finished. And if Piggot decided to double-cross me and send in a kill squad, well, at least I'd die doing what I was built for.

The street outside was a patchwork of sunlight and shadow, cars drifting by as if nothing apocalyptic was about to happen. But I could feel eyes on me—real and imagined. I scanned the rooftops, the alleyways, the reflection in every car window. Nothing yet, but that didn't mean I was safe. In my line of work, the danger wasn't what you saw, it was what you didn't see until it was peeling your face off.

I took a shaky breath and started counting the seconds. Armsmaster would either show up with a full cape escort or alone. I knew which one was a better sign for me. The only thing I could do was wait, and hope that whatever was in this 

Chapter Text

Armsmaster's motorcycle howls down the avenue like an oncoming tornado, blue strobes reflecting off glass and twisted rebar, the engine noise a war cry that drowns out the moans of the city's wounded. He's exact with his arrival, stopping within two arm's reach of where I stand, one armored boot kicking out the stand and the other swinging over in a single, practiced motion. I half-expect a dramatic cape billow, but Armsmaster's too practical for that. His priority is the situation, not the show. He reads the tension in my shoulders before I even open my mouth. I keep my grip tight on the towel containing the crystal—hell, I'm not letting this fall into anyone's hands, PRT-sanctioned or otherwise—and jerk my head in the direction of open warehouses and the black mouth of the bay beyond. "This needs to leave city limits. Now. It's reactive in unpredictable ways, and if it cracks any further, we'll be lucky if I can bind whatever is in this again."

Armsmaster, visor already running a silent diagnostic of my every blink and tic, keeps his halberd at parade rest but doesn't move to take the bag. "I have containment protocols. Multiple redundancies in place."

"Not enough redundancies," I bark, "for something supernatural."

He does not blink. He's either confident in his toys, or he's bluffing. My money's on the latter. "I have the authority," he says, voice clipped but not hostile, "to requisition any object or individual posing an existential threat to the city. You can either come with me and provide stabilization, or relinquish the device now and return to your day off."

I step toward him, ensuring the towel is clearly visible and my movements are deliberate. The faint whine of the crystal is now audible beneath the city's background radiation, a half-pitched oscillation that wants to turn my molars inside out. "If you want this stabilized, you get me the transport, the isolation, and the guarantee that no one cracks this open until I've neutralized it. Or we both stand here and wait for the inevitable criticality event. Your call."

For a moment, something like amusement flickers behind that inscrutable mask. Maybe he likes a little pushback. Perhaps he's just grateful someone else is doing the screaming for once. "I can offer you a transport drone and a perimeter escort," he says. "Location of your choosing, outside city limits. When this is done, you and the artifact will return to Headquarters for debriefing. And no heroics, understood?"

I grunt. "Yeah, I live to not die." He must have gotten reamed by Piggot if he was acting this way.

He taps a sequence into the pad on his gauntlet. "You're on a leash now, Xander. Don't make me yank it."

I shoulder the bag and start moving toward the edge of the docks, Armsmaster falling into step beside me, his halberd held low and scanning.

"Any chance you'll tell me what's actually in that thing?" he says, voice pitched low enough that the body cameras won't catch it.

"Only if you tell me what kind of insurance policy you carry when containment fails."

His chuckle is dry, mechanical. "I always bet on myself."

We reach the end of the pier, wind whipping at my coat and the bag humming like it's alive. I kneel, set the bag carefully on the concrete, and wait as a VTOL drone—sleek, armored, emblazoned with the PRT sigil—descends out of the marine layer above, floodlights turning the night into an operating theater.

"Final chance to back out," I say, scanning the sky for more surprises. "Once I start, it doesn't pause for coffee breaks."

"I'm not going anywhere," Armsmaster says, planting his halberd like a flag.

"Let's send this bastard to hell," I mutter, flexing my hands and preparing to stabilize the artifact as the drone settles, claws unfurling to grab the bundle.

Armsmaster watches me like a hawk, every intake of breath measured. "I'll maintain overwatch," he says, "but this is your rodeo. Get it done."

"Let's meet up with the VTOL, then." My words come out more clipped than I intend, but the drone's claws have already snapped shut around the towel-wrapped bundle, and the rotors are lifting it aloft with hurricane urgency. Part of me hates letting that thing out of my sight. The other part, the side that values not being vaporized from an accidental magic-nuclear event, recognizes that even a hundred layers of PRT shielding is safer than carrying it by hand through half a kilometer of active crossfire. I watch the drone angle up, arc toward the city's bleeding edge, and vanish behind a ghost skyscraper.

Armsmaster gives the drone a silent salute, then pivots on his heel to face me. "ETA to the perimeter is six minutes. We'll rendezvous at the cordon, then ride with the artifact to Site Gamma." He's all business now, the mask of camaraderie gone. I'm not sure if I respect the professionalism or want to punch it.

"Copy. You staying for the fireworks?" I ask, nodding at the street behind us, where sirens harmonize with the sound of distant gunfire. Brockton Bay is never short on distractions.

He gives a slight inclination of his head. "This takes priority." His visor's already dancing with tactical overlays, probably calculating every angle I could get sniped from in the next thirty seconds. "Move."

I don't need to be told twice. I break into a jog, darting past the ribcage of a collapsed loading dock and keeping low as I cut through an alley that smells like burnt rubber and burst sewer lines. My thoughts are a staccato drumbeat of worst-case scenarios: the artifact reacting to GPS jamming; the artifact reacting to the drone's battery field; the artifact reacting to a bored tinker intern poking it with a voltmeter at the other end. I have exactly zero control over any of those outcomes, and I fucking hate it.

Armsmaster's shadow tracks me for the first block, then peels off with a clatter of echoing boots as he intercepts a squad of ABB gunners ahead. I hear the fight before I see it—less a battle than a surgical mugging, the rapid-fire thud of less-lethal rounds and the crisp sizzle of a halberd cutting through someone's armament. I barrel straight through the aftermath, marveling at how quickly Armsmaster had turned a half-dozen drugged-up yobs into a pile of trembling, zip-tied speedbumps. He doesn't even look winded.

I rocket out of the alley and into the teeth of the wind, my lungs on fire and my focus razor-narrow. The drone is already a fugitive dot, angling hard across the skyline toward the city's perimeter, its rotors hammering the night with prop wash that shreds the fog. The artifact, for now, is someone else's problem. I'm one quake away from a full-on panic attack, but there's no time for that. I push myself into a dead sprint, pounding across shattered concrete and ducking under a tangle of downed power lines.

Behind me, Armsmaster's footfalls are a metronome of controlled violence. He moves with an almost inhuman economy—no wasted motion, every stride eating pavement—and he overtakes me just as we break onto the main avenue. His bike is parked at the curb, engine idling with the promise of mayhem. The thing looks like it ate three lesser motorcycles and is now hungrier than ever: armored fairings, redundant exhausts, a sadistic array of nonlethal weaponry built into the chassis. The blue-and-silver paint is scuffed to hell, but the PRT crest on the tank still shines like a badge of stubborn pride.

Armsmaster vaults the seat in a single motion, hitting the ignition with a snap of his gloved fingers. "Mount up," he barks, and I'm on the pillion before I can second-guess myself. My arms lock around his torso, the ceramic plate of his body armor cold and slick beneath my fingertips. It is a profoundly uncomfortable position—intimate, awkward, and completely undignified—but the alternative is eating curb at 150 mph, so I swallow my pride and hold on tight.

The bike launches like a missile, pinning me to the backrest as we tear down the boulevard. The acceleration is enough to stretch my face into a mask of windburn and adrenaline. Streetlights strobe past in epileptic flashes, and the city becomes a smear of battered concrete and chemical haze. We blast through a police barricade—half the force is already running away from whatever monster-of-the-week is terrorizing the Boardwalk, so nobody even raises a finger as we pass. Ahead, the VTOL drone dips below the rooftops, hugging the terrain to avoid anti-air fire or the errant tinker with a grudge.

"ETA to the cordon?" I yell into Armsmaster's shoulder, tasting ozone and blood.

"Four minutes," he grunts, not looking back. "Sitrep: artifact is still stable. Drone's running countermeasures, but something's tracking it. You'll have a window of three minutes to reestablish control at Site Gamma. After that, we cannot guarantee we will be without resistance."

I parse that as: expect an ambush, probably from the usual flavor of cape lunatics, and pray the magic bomb doesn't go Chernobyl in the process. My limbs are going numb from the wind shear, but the threat of total body disintegration is a hell of a motivator.

"Would it kill you to say 'please' just once?" I shout, ducking a sheet of flying glass as the bike angles into a power-slide to avoid a steaming crater in the road.

He snorts, voice distorted by the helmet's speaker grill. "Please don't die. That's an order."

We rip past the docks, the ocean to our left reflecting the drone's blue strobes in fractured ripples. My mind races with what comes next: containment protocols, hex circles, a nervous breakdown in the back of a PRT van. The last time I worked with Armsmaster, I ended up in traction and got a lecture on the dangers of improvisational spellcasting within city limits. He never misses a chance to remind me, in the most passive-aggressive way possible.

"Do you want to brief me on what happens if we get intercepted?" I ask, squinting against the wind.

"We don't get intercepted," he says, flat as a dead heartbeat. "Anyone who gets in our way, I clear them. You focus on the payload."

That's the kind of bravado I'd expect from a guy who regularly beats up dinosaurs with a stick. I press my chin to his shoulder, scanning the approaching checkpoint for movement. A cluster of PRT uniforms are huddled behind riot shields, the makeshift barricade bristling with enough firepower to level a city block. Beyond that, the city limits and the last hope of getting the artifact to a place where it can't vaporize half the eastern seaboard if I so much as sneeze wrong.

We hit the checkpoint at full throttle, Armsmaster tapping something on his HUD. The guards duck out of the way, a prearranged gesture that tells me he used his rank to clear us. The moment we're past, he guns the engine even harder, weaving around a garbage truck and hopping a curb. The motorcycle's suspension takes the abuse like it's nothing, and I realize he's not even slightly worried about the possibility of wrecking. He trusts his gear more than I trust my own pulse.

In the distance, the drone dips again, this time trailing sparks and losing altitude. "It's under attack," I shout, pointing.

"Hang on," he growls, and the bike leaps onto the exit ramp in a spray of gravel and tire smoke. We are now airborne, which, incidentally, is the last thing I want to be with a city's worth of magical doom riding shotgun in the sky. My guts lurch as we touch down, barely missing a wrecked Crown Vic and fishtailing into the industrial park that marks the city's edge.

Armsmaster finally spares a glance back at me. "You good to run?"

I nod, white-knuckled and buzzing from the adrenaline. "Let's do it."

The instant Armsmaster kills the engine, the noise from the motorcycle gives way to a ragged hush, broken only by the distant shriek of emergency sirens and the angry whine of the dying drone. No hero poses, no dramatic pauses—he's off the bike in a blink, weapon already sweeping the perimeter. I'm right behind him, boots skidding off broken asphalt as I launch myself toward the crash. The whole field looks like the aftermath of a failed tech conference—plastic chairs melted to slag, monitor guts strewn like mechanical intestines, the air thick with the stink of burnt insulation and hubris. The PRT drone, not designed for graceful landings, has augered itself into a crater of scorched lawn and office carpet scraps, its claw still desperately clutching the artifact like a doomsday toddler with a security blanket.

The artifact is a crystal cylinder maybe the length of my forearm, wrapped in shuddering bands of silver and obsidian. The force field around it flickers with violent, ugly colors, every pulse making my teeth ring. I don't wait for backup or a witty one-liner; I hit the dirt and start drawing containment runes before my knees stop moving. The chalk in my hand is all but useless—humidity and blood in the air have made it sweat into a mushy paste—so I switch to the fallback: a knife in my boot, clean and fast, the kind of steel that leaves a whisper-fine trail on concrete.

I barely hear Armsmaster behind me, barking orders into his comm, relaying coordinates and threat levels in a clipped, monotone snarl. Someone on the other end is panicking, but his voice cuts through like a bone saw: "Priority Alpha. Asset down, initiate perimeter lockdown. Repeat, total lockdown—no friendly approach within thirty meters. McClaine is working the package, do not engage unless artifact breach is confirmed."

The energy around the crystal is getting meaner, its psychic pressure ramping from panic attack to migraine tier. My first rune circle is already melting under the metaphysical assault—sigils unraveling, lines blurring as if the crystal is erasing them from the universe with sheer contempt. I bite my tongue, draw deeper, switch to Old Norse for the second ring. The words taste like iron and woodsmoke. A loathing deeper than animal radiates from the artifact, and I feel it clawing at the inside of my head, whispering about fire and betrayal and other people's memories.

The containment circle isn't going to hold unless I juice it with something stronger. I pop the blade from my boot, slice the pad of my thumb, and squeeze a fat drop of blood onto the chalk slurry. It hisses on contact and the rune lines snap rigid, humming with power and pain and every old terror I never quite processed. The world narrows to the circle, the drone, the artifact—and the silent, too-close presence of Armsmaster, who I now realize is standing at my shoulder, halberd sweeping for threats but eyes locked not on me, but on the thing in the claw.

He doesn't even flinch when the containment field erupts with a surge of violet light, searing a spiral of afterimages into the night. "Report," he intones, voice flat as the end of the world.

"Still in progress," I grunt, jamming my bloody thumb into the next sigil and feeling the world warp around the cut. The air pressure drops, then spikes, and suddenly it's like we're underwater, every sound muffled except for the artifact's slow, hungry heartbeat. I can taste static on my tongue, ozone and copper.

A fist-sized chunk of crystal shivers and peels off the main body, hovering in the air like a sickly, sentient kidney stone. I know enough about magical artifacts to know this is a bad sign. Whatever containment they thought the drone was providing, the damn thing is actively resisting, and it's about to birth a catastrophic side effect.

I don't have time to think. I push my hand into the circle's inner ring and chant, the words tearing out of my throat with a feral force I didn't know I still had. Old Norse, Irish, Dresden-style doggerel—I mix them together, let the hybrid syllables hammer through the circle and up into the artifact. The air goes sharp and cold, and the birth of the parasite stone reverses: the fragment wobbles, then slams back into the cylinder with a banshee shriek.

The containment circle flashes white, then steadies to a dull, angry orange. The artifact, for the moment, is inert. The psychic pressure drops to a low, sustained throb. My ears are bleeding. My eyes are watering. I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent not okay.

Armsmaster's next to me, not touching but looming, a wall of body armor and tac-helmet. "ETA on stability?" he asks, not unkindly, but with the focus of a surgeon about to cut a heart out.

"Thirty seconds, maybe less." I'm lying, but I don't want him to know how dicey this is. "Recommend you prep for secondary breach. This thing is loaded for—" I lose the word, teeth chattering. "It's loaded for spite."

He doesn't question it. He just flicks his helmet mic and says, "Site Gamma, brace for secondary event. Sorcerer says artifact may breach. All units, stand by for—" He pauses, turns to me. "What kind of event?"

I have to think about it, which is its own kind of terror. "Worst case: citywide blackout, some kind of cascade effect through the grid. Best case, it just explodes." I try to laugh and it comes out a strangled hiccup.

He nods, like I just told him the weather forecast. "We can work with that. Do you need more blood?"

God, I hope not. "Just… just keep the circle clear. If anything else comes out, you kill it. No hesitation."

He shifts his stance, halberd gleaming in the light of the burning drone. "It is not in my nature to hesitate," he says, low and certain.

The runes are flickering again, the artifact pushing against the containment with renewed violence. I press both palms to the concrete and try to will the circle tighter, imagining the lines sinking deep into the earth, chaining the artifact to the bones of the city. The drone's battery is catching fire now, and I can feel the heat on my face. The containment ring's light gutters, then reignites as the chalk and blood mix fuses into a weird, glassy crust.

"NOW!" I yell, and Armsmaster swings the halberd with surgical precision, slicing off the pincer of the drone that still clung to the artifact. The severed claw drops, leaking hydraulic fluid and nanowire, but the artifact stays put, locked in the center of the ring. For the first time since we started, I think we might survive this.

I collapse backwards, panting. The world is spinning, but the magical pressure is at least manageable now—a constant, background noise instead of a death sentence. Armsmaster stands guard over the circle, weapon ready, visor scanning for new threats.

"You have the payload stabilized?" he asks, voice barely audible over the rising sound of sirens and the distant, cyclical gunfire.

"No," I admit, "but I bought a little bit of time. Now shush, I need focus."

I force myself to take one deep breath, the kind that scrapes your lungs raw and tricks your brain into thinking you can maybe, just maybe, handle whatever comes next. The world narrows to a shitty little patch of scorched earth, my circle of runes, and the crystal thrumming in the dead drone's grip. My vision is still blurry at the edges from the earlier artifact whiplash, but I can't afford to blink. No margin for error. I've managed to dampen the artifact's tantrum, but the air is tense—a violin string stretched to breaking—and I know it's only a matter of seconds before the next disaster.

That's when I feel it. Sleeting in from the north, not just magic, but the kind of malevolent, hungry presence that every wizard, even a half-trained one, recognizes on a molecular level. Demonic. The psychic flavor is unmistakable: old, spiteful, and desperate to rend flesh. It pings my wards like a fire alarm, and a shiver chases itself down my spine, all the way to the soles of my boots. My hands want to shake, but I lock them in place, crush the panic, and keep working.

I risk a glance up. Armsmaster's already clocked the incoming. He's posted at the ragged edge of the blast radius, visor reflecting the boiling colors of my containment field, halberd braced for anything from rabid dogs to actual hellspawn. He doesn't look back or ask questions; he just shifts his stance, the way a pro does when he's about to take a punch and dish out two more for good measure. I trust him to buy me enough time, or at least make whatever's coming regret getting out of bed this morning. I refocus on the artifact. The containment circle isn't eroding anymore, but the crystal at its core is throbbing like an exposed nerve, each pulse threatening to crack the shell and vomit whatever's inside. I slide the slim metal tool from my belt—an old screwdriver, silver-plated along the shaft and etched with runes too small for a normal eye to read. Not elegant, but reliable, and that counts for more than flashy Latin incantations when shit really goes sideways.

I press the tip of the tool to the edge of the circle, right where the sigil for "binding" intersects "purification." The contact sets off a high, whining resonance, inaudible to normal ears but loud as a church bell to someone who's spent the last few years tuning out magical white noise on a daily basis. It hurts, but I use the pain as a focus, fueling my Will and driving it into the circle. The chalk and blood lines flare, and the scent of sulfur overlays everything—except it isn't sulfur, not in the usual chemical sense. It's a memory, an association, the brain's attempt to make sense of magic's taste on the tongue. This is how I know it's demonic: sulfur and ash, plus a sour note that reminds me of the time I got knocked unconscious in a tire fire.

The artifact pushes back, hard. It doesn't want to be handled, and it hates the silver even more than it hates me. The circle vibrates, cracks skittering through the freshly-fused crust, but I dig in, sweat pouring down my forehead and stinging my eyes. My thumb is still bleeding from earlier, and I let the droplets drip into the grooves of the tool, deepening the connection. Every drop feels like it's being wrenched out by tweezers, but the pain sharpens my intent. I recite the next layer of the containment spell, quieter now, all internal, letting the words anchor themselves in the trembling lines. Norse, Irish, and something I stole from a 1970s paperback about exorcisms—whatever works.

There's a flash at the edge of my vision. Not from the artifact this time, but from the treeline past the scorched parking lot. I can't see it fully, but the shape is wrong. Too tall, too angular, and moving with an insect's economy of motion. The magic coming off it is so thick I can almost see the air ripple. It's not alone either. Two, maybe three shapes, all converging on our position with the single-mindedness of predators.

"Armsmaster, company inbound!" I bark, not daring to look up from my work. "Three hostiles, strong magic—might be demons, might be worse."

He doesn't answer, but the deep whine of the halberd's capacitors spooling up is answer enough. I grit my teeth and try to ignore the fact that my containment field is now a beacon for every supernatural asshole in a five-mile radius. The artifact is screaming at me in a way that isn't sound, more like an emotional feedback loop: fear, rage, betrayal, hunger. I push the Will deeper, forcing the crystal's fractal patterns to align, then clamp down with a word of Power that tastes like burnt cloves and regret. The glow steadies to a stable red, and I allow myself a single heartbeat of relief.

It doesn't last. The first demon—or whatever the hell it is—crashes into the circle's perimeter, sending up a corona of sparks and black flame. I catch a glimpse of it: humanoid, but skinless, slabs of muscle crawling with runes and barbed wire. It's intelligent, but barely. The thing recoils from the silver-and-blood lines, then hurls itself forward again, mouth open in a soundless scream. The air warps, and a pressure wave knocks me back on my ass, almost breaking my grip on the containment tool.

Armsmaster moves like he's shot out of a gun. The halberd swings in a perfect arc, slicing through the demon's shoulder and spraying ichor that hisses as it hits the ground. The creature flails, shrieking, but Armsmaster plants his boot on its chest and wrenches the weapon free, sparks flying from the impact. The second demon is already on him, this one smaller but twice as fast, darting in with claws like obsidian razors. I see a line of red open up across Armsmaster's pauldron, but he doesn't slow, just pivots and jabs the butt of the halberd into the thing's sternum. I barely hear them over the howling artifact, which is now pulsing in time with my own heartbeat. The third demon hangs back, pacing the perimeter, its eyes locked on me with a hunger that's personal. It's waiting for the containment to fail. It knows the rules, knows it can't cross—not yet.

I've got seconds, maybe less. I slam the silver-plated tool deeper into the runes, carving new sigils on the fly, letting instinct and raw terror guide my hand. The blood from my thumb is smeared everywhere, but that only seems to make the circle stronger, the lines now etched in something primal and permanent. I can feel the artifact's resistance wavering, like a wild animal finally realizing it's cornered.

I risk a glance up. Armsmaster has the first demon on its knees, the second one staggering back with half its face caved in, but the third is still out there, waiting. I have to finish this now, or we're both dead. My voice is hoarse, but I force the final incantation through my teeth, every syllable a hammer blow. The circle flares, and the artifact shudders, then goes still. No more pulses, no more psychic screaming. It's contained—for now. I collapse onto my back, sucking air like I've just run a marathon, and hope my heart doesn't explode from the leftover adrenaline.

Armsmaster doesn't waste a second. He kicks the first demon's corpse, then stands over me, halberd ready, visor scanning for any hint of a fourth or fifth wave. "The third creature fled. Is the payload secure?"

I give him a nod, but it's not a victory nod, not even close—it's the kind of nod you make when you've just pulled a double shift with a broken wrist and you're hallucinating the finish line. "Whoever tried breaking this seal is either an amateur or had a very bad day. I managed to patch things up," I say, voice shredded. I can't tell if I'm bragging or apologizing.

The circles are still humming, but now it's more like a distant subwoofer instead of the kind of migraine that makes you want to trepan your own skull. I break the ring with a flick of my Will, careful not to overdo it and risk the artifact detonating out of spite. The lines fade from blinding to just visible, then collapse entirely, leaving a thin crust of blackened residue that smells like burnt copper and rain. The air pressure in the lot pops, ears ringing as the demonic pressure lifts, and my lungs finally remember what oxygen is supposed to taste like.

I step into the dead zone where the drone made its last stand. The ground is a horror show: shredded concrete, rebar twisted into modern art, blood and hydraulic fluid mixing in slick, ink-black pools. Both demon corpses are already starting to degrade, melting from raw muscle to a kind of pearlescent mucous that hisses and steams as soon as it touches the air. I sidestep the worst puddles and reach for the crystal, which sits in the center of the devastation like a jewel in an open wound.

It's still hot, the surface shimmering with a heat haze that shouldn't be possible in the middle of a Nor'easter. Not enough to burn, but enough to remind you there are things in the world that don't care about thermodynamics. The angry, animal presence inside is gone, replaced by a hollow ache, like the aftermath of a panic attack or the moment after the paramedics restart your heart. I hesitate, not because I'm scared of the thing—I mean, I am, but that's not why. I'm scared of what comes after. I look up to Armsmaster, who's already got the halberd back in its holster, helmet locked on me like I'm the real threat now. He's not wrong. "There's nothing spooky left," I say, trying to sound casual, but the shakes in my hands betray me. "Except for maybe what's inside the crystal, but for now? We're clean."

Armsmaster steps forward, boots crunching over glass and bone. He doesn't reach for the crystal, not yet. "Then we return to Headquarters for containment. Hand it over." The words hit harder than expected. Maybe it's the way he said "containment" like it's a burial, or maybe it's just the fatigue, but my brain trips over it. I stare at the crystal, then back at him. For half a second, I want to pocket the thing, run off into the night, see how long I can keep it out of the hands of people who think "containment" is always the answer. But that's not the job, and despite what everyone thinks, I actually give a damn about the job.

I take a step towards Armsmaster, my boots sticking in the demon goo, and hold the crystal out at arm's length. I force myself to meet his visor, knowing he's probably recording this for some after-action report. "I'll be the one to handle this," I say, surprising myself with how steady I sound. "I'm the only one here who can do it safely."

He doesn't hesitate. "Of course." The response is so fast, so absolute, it throws me off. "Your unique talents are required to contain it. Anyone else would be… inefficient." I blink. I'd expected an argument, or at least a round of bureaucratic dick-measuring. But Armsmaster's all business, and if that means trusting the half-trained wizard with the eldritch atom bomb, then that's what he'll do. Maybe he even respects it. Or maybe he just knows that if I screw up, he can always cut my head off and spin it as a victory for "interdepartmental cooperation." He gestures towards the Armory truck idling at the edge of the lot, its lights flashing red-blue-orange in the misty night. "We will secure a perimeter. Are you able to walk?"

I nod again, out of words for once. My knees are threatening to fold, but I turn and start limping towards the truck, cradling the crystal like a live grenade. I can feel it twitch in my grip, but there's no malice left, only exhaustion and a kind of sad, empty longing. It's not so different from how I feel right now.

Armsmaster falls in behind me, his heavy steps reassuring rather than threatening. There's a perimeter of armored troopers waiting by the truck, PRT insignias glowing in the haze. They look rattled, but also relieved that the worst of it is over. Nobody points a gun at me, but I can tell they're all watching to see if I make it to the door intact or just collapse and let the artifact do something unspeakable. It's a toss-up, honestly.

We reach the truck and the doors swing open, revealing a makeshift containment cell lined with half-baked runes and, for some reason, an entire crate of hand sanitizer. I think someone read the wrong manual. They wouldn't do anything, they must have tried to copy some of the runes I had shown Armsmaster. No practitioner made these. I set the crystal on the containment plinth and back away, hands up to show compliance. Armsmaster stays just outside the door, the rest of the troopers forming a loose cordon around the lot.

I slump onto one of the benches, trying to slow my breathing enough to keep my vision from tunneling. The adrenaline is sucking itself out of my bloodstream, leaving a cold, prickly fatigue that wants to eat me alive. I'm vaguely aware of Armsmaster talking into his helmet, updating someone—maybe Chief Director Costa-Brown, maybe just Piggot—but I can't make out the words. I focus on the crystal, watching it pulse in the low light, daring it to try anything.

Time passed quickly and I was so absorbed by the crystal that I hadn't noticed Armsmaster had ended his calls. "Do you require medical attention?"

"No," I say, and mean it. He almost cracks a smile, then steps out of the truck, signaling to the driver. It lurches into gear, and I brace myself for another round of containment hell.

Chapter Text

The crystal—my crystal now, I guess—dominated every waking thought. Even after the adrenaline from the battle in the rain had faded, I was wholly consumed by the memory of it humming against my palm, pulsing with a power that felt at once seductive and wrong. When Armsmaster and I got back to Headquarters, I didn’t bother to dry off or patch up my ruined shirt. I just shoved the unassuming rock onto my workbench and set about prepping the “black site” containment suite.

I overdid it. Like, if there was a twelve-step program for magical paranoia, I’d be coin-flipping to see what order to do the steps in, so I could double up. The suite itself was in the lowest level of the Rig, behind three biometric locks—Armsmaster on the first, me on the last two, with a dead-drop blood sample in between just for fun. Beyond the door, I laid out a four-layer containment array, each ring powered by its own focus. I chalked the runes in a cocktail of bone dust, salt, and copper filings fine enough to float on the air. I designed the wards so if you stood outside the outermost circle, you’d swear the crystal was a prop, zero magical signature, zip, nada. The only way you’d even suspect it was enchanted was if you walked through the array—at which point you’d die, cause I’d also worked in a tripwire curse that would boil your blood if you so much as breathed too loud.

It was overkill. But it was elegant. I’d always wanted to try some of the containment theory that Harry never let me play with as an apprentice. If you ever asked him why, he’d just give you that tired “because the White Council has a policy about not causing city-wide magical Chernobyls” look, and I’d go back to scrubbing his lab equipment. Now, it was my rodeo. No Harry, no Council, no one to say no except the voices in my head screaming that this was a Very Bad Idea. They sounded suspiciously like Charity. If I wasn’t careful, I could fry every phone and computer in a mile radius or, worse, trigger some kind of parahuman feedback loop and accidentally melt half of Brockton Bay’s capes into goo. That might be unrealistic, but I wasn’t taking chances.

I set up Faraday cages inside the containment ring, nested like Russian dolls, each one lined in a different metal: copper, steel, and a weird silvery substance I’d only ever seen in Harry’s “do not touch” drawer. Four layers of magical protection, three of anti-EMP, a literal panic button wired to a slab of C4, and a go-bag. The crystal itself rested on a pedestal of inert stone, lashed down with synthetic spider silk. I was proud of it. I paced the perimeter three times, checking every chalk line, every runic spike, every backup battery. Then I called in Armsmaster and let him watch me do it a fourth time. He just stood in the doorway, arms folded, as I explained the containment measures in detail.

A few hours have passed since Armsmaster left—for once, the man’s ironclad sense of thoroughness outlasted even his need for sleep, but he finally gave up micromanaging me and let me wallow in my own bad decisions. Now it’s just me, the cold hum of the Rig’s bottom deck, and the crystal perched at the exact black heart of my paranoia. I like to think I’m pretty good at being alone, but it’s hard to believe you’re ever truly solitary when there’s a demon crammed into a rock five feet away, and half the world’s smartest spook division is probably watching you through a lens.

The containment suite is a brutalist coffin of reinforced concrete, with fluorescent lighting that flickers at just the right Hertz to make you doubt your own pulse. Every surface is sterile and angular, the kind of place that makes you feel like a dangerous specimen even if you just came in to use the sink. I can’t see the security camera but I know it’s there, probably shrouded behind a one-way mirror, with Dragon herself running algorithms to see if I so much as twitch. Not that I blame them. If I were Armsmaster, I’d be watching me too, probably with a kill switch in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. The crystal, meanwhile, radiates a silent contempt. It’s a pale blue, shot through with veins of midnight black, and it doesn’t glow unless you poke it. I poke it a lot. I can’t help myself.

On the surface, it’s inert—maybe a little prettier than your average geode, but nothing to make a customs agent raise an eyebrow. But the way it warps the air around it, the way it soaks up sound and light, gives me the heebie-jeebies more than any haunted artifact I’ve ever seen. Harry used to say that the worse the demon, the less it felt like you were in its presence and the more it felt like you were drowning in yourself. This crystal is like that. I try to focus on my notebook, but my thoughts keep spaghettifying around the event horizon of its gravity.

The demon inside is something old, something more malicious than the garden-variety hellspawn I’ve banished before. My first attempt at probing it left me curled in a ball on the floor, dry-heaving from the aftertaste of psychic oil slick. It’s not just a presence, it’s a *texture*: tarry, viscous, and unclean, like the world’s worst cough syrup swirling around your teeth. Even after I layered the runic shielding and triple-checked the Faraday cages, every magical ping I sent into the crystal came back coated in that same primordial disgust. That’s how you know you’re dealing with a demon that doesn’t care about the game humans play—it just wants to make everything else as miserable as itself.

The sulfur is a nice touch. I’m not sure if it’s a psychosomatic trick or if the thing is actively off-gassing through the lattice of rock, but the whole room stinks like the world’s nastiest chemistry experiment. My sinuses are already fried from the rain and blood, but the aroma of rotten eggs and burning matches cuts through even my worst head cold. I decide to get used to it. If this is going to be my life for the next however-long, I might as well pretend I’m running a hot springs resort for the damned.

I document everything. Not just because Armsmaster will grill me on it later, but because I honestly don’t know what the hell is going to happen, and I’d like there to be a record for whoever finds my corpse. I’m filling up one of Harry’s old notebooks, the kind with the weatherproof pages and the ragged edges from being thrown out of burning buildings. Every page is a mix of cramped runic diagrams, hastily scrawled observations, and increasingly desperate jokes in the margins. By the end of the week, it’ll look less like a scientific log and more like the diary of a man who lost a staring contest with a magic eight-ball.

On page four, I catch myself writing something that makes my hands shake. It’s not even a full sentence, just a fragment: “Potential for Endbringer containment.” The idea is so insane I want to scrub it out with bleach, but it keeps coming back every time I look at the crystal. The raw durability, the way it shrugs off every spell and ward I throw at it, the fact that it’s still *whole* after a demon that could eat the average wizard for breakfast got jammed inside it—if anyone ever found a way to weaponize this thing, it’d make Hiroshima look like a Roman candle. You’d have to be a proper lunatic to even consider it, but that’s basically my job description at this point.

I test the sigils again, this time using a bead of blood to trace the outermost warding circle. The runes flare up with a healthy blue, then fade, as if the crystal is bored by the effort of resisting. I toss the notebook onto the workbench, frustrated. This thing is learning. It’s not just adapting to the protections; it’s actively taunting me. The sigils themselves haven’t changed, but the response time is slightly different every test. That’s not supposed to be possible unless the entity inside is poking back. I make a note of it, then add a line: “Recursion: Demonic cognition at surface layer?”

The next test is riskier—a calibrated pulse of Thaumaturgy, just enough to rattle the bindings without letting anything through. I pull up the sleeve of my ruined shirt and flex my hand over the crystal, channeling raw focus through the nerves. There’s a moment of nothing, then a backlash so fast and sharp I nearly bite through my own tongue. The air in the suite grows colder, just a degree or two, but enough to make the hairs on my arms rise. I hold steady. I’m not going to let a demon throw me off my game, not after everything I’ve survived.

Then I hear it: a voice, so faint it could be the whisper of the air conditioning or the last echo of my own thoughts. It’s not words, exactly, but a rhythm—a heartbeat, or the memory of one. I know what it wants. Every demon does, in the end, want out. That’s the one constant, the ultimate cosmic joke. I shut it down, hard, reinforcing the outer circle with a jolt of pure intent. The voice fades, but the sense of gloating lingers. I can practically feel the thing grinning at me.

I jot the experience down in the notebook, hands trembling with a cocktail of adrenaline and dread. I don’t like being scared, but I like being unprepared even less. If this demon thinks it’s smarter than me, it’s going to have to prove it. I flip the page and start outlining a new set of runes, this time drawing inspiration from the layered redundancies of Armsmaster’s own containment tech. If I can’t out-power the demon, maybe I can out-engineer it.

I work in silence for the next hour, running tests, cross-referencing data from the last nanosecond ping, and refining my containment circles until the floor is a patchwork of sigils and smudged chalk footprints. I don’t notice the passage of time until my vision blurs and my hands start cramping from overuse. I take a break, slumping against the wall opposite the crystal, and stare at it like it’s about to blink first.

An idea occurs to me, something half-formed and dangerous. If the crystal’s only weakness is tampering from the inside, maybe I can exploit that. Maybe if I let the demon think it’s winning, I can lull it into a sense of complacency, then hit it with a custom-designed kill switch. It’s a long shot, the kind of plan that gets you laughed out of a White Council seminar, but I’m not exactly playing by the rules anymore. The demon pulses, as if in response to my thought. I feel its hunger, its venomous urge to consume and destroy. I smile back, savoring the challenge. If this is going to be a battle of wits, then I like my odds. I reach for the notebook, flip to a blank page, and begin diagramming the next test phase. This time, I’m not going to play it safe. This time, I’m going to poke the bear and see if it bites.

I clock the camera in the corner and give it a little wave.

“Hey, Dragon,” I say. “If I start screaming, just hit the panic button. I give it a four percent chance the demon tries to eat my face.”

There’s a click on the intercom. “Acknowledged, Warden. Please try not to get possessed.”

I snort. “No promises, and please just use my name. Makes me feel less like a soldier.”

The containment suite is silent again, except for the steady hum of the overheads and the angry throb of the demon’s crystalline heart. Maybe I’m reckless, maybe I’m a little suicidal, but I’m the only one in this city dumb enough to try what comes next. I square my shoulders, focus my will, and prod the crystal one more time.

This time, I invite it to talk back.

The rest of the world falls away until it’s just me, the hateful blue crystal, and the gleaming hunger I can feel radiating from the demon within. I let my mind slip a bit, opening up just enough to catch the edge of its presence—like pressing a tongue to a chipped tooth, or tasting blood from a split lip. The darkness in that stone isn’t just a metaphor; it’s a density, a mass, a black hole that tugs at my perceptions and warps the air around my thoughts. I get a flash of cold, a pressure on the inside of my skull, and then the voice again: bone-dry, clipped, the kind of accent that made people in old movies seem both charming and evil at the same time.

“You’re playing with fire, boy,” the demon murmurs. Each word crawls across my thoughts, not quite sound but something more intimate, like breath on the back of my neck. I get the sense it’s amused, but not in a friendly way. I picture a cat batting at a bug it plans to dissect for hours. It sounded feminine, though it was neutral enough that it could really go either way.

“I’m used to it,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Makes the day go faster.” I glance at the crystal, as if the conversation is happening with a sassy paperweight, but the reality is much more dangerous. You don’t banter with a demon for fun; you do it to keep it off balance, to gauge its intelligence, to see if it’s got enough self-awareness to be manipulated. Or, sometimes, because you’re so nervous that sarcasm’s the only thing holding you together.

The demon’s contempt practically fogs the air. “And yet, here you are, poking the bear, convinced you are cleverer than all who came before.” The words feel like they should echo, but instead they sink into the walls and hang there like a bad smell.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “If you were half as dangerous as you think, you wouldn’t be stuck in a paperweight, would you?” I lean in closer, though every instinct screams to keep my distance. “How long have you been in there, anyway? You sound like you’ve made a career out of being locked up.”

There’s a pause; just long enough to make me wonder if it’s thinking, or if I’ve finally offended the thing into silence. Then, the response: “Longer than you apes have walked this earth. From the moment of the fall, I have remained.” The words are thick with pride, like it’s quoting scripture, or reciting the most important line in a play.

I almost snort, but stop myself in case it’s the kind of demon that feeds on disrespect. “That’s a long time to hold a grudge,” I say. “I’d have figured you’d get bored by now.”

“You mistake patience for boredom,” the entity says, and this time the words are sharp enough to draw blood. “I have watched countless gaolers come and go. Every generation, one of your kind believes they can master me. Every generation, they fail. You are not the first to try this, and you will not be the last.” The voice crackles with a weird static, as if the act of speaking through the crystal’s lattice is painful, or maybe just infuriating.

I press my thumb against the runic ward, feeling its coolness leech into my skin. “Yeah, but I’m the first to do it in the age of nuclear weapons and quantum computers,” I say. “And memes. Don’t underestimate the power of memes, buddy.”

The demon doesn’t laugh, but I feel the temperature in the room drop another degree. “You believe these crude toys matter in the face of eternity?”

“Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m also hopeless with women. So you’re not alone in being disappointed with the modern era.” I make a show of flipping through the notebook, though I’m mostly stalling, buying time to chart the rhythms of its responses. The thing might be ancient, but it’s still got a personality, still wants to win. That’s the part I can use.

It tries to dig, to reach for a nerve: “You speak with bravado, but your soul stinks of fear, little wizard. I taste the reek of it even through stone.”

I ignore the insult, focusing on the opportunity. “Let’s skip the psychological warfare. If you’re so old, you probably remember when wizards didn’t have to run containment drills in prison cells. So tell me, what’s your actual name?” I scribble a sigil on the page—half distraction, half a ward in case the thing tries to jump out like a jack-in-the-box.

There’s another pause, longer this time, and then booming laughter that caused my teeth to ache: “Names are power. You know this. The fact you ask means you are clever, if not wise.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of here,” I say, but I catch the bait and dangle it. “If you want to play chess, give me a name I can call you by. Otherwise, we’re just yelling into the void.”

The demon laughs, a sound that isn’t a sound at all but more like a ripple in the back of my eyes. “Call me Sable. It is as true as any name I have worn, and more polite than most.” There’s a sly lilt to the words, as if it’s waiting for me to recognize some inside joke.

I let the name settle, rolling it around in my head like a marble. Demons rarely give you anything for free; if it’s telling me a name, it’s either an attempt at manipulation or a challenge. Or maybe both. “Alright, Sable. Let’s get to the fun part. Why are you here, really? The guy who trapped you—what did he want?”

Sable's voice slows, almost pensive. “He wished to be a god. They all do, in the end. But he had not the patience nor the brutality to withstand what was required. His ambition exceeded his will. I watched him burn from the inside out, his soul charred to a cinder before he even realized the price.”

I jot that down, noting the edge of bitterness. Demons could lie, but they usually did it by omission—not by spinning total fictions. “So, if he’s gone, what keeps you stuck in the crystal? Why not just… break out?”

A chuckle, this time lower, almost friendly. “It is not the crystal that binds me. It is the memory of the man who made it. His runes remain, his intent etched into the world. I cannot leave unless called, and I cannot be called unless you speak the words. You are more alike your predecessor than you care to admit.”

I bristle a little at that, but file it away for later. “I like to think I’m more creative. Or at least I dress better.” I tap my pen on the notebook, thinking. “If you’ve been stuck here since the dawn of time, you’ve probably seen a lot of wizards mess this up. Got any tips? I’d hate to repeat someone else’s mistake.”

The demon doesn’t answer at first, and for a moment I think I’ve lost it. Then, quietly: “The mistake is always the same: believing the game is fair. That there are rules, and that one can win by obeying them. There is no winning, only surviving. The longer you remember that, the longer you cling to your skin.”

I can almost respect the fatalism, if it weren’t so clearly designed to fuck with me. “Good advice,” I say, “but I’m more interested in the specifics. Who made the crystal, and what’s inside that nobody else ever figured out?”

The blue crystal throbs, a pulse like a heartbeat, and the air in the containment suite feels suddenly charged. “If you wish to know, you must ask the right question. Otherwise, you will wind up as all the others: dust, and an echo in my memory.” The pride is back, heavy and dangerous.

I look up at the ceiling, as if the camera can weigh in on this argument. I’m pretty sure Dragon’s just as glued to this as I am. “Alright, Sable. Here’s my question: What’s the one thing nobody ever tried? What’s the move that scares you?”

A pause, then a whisper: “Mercy.”

I blink. It’s so left-field I almost laugh, but the crystal’s aura tightens, contracting like a fist. I can sense its attention is absolute now, as if the demon itself is holding its breath. Mercy. The word rattles around my head, bouncing off the memories of every failed exorcism, every ghost story that ended in a massacre. Mercy isn’t a wizardly virtue; it’s not even really in the general monster-hunting vocabulary. But that tells me more than the demon probably intended.

I stare at the crystal, then back at my notebook. “You don’t want out. You want release.” The moment I say it, I know it’s true. The demon’s arrogance, its cruelty, its endless need to taunt and belittle—all of it is a distraction from the real torment: to be trapped and forgotten, a relic in a world that barely remembers your name.

The aura flickers, just a little. “You are not so stupid as you pretend,” Sable says, voice laced with a sudden, unexpected respect.

I crack a smile, though every cell in my body is whispering that I should run, that I should smash the crystal and salt the ashes. But if I break contact now, I lose the only leverage I have. So I force my voice steady, aiming for cocky but landing somewhere closer to desperate smartass. “You know my intent, don’t you, Sable?”

The shadow in the stone seems to shift, as if leaning closer, savoring the question like an amuse-bouche. “Of course. You hold the pretense of banishment, but what you truly covet is the hidden inheritance.”

I freeze. The phrasing is too precise, too tailored to my own gnawing curiosity about the artifact. It’s a move straight from the chess master’s playbook: reveal what your opponent fears, and you own them. But when Sable says “inheritance,” it doesn’t just mean the physical object. It means the entire metaphysical payload attached—power, legacy, curses, and all. The realization lands like a sack of bricks. Sable’s not just some sadist kicking around in a fishtank. It’s playing a longer game than I ever imagined.

This is why it was so confident, I realize. It didn’t give a shit about the mortal plane, about escaping into our world. No, Sable wanted something bigger, purer, older. As if picking up on the shift in my mental weather, it pressed its advantage: “Yes, clever boy. I crave not freedom, but return. I wish only to rejoin my Lord, as is proper for my kind.”

A shiver scrapes down my spine, slow and deliberate. The Lord of Temptation. Samael, Lucifer, Satan—whatever name you pick, it’s the capital-L, capital-E Enemy. Not some bottom-feeder demon, but one of the original Fallen. And I’m sitting here, bantering with it like it’s the class clown in Saturday detention. Suddenly, every moment in the last hour seems like a setup, a theatrical ploy to get me to this exact place: standing at the edge of a pit, looking down, daring myself to jump.

I force myself to keep my expression neutral, even as my pulse starts to hammer. There are rules for talking to demons, but with a Fallen, the rules are more like polite suggestions. “Interesting,” I say, stalling for time while my brain races through every scrap of lore I can remember. “You’re no demon. How did you escape your coin?”

The darkness inside the crystal ripples, and for a split second I sense a flicker of amusement that’s almost human. “Coin?” The way it says it, the word almost sounds like nostalgia—as if it’s remembering a favorite toy from childhood. “Such a crude little prison. Not even gold, just silver and empty threats.”

I scan back through the notebook, flipping pages with nervous, guilty fingers. Every demon I’ve ever heard of wanted nothing more than to claw its way out of Hell and claw its way into the world. But the Fallen? It’s not trying to escape damnation; it’s trying to run home. “You’re not a demon,” I repeat, this time with the kind of cold certainty that makes your mouth taste like pennies. The creature inhabiting the crystal is a Fallen. One of the actual, scripturally capitalized Fallen.

My mind reels back to the last time I encountered anything like this. Harry had told me stories—horror shows, really—about the Blackened Denarius, about the thirty silver coins that held the essence of the worst monsters in existence. But those stories always had a punchline, a weakness, some loophole in the summoning ritual or a get-out-of-jail card if you were clever (or lucky) enough. This? This felt different. This felt like the rules didn’t apply.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

My stomach twists, bile climbing up my throat. I turn away from the crystal, barely keeping my hands from shaking. I know that letting the connection linger even a heartbeat longer is begging for disaster.

I reach up and sever the mental link, dropping the wards into full lockdown, and the sudden absence of Sable’s presence is like stepping out of a freezer after an ice bath. I can still feel the echo of it, though, a cold stain where its voice had lingered in my mind, like the taste of metal after you bite your tongue.

I had just unintentionally connected to a Fallen angel. Not a demon, not some parlor trickster from the outer rings—an actual, bona fide ex-angel. One of the old ones, the kind that had been at ground zero of the universe’s first war. The glee radiating from Sable was almost physical, like a radioactive isotope of malice. My skull throbbed with the aftershock. If the Fallen were here, then things weren’t just bad—they were existentially, pants-shittingly catastrophic. This wasn’t a situation where you could out-snark or outfight your way to daylight. Supervillains, even Endbringers, suddenly felt quaint by comparison.

I stare at the containment wards, brain running a million miles an hour. There’s no way in hell I’m trying to banish it now. That would be like trying to evict a nuclear bomb by poking it with a stick. Letting Sable out, even for a second, was a hard pass. Even if I managed the banishment, the backlash could probably crater half the city, and I wasn’t arrogant enough to think I’d land on the right side of that equation. I may be a wizard, but I’m not suicidal.

The implications start to spiral. Some wizard—maybe the same one who died creating the crystal, or maybe some other lunatic in the chain of custody—had managed to trap a Fallen here. Not just pin it in place, but actually keep it caged for what might be millennia. That was big. Like, rewrite-the-history-books big. Every instinct in me wanted to run, to wash my hands of this and let the cosmic janitors handle it. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. If Sable was in the city, it was only a matter of time before the wrong hands found a way to use it—for leverage, for power, or just for the sheer hell of watching the world burn.

I force myself to take inventory. My first move was to triple-check every binding, every hastily scrawled rune, every inch of the obsidian circle. The wards still held, but I could feel Sable pressing against them, a constant psychic pressure like someone breathing on my neck. I carve a few reinforcement sigils on the fly, even though I know they’re more for my own comfort than actual utility. The crystal pulses with a grim amusement, as if it’s watching me try to tape shut the door of a lion cage with Post-it notes.

But the trick with the Fallen—the thing Harry drilled into me back in the early days—was that they always played the long game. Every conversation, every gesture, every “slip” of information was a move in a larger, invisible chess match. Sable clearly thought I was a worthy opponent, or at least an interesting one. That was flattering, in the same way a cat finds a mouse’s last stand “flattering.”

And then there’s the matter of the “hidden inheritance.” I try to roll the words off my tongue, but they catch like broken glass. Whatever was inside the crystal wasn’t just a soul or a grudge. There was a payload here, something that even Sable was angling for. Maybe it was power, or a key, or even a chance at redemption (hah), but I couldn’t let my guard slip for a second. Mercy, Sable had said. The one thing nobody ever tried.

I sit down hard, notebook in my lap, and start scribbling everything I remember—every scrap of the conversation, every shift in Sable’s tone. If I made it out of here, Dragon would need a full debrief. Hell, so would the White Council, and maybe the fucking Pope. But for now, I just needed to keep the thing bottled up and buy time until I could figure out a next move that didn’t end with me roasted on a spit or consigned to a metaphysical meat grinder.

It takes a few minutes for the shakes to subside. Finally, I straighten up and take a cautious look around the containment suite. Nothing had changed except me, and the sick feeling that now, no matter what I did, I was already part of the story Sable wanted to tell.

I open the Tinkertech tablet and queue up a message for Dragon. I type slowly, careful to avoid anything that would betray panic or uncertainty. “Subject demonstrates properties consistent with capital-F Fallen. Extreme caution advised. Recommend maximum lockdown, all access restricted except for authorized arcane personnel. Further analysis pending.” Then, after a pause, I add, “Possesses high-level awareness of containment procedures and current events. Suspect intelligence-gathering via magical vectors. Further contact not advised until additional countermeasures are in place. Recommend Endbringer protocols to be immediately put into effect.” I encrypt and send the message, then close the tablet and tuck it back in my bag. I was supposed to be the guy who came in with answers, not more terrifying questions. But at least I’d done my best to keep the situation from getting any worse. For now.

I stand and take a last look at the crystal. Sable’s shadow is still in there, barely visible, swirling like smoke in ice. I give it a nod—equal parts respect and warning—then step back over the warded threshold and shut the containment door. The locks hiss into place, and I let myself breathe again, just for a second.

The paranoia is a living thing in my veins now, but I force myself to focus. The next move was to put together a full incident report for Dragon, including all the context I’d left out of the basic briefing. I figure I have a few minutes before the first alarms start going off upstairs. Maybe less.

I’m halfway through outlining my theory about the “hidden inheritance” when I see a faint shimmer in the corner of my vision. My heart rate spikes, but it’s just a routine security drone, floating past the window to do its usual rounds. Still, I wonder if I’m being watched—not by Sable, but by something or someone else. Brockton Bay was lousy with eyes. And if I’m right, every single one of them is about to turn in my direction.

I swipe my badge at the elevator and try to steady my hands. This was supposed to be a routine artifact recovery, but now it felt like the opening moves of something a hell of a lot bigger. The doors slide shut behind me, and for the first time in a while, I wish Harry Dresden were here to see what I’d just gotten myself into. But he wasn’t. So I’d just have to play it smart, play it careful, and hope I was more clever than I was unlucky.

Chapter Text

There’s no warning, no click of a PA, no alarms, not even a hurried step from the hallway. I get the sense Miss Militia’s been waiting for me to leave the containment room, because the instant I cross the threshold, she’s on me—one hand on my shoulder, the other gesturing me forward in that polite but not at all optional way military types have perfected. We don’t take the elevator; we scale three flights of stairs, boots hammering against the linoleum in perfect rhythm. She doesn’t say a word on the way up, but her jaw’s tight enough I can hear her molar enamel stress-testing. I try to offer a joke—something about “do I get a last meal,” maybe, or “should I have worn my tux”—but her poker face is pure stone. A little overkill, if you ask me, but maybe she’s still pissed about the lobby incident. Or maybe the brass has something that just made her entire day a living hell.

The conference room is smaller than I expected, but the energy inside could power a Tesla coil for weeks. Armsmaster is to the right of the main table, stripped of his armor, besides his visor, but no less intimidating, quietly scrolling through a tablet. Director Piggot’s in prime real estate near the head, hands locked together so tightly her knuckles are whiter than her coffee mug. There’s a wall-mounted flat-screen dominating one end of the room, showing a grid of video conference feeds. Each box has a name tag, so it’s easy to pick out Dragon—her camera’s angled away from anything sensitive, just enough to show that she’s probably double-tasking as she listens in. Next to her is Legend, the All-American Man’s chiseled jawline making the other talking heads look like extras in a deodorant commercial. Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown is patched in from LA, still managing to look as though she’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

Standing, not sitting, maybe because there isn’t a chair tough enough to handle her, is Alexandria. I’d seen plenty of her interviews on YouTube, but in person, she’s something else. She doesn’t just fill a room—she bends it around her. Her presence makes the fluorescent lights seem brighter, and the temperature drops a few degrees. Her expression is calm but not neutral, like she’s tracking a dozen future chess moves and you’re the only pawn that doesn’t know he’s already been swept off the board.

She makes eye contact with me instantly, and the rest of the room seems to fall away. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Legend offering a friendly nod, and Dragon’s avatar gives a polite wave, but Alexandria doesn’t do pleasantries. She waits for Miss Militia’s hand to drop from my shoulder, then gestures for me to sit. I obey because everything about her tells me that not obeying isn’t even listed as an option.

“Warden.” Alexandria’s voice is velvet-wrapped steel, designed for command and compliance, but it’s the caffeine-jolt undertone that really gets my attention. She’s less interested in the formalities and more in the potential existential crisis I just dropped in their laps. “You come highly recommended, but I don’t have time for the usual icebreakers. Your report mentioned a possible Endbringer scenario.” She doesn’t look at the screen or at Piggot; she glances at Armsmaster, who doesn’t do anything. The conference room itself feels like the inside of a particle accelerator right before the big collision—the charged hum, the anticipation, the sense that something fundamental is about to shift. I half expect the walls to start vibrating. Alexandria’s gaze doesn’t waver. She’s waiting for an answer, not a performance.

I take a breath and try for calm, but not too much, because weakness is blood in this room. “If anything, it’s worse than that,” I say. “I would love to claim it’s not an active threat, but that would be naïve. I can say with decent confidence that it’s not an immediate threat. Still, what’s inside the crystal we recovered? It’s not a demon. It’s something far worse.” That gets a ripple of attention. The director’s hands flex, and for a second, I see Legend’s jaw clench on the screen. Dragon’s avatar executes a quick, subtle head tilt, as if she’s scanning for sarcasm. It’s Alexandria, though, who lets the tension stretch until it’s about to snap.

“Bad enough that you’d liken it to an Endbringer?” she asks with a baited calm, the sort that would make a polygraph needle break.

“I’m sorry, but that sort of comparison isn’t to be suggested lightly. I assume you can explain.” Legend’s voice comes in crisp, cutting off the tension before it boils over. It’s almost a relief. Alexandria gives him a glance that says, “you stole my line,” but lets it go.

I nod—slow, careful, not the flustered kid they’re expecting. “I assume everyone’s been clued in that I’m not from Earth Bet?” I say it level, as much for my own sanity as theirs. The silence ticks along for a second, and then Piggot makes a noise like she’s chewing rocks.

“Yes. Please continue with your report.” The chief director from LA—Costa-Brown—says it with the bored authority of someone who’s already signed the kill order and is just waiting for the paperwork to clear. I almost appreciate the directness.

I glance around. “How well does everyone here know the Bible?” Not a joke, not a rhetorical question. Judging by the expressions, nobody’s quite sure if I’ve lost my mind or am about to drop a theological nuke on the room.

There’s a beat of confusion, the expected silence, and then Alexandria lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Armsmaster’s visor betrays nothing, but I see his fingers twitch on the table, like he’s scrolling through disaster-response protocols in his head. Dragon’s voice comes through the speaker—polite, neutral, but with the amused lilt of someone who’s been around enough to appreciate the weird ones.

“I’m familiar with it as a cultural artifact,” she says. “Is this relevant to the threat assessment?”

“Very,” I say, and lean back only enough to give the illusion of relaxation. “The crystal isn’t just a power battery. It’s a prison. What’s inside is a fragment of a being that predates your Endbringers, maybe even your universe. In my world, the best term for it is ‘Fallen’.” I pause to let that sink in, because it really, really needs to.

Piggot’s hands are now white and shaking. “You’re saying we have a biblical entity loose on our planet.” Deadpan doesn’t even cover it—she’s fighting to keep her lunch down.

“Not loose—imprisoned.” My words hang in the air, a noose tightening around the room’s collective throat. “I don’t know the whole story, but I’ve pieced together most of it through informed hypothesis,” I say. “The Fallen are the angels that fell alongside Lucifer when he waged his war on Heaven. They were cast down to Earth, where they were eventually sealed into thirty silver denarii.”

Piggot’s lips twitch like she’s swallowing a retort, but Alexandria beats her to the punch. “Like the ones used in the Roman Empire?” she asks, one eyebrow arched, voice flat as a gun barrel.

“More like the ones given to Judas Iscariot,” I reply, and from the way the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, I’m not the only one who feels the room’s temperature drop. “This isn’t a game. Fallen are dangerous. More dangerous than the gods, or demons, or any creature from the Nevernever.” That gets a micro-reaction: Armsmaster freezes mid-scroll, his visor twitching like a nervous tic. Legend’s feed goes full poker face, but I can see his eyes scanning the corners of his screen, searching for a scenario where this ends with less than a six-digit body count.

I press on. “Angels are most likely the most powerful beings in existence outside the White God. They’re supposed to stay out of human affairs unless free will’s already been subverted. The Fallen? Just as strong, but not shackled by those rules. The only reason we haven’t been wiped out is that they’re locked tight to their coins. Each coin is a prison, forged specifically to bind the essence of the Fallen inside.”

A slow exhale from Alexandria. She leans forward, both hands on the table, assessing me like she’s about to pick apart my soul with a scalpel. “But this entity isn’t in a coin. It’s in a crystal.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question, but that’s what it is.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the problem. I’ve never studied one of the coins, but I can tell you the containment on the crystal is fundamentally different. The coins? They’re divine artifacts. Nobody in my world really knows who made them, but the working theory is, they’re manufactured by the Almighty Himself.” I keep my tone respectful, which is hard, because I’m pretty sure at least one person on this call has the White God on speed dial.

Legend’s voice comes through the speaker, this time saturated with enough authority to crush a rhinoceros. “If these coins are supposedly unbreakable, how did one end up in a crystal?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I say. “If a coin is lost, the Fallen inside remains dormant—waiting for a new host to pick it up and make a deal. But this? This is different. The crystal wasn’t made by a God. It’s magic, pure and simple. Human-crafted, if I had to guess. Someone with power, knowledge, and a total disregard for the laws of nature and good taste.”

A pause. Dragon’s flat digital tone cuts through the tension, clinical and precise: “The bindings—could they have been constructed by a parahuman? There are several capes whose power sets include some degree of reality manipulation.”

I shake my head. “No. Not a parahuman. It’s Old World magic—runes, wards, the sort of stuff that makes the Nevernever sit up and pay attention.” I can see most people in the room aren’t following, so I lay it out in plain English. “Magic like this is exceedingly rare even on my Earth. Only a handful of wizards in history could pull off a working like this, and even fewer would try. It’s not just a cell. It’s a tortured, self-sustaining feedback loop, a punishment that keeps the Fallen so occupied with pain and rage it can’t reach out and influence the world.”

“Who would do something like that?” Piggot asks, and for the first time, there’s a note of genuine fear in her voice. The idea that someone—anyone—could take an angel and turn it into a living battery of torment is almost worse than the threat itself.

“I have some theories,” I admit, “but none that’ll help us today. What matters is that this crystal is a time bomb. If the containment fails, we get an entity on par with an Endbringer, only smarter. Older. And a hell of a lot meaner.”

There’s a beat, and then Legend says, “Why didn’t you tell us this immediately?”

I want to laugh, but I don’t. “Because I needed to be sure. Because I needed to confirm the signature, and because if I’d said the words ‘Fallen angel’ in my first hour at PRT HQ, you’d have either thrown me in a padded cell or thrown me off the nearest bridge.” I look at Alexandria, who still hasn’t blinked. “You needed proof, not panic. And now you have it.”

Costa-Brown’s feed flickers, and she says, “Assume for the moment that your assessment is correct. What’s the next step?”

I let that hang, because it sounds like a trick question. “You need containment. More. Better. Triple redundancy. Move it somewhere isolated, and keep every power nullifier you’ve got running in shifts around the clock. If the bindings break, you call me. You don’t try to handle it yourself. You call me, and I do what’s necessary.”

“And what, exactly, does ‘necessary’ mean in this context?” Piggot asks, her voice gone brittle.

“Bind myself to the crystal and try to subvert its will.” It comes out so flat and dead, I barely recognize my own voice. Not the words of a hero, or a wizard, or even a survivor—just a dead man bracing for the cold plunge. Silence, and more silence. The conference room’s hum ramps up, like the whole building’s holding its breath. I want someone to argue, to call me an idiot, to tell me I’m being melodramatic. Instead, everyone just looks at me, even the people on the wall of screens. That’s when I realize they believe me. Every last one of them believes the gravity of what I’m saying, which makes it all worse.

I square my shoulders, force my voice steady. “Look, I should clarify: it’s not a good plan, or even a complete one. It’s more like a very short, very stupid letter to Santa, written in gasoline and left on a lit stove.” Dragon’s digital avatar almost flickers a smile, but the effect is ruined by the genuine dread in the room.

Piggot’s lips are two white lines. “And if you fail?”

“Then there’s no one left to report in.” I say it with a smirk, but it feels like the kind of joke you tell at your own funeral. “Point is, we don’t have a lot of options. This thing is going to get out eventually, unless we get some serious help. And nothing human is going to cut it.”

Alexandria finally breaks the stalemate. “You’re suggesting the PRT… what, commission an exorcism?” Her tone is pure incredulity, but there’s a razor wire of curiosity underneath.

“Not an exorcism. That’d be like putting out a refinery fire with a garden hose. I need to go into the Nevernever—Earth Bet’s version of it, anyway—and acquire leverage. Allies. Resources strong enough to tip the balance.” Even as I say it, the full weight hits me: There’s no map for this. I’d be flying blind, through a realm I don’t know, with enemies that make sense only to the mad and the damned.

Legend leans in, his image on the screen going 1080p sharp. “You want to open a portal using the crystal as a focus, and… what, ask for help from the divine?” He looks like he wants to bite through the table. “You realize the risks.”

“I do,” I say, “but desperate times, desperate measures. I’ve only ever gotten static when I tried to call on God or the angels. They don’t pick up the phone. But the Sidhe… faerie… they always answer. If we’re willing to pay the price.”

Piggot recovers first. “You’re telling me that the best option available is to petition a race of sociopathic extradimensional parasites. Are you insane?”

I give her a sideways grin. “I’d be more worried if you thought I was sane, ma’am.”

Dragon’s voice is quiet, off-balance. “You said ‘if we’re willing to pay the price’. What would that be?”

I hesitate, because I have no fucking idea. Last time I saw the Sidhe take payment, it was measured in memories, names, and the kind of things you can’t get back. “It depends. They never ask for anything easy, and never the same thing twice. If we’re lucky, it’ll just be something embarrassing, like my left hand or the names of my first ten foster parents.” I try to keep it light, but the room isn’t buying it.

Legend’s expression could etch glass. “If you start this, there’s no guarantee you’ll come back. Or that you’ll come back sane.” He’s not wrong. The Nevernever is a place that eats humans for breakfast, and I had made that abundantly clear in my reports. It’s also entirely possible that if I fuck up the summoning, I’ll just hand the Fallen a direct line to the world outside.

Alexandria nods, but she’s still watching me, waiting for the hitch in my voice, the tell that I’m bluffing. I don’t give her one. “So be it,” she says. “If this is our best option, we’ll support it. What do you need?”

The words catch me off-guard. “Access to the crystal. A secure summoning site. And…” I look down, not because I’m ashamed, but because it hurts to admit. “Someone who can stand guard. If it goes south, someone needs to shut it down.”

A slow nod from Piggot, who already looks like she’s planning my funeral arrangements. “We can supply a team. But if you lose control, we end it. No hesitation.”

“Deal.” It’s the only answer that matters.

“Hold.” Costa-Brown’s voice slices the room like a guillotine, cold and absolute. I half expect a klaxon to blare and the windows to slam shut just from the tone. Her hologram flares, pixels sharpening, and for a split second, the room feels five degrees colder. “Do you believe the Fallen will escape containment without outside assistance?” She doesn’t blink. I’m not even sure she can.

I hesitate, more out of self-preservation than uncertainty. If I say the wrong thing, I get twelve new pairs of eyes on me, and not the fun kind. “Not presently,” I answer. “But someone has already tried to break it out. It’s not if, it’s when.” I keep my voice even, but there’s a tremor at the end—like the aftershocks of a bomb I hadn’t noticed until just now.

Costa-Brown’s reply is as crisp as the first frost: “It was not under our control then. I am not authorizing any extra-dimensional excursions at this time. Not until the situation is dire. We continue to hold containment and search for other options.” Her words fall like iron gates, locking every avenue I’d hoped to explore.

The room digests the edict in silence. Armsmaster’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Legend’s fingers drum out a staccato against the table’s edge; I can almost hear him running risk assessments in his head. Beyond the screens, I imagine a hundred analysts and war-room strategists updating their reports with a collective groan, the word CONTINGENCY stamped in red across every page.

I swallow down a retort, something about the difference between containment and control, but it’s a losing argument. The directive is final—it’s in her job description, after all. If you make your living holding back the end of the world, you don’t open doors you don’t have to.

The sting of bureaucratic shutdown is sharp, but that’s not what really guts me. It’s the realization, as the adrenaline fades, that I am already a vector. The memory is vivid: my hand, gloved but still warm, brushing against the crystal’s surface. The pulse that climbed up my arm, the static on my tongue. The brief, sickening moment where the world blurred and something else pressed against my mind.

If these things work like the coins—and I’m betting my next ten lives they do—then I’m compromised. Not obviously, not like a zombie or a host in a horror flick, but potentially, eventually, catastrophically. I don’t know what timeline I’m on, but it’s definitely ticking.

I grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled, and force myself to breathe. No one here knows. Not yet. My poker face is good, but it’s not unbreakable. If they find out, I’m going straight into a containment cell, probably inside a Faraday cage, maybe with a side order of amnestic drugs and a bullet in the back of the head for dessert. The PRT doesn’t do second chances when it comes to infestation.

The cold logic is brutal: I need to stay useful, visible, irreplaceable. Otherwise, I become a problem to be solved, not a wizard to be trusted. That means I can’t act scared, can’t act weak, can’t act like I just realized my own expiration date. I run damage control in my head, calculating how long I can keep this under wraps, who I can trust, what options I have if—when—the symptoms start to show.

Across the table, Alexandria is still watching me with that predator’s poise. She’s not fooled. Maybe she doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong, but she can smell fear in the water. Legend’s gaze is harder to read, but I catch the glint of curiosity, the edge of suspicion. They’re both waiting to see if I flinch.

Piggot, for her part, looks almost relieved. The plan is simple. The threat is contained. If something goes wrong, she has a hundred rifles pointed at my head, and policies in place to make the paperwork easy. I envy her clarity. Dragon, the only one who might have my back, is just an image on a screen. I imagine her running simulations, already prepping for a breach scenario, with me as the test subject.

The meeting dissolves in a blur of logistical chatter. Teams are assigned. Shifts scheduled. A dozen new protocols drafted before I’ve even left my seat. No one asks if I’m okay, and that’s for the best, because I have no idea what I’d say. I force myself to stand, to smooth out the wrinkle in my coat, to act like everything is under control. The second I step into the hallway, I can feel the eyes on me—security, analysts, the occasional cape who thinks they’re being subtle. It’s the paranoia of being a walking bomb, and for once, it’s completely justified.

My mind runs hot: Was it just the touch? Or the proximity? Is it latent, or is it already burrowing into my head, twisting my thoughts, laying down scars where there were none before? I want to check the mirror, look for a tell—black veins, flickering eyes, maybe a new scar—but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. Subtlety is the game, and I’m playing against a grandmaster.

I duck into the nearest restroom and lock myself in a stall. The world is too bright, too loud, the colors a little too saturated. That’s probably adrenaline, but it could be… something more. I press my hands to my face and try to remember every detail of the containment protocols, every story Dresden ever told me about resisting the pull of the Fallen. There’s a mantra, somewhere in the back of my mind. Guard your name. Guard your will. Never give ground, not even a single thought. Easier said than done, when your head is a cocktail shaker of panic and denial.

I only realize I’ve been holding my breath when my lungs start to burn. I let it out in a shaky laugh and try to focus on the bigger picture. If I’m infected, I’ll need to buy time. Find a workaround. Maybe even tell someone, but not until I know exactly what I’m dealing with.

The irony isn’t lost on me: I want to help save the world, and now I might be the biggest threat in the building.

For now, I keep my mouth shut and my head down. But every time a shadow moves at the corner of my vision, or a thought flickers across my mind a little too quickly, I wonder if I’m still me—or if I’ve already started to lose ground. I keep my composure as best I can, the whole time fighting the urge to look over my shoulder, to check for invisible strings already guiding my every move. Fuck what the Chief Director says, they might not have a timeline, but I do. I needed to gather allies, and right now, I didn’t care about the cost. Not when my very soul was in the balance.

Chapter Text

Alexandria barely waited for the rest of the team to clear the perimeter before she barked, "Door to Cauldron." The world folded, and she emerged from the dim, rain-slicked alley on the city's edge into the fluorescent sterility of Cauldron's inner sanctum. The shift in air pressure left her ears ringing, but it wasn't nearly as jarring as the sick, helpless anger that was building behind her breastbone.

She stalked through the winding, windowless corridors—her bootheels cracking like pistol shots against the tile—ignoring the blue-jacketed orderlies who scattered at her approach. Down three turns, past the containment wing, and into the heart of the labyrinth: the main conference room. The glass walls were tinted a sickly shade of green, a nod to both security and irony. Alexandria shouldered the door open, letting it slam behind her with a reverberating bang that made Keith flinch.

Keith—he wasn't bothering with the mask, sat at the conference table, suit jacket shed, sleeves rolled up, with a hand braced on each side of his forehead, massaging slow circles like he could rub away the existential terror leaking into his skull. His eyes darted up when he saw Alexandria, and then down again, like maybe if he didn't make eye contact, she wouldn't vaporize him where he sat.

David—still in full costume, helmet under one arm—paced the far end of the room. He'd already worn down a path in the cheap industrial carpet, and if his clenched jaw was any indication, he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. Alexandria knew why: David didn't trust these people. Never had. Not even after everything they'd done together. Especially not now.

Doctor Mother was at her usual spot, back straight, coat immaculate, hands folded over a clipboard. Not a hair out of place, not a single sign of stress or concern showing on her face. She might as well have been waiting for a quarterly earnings report, not the probable destruction of the world. The only hint she gave of noticing Alexandria was a slight lift of the eyebrow, as if to say, "You're late."

And Contessa. Of course, Contessa. She looked like she was napping—head leaned back, eyes closed, body slouched in the chair like a half-melted candle. But Alexandria had seen her like this before. This was the thousand-yard stare of someone digging through infinity for a breadcrumb of hope or leverage. Everyone in the room knew better than to interrupt her when she was like this. The silence was a living thing, feasting, growing, pressing in from all sides. Alexandria, always the tactician, made a deliberate show of crossing her arms and tapping her foot. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Not until Keith finally broke, lowering his hands and looking up with haunted eyes. "It's bad, isn't it?" he said, half a question, mostly a plea.

Alexandria didn't answer, because she didn't have to. The question hung in the air, gathering weight, until even Doctor Mother seemed to tense.

David cut in, voice rougher than Alexandria had ever heard it. "So are we going to talk about the giant, biblical elephant in the room?"

The Fallen. Even for a woman who'd once flown through a nuclear fireball to prove a point, that particular phrase made Alexandria's skin crawl. The implications were staggering, and somehow more infuriating than any other twist fate had thrown at them. If Contessa hadn't confirmed it herself, cross-checked through her incomprehensible vectoring on McClaine's home world, Alexandria would have dismissed the whole thing as internet-grade conspiracy. But it was real—magic, of all things. Real, and apparently a major threat vector, dovetailing with the parahuman menace in ways nobody at Cauldron had ever anticipated. The thought was enough to make her want to punch a hole through the glass wall, security be damned.

David was still pacing, the carpet beneath his boots now as ruffled as his nerves. "So that's just it?" he spat, not even bothering to hide the tremor of disbelief. "We've spent decades preparing for every flavor of existential horror, and now we're supposed to believe in—what, faeries? Harry Potter shit? This is our life now?" He snorted, then froze as if waiting for someone, anyone, to have a better answer.

Alexandria grunted, "Quit pacing, David. Yes, we're going to talk about it. That doesn't mean we have to like it." She finally managed to wrangle her own boiling frustration and forced herself into one of the rigid conference chairs. The moment she sat, the tension in the room doubled—as if her acknowledgment of the problem made it that much more real.

Doctor Mother's expression remained flat, but Alexandria could see the tightening at the corners of her mouth, the deliberate slowness with which she unclasped her hands and set the clipboard aside. "The evidence is incontrovertible," she said, voice sharp as ever. "Parahuman abilities are being interfered with or co-opted by a class of entities we have no established procedure for confronting. Furthermore, their endgame appears at odds with both our own and—" she flicked her gaze to Contessa, who still hadn't moved, "—with the interests of the greater human population."

Keith looked like he might be sick. "And what, exactly, are these things? Aliens in fancy hats? Or is this actually the devil?" His voice cracked on the last word, and Alexandria didn't blame him. Hell, she was half-tempted to believe it herself.

"I don't care what they are," Alexandria said, cutting through the spiraling panic. "What matters is that they're affecting the timeline, and that means they're breakable. Everything is, if you hit it hard enough." She leaned forward, elbows planted, hands steepled like a battering ram aimed at the world's next disaster. "We need operational intelligence. We need assets in play. And we need them now, before this cross-contamination turns catastrophic."

For the first time since the meeting started, Contessa stirred. One eyelid slid open, just a sliver, exposing the cold blue of her gaze. Alexandria felt the room lurch, the sudden gravity of the moment making even her invulnerable skin prickle. Contessa spoke in a voice flat and final, like a guillotine: "Interference is unwise. I have a complete blackout after nine months if we move against the forces moving into our world." The words didn't echo, but the silence that followed reverberated like a dropped anchor.

The others seemed to shrink. Keith's knuckles turned white on the tabletop, and Doctor Mother's face—usually so composed it bordered on mannequin—twitched, just once, at the corner of her mouth. David, who'd been all restless motion, froze mid-step and stared at Contessa as if trying to decode the hidden threat beneath her words.

It was Kurt who found his voice first, the question trembling out of him like a last cigarette from a shaking hand. "Does it push the Warrior forward?" His tone was brittle, the kind of thing that would snap if you pressed too hard.

Contessa didn't answer at first. Her eyes drifted toward the wall, as if somewhere behind the glass she could see the future unraveling in real time. Then, a slow shake of her head. "No," she said. "Or at least not in any way I've seen before. This is different." Unspoken: that made it worse.

Alexandria's mind was already dissecting the implications. She'd never liked the Endbringer metaphors—too fatalistic, too much like surrender—but when Contessa said "complete blackout," it meant one thing: the best precognitive engine in the history of the planet was driving blind. Not even the Simurgh could create a gap like that. Nine months of future, amputated. Every scenario, every permutation—gone. Alexandria could almost feel the cold wind blowing through the hole.

Keith let out a thin, reedy laugh. "So we don't even get a warning shot? Just—boom, curtains?" He was trying to sound brave, but the edge of desperation was audible to anyone with ears. He looked to Doctor Mother, hoping for reassurance, but she had nothing to offer. Her hands had found the clipboard again and were gripping it like a lifeline.

David's expression curdled from fear to fury. "That's it, then? We're just supposed to let them walk in and do whatever the hell they want, because we're afraid of spooking the timeline? We're Cauldron. We don't do hands-off."

Doctor Mother finally spoke, her words measured out like pills. "We do not have the resources to challenge a completely opaque variable. Not without a better understanding of the threat's origins and objectives." Her eyes flickered to Alexandria. The subtext was clear: she wanted a plan. A miracle, perhaps, but at minimum a plan.

But Alexandria had nothing. Every strategy she could think of led either to annihilation or to the kind of chaos that couldn't be contained, not even by a team of the world's most powerful monsters and maniacs. She tried to steady herself, reciting the mental mantras that had carried her through a hundred impossible missions, but the old confidence wasn't there. Not this time.

"There has to be something." Keith's voice cut through the thickening despair, sharp enough to startle even Alexandria. He looked straight at Contessa, then Doctor Mother, then at the matte-finish tabletop—as if the answer might be hiding in the grain of the wood. "We're not just going to sit here and let this happen to us. That's not what this place is for."

"Integration," Contessa said, as if the word alone were a blueprint. She opened her eyes, straightening in her seat, and for the barest flicker of a moment her gaze locked with Alexandria's. "It's the only way forward. But we cannot allow the Fallen to persist on Bet. Their presence is a destabilizing vector. We move them to an uninhabited world. We monitor, contain, and leverage as needed." She spoke of the logistics as if it were a matter of reallocating office supplies, not exiling a sentient existential threat.

"Wait," Keith said, blinking rapidly. "You want to… move them? Like an invasive species—just dump them somewhere else and hope it doesn't bite us on the ass? That's not strategy, that's kicking the can down an infinite road."

Contessa shrugged, the gesture surprisingly human. "Containment is preferable to annihilation, given current constraints."

David, who'd been holding back a snarl since the meeting began, finally let it loose. "You're talking about a goddamn extradimensional quarantine. Do you have any idea what these things are even capable of? Do you?"

Doctor Mother raised a placating hand, but there was no conviction behind it. "We do not have the means to directly confront these entities. Not yet. And given Contessa's data, integration buys us time. Anything more proactive risks a catastrophic cascade."

Alexandria felt the conversation slipping, the room creeping toward a white-knuckled panic. She wanted concrete answers, leverage points—something actionable. "What about McClaine?" She said his name like a challenge, eyes cutting to Kurt. "Is he the linchpin here, or just another wildcard? If we can't remove the Fallen outright, do we remove the variable?"

The implication, ugly and pragmatic, hung in the air. Kill the kid, kill the problem. Alexandria found her teeth grinding at the thought, but the logic was sound. Cleaner than the other options.

Contessa slammed the notion down with a single word: "No."

The finality of it cut through the room, slicing every other argument off at the knees. The silence was so complete, Alexandria swore she could hear the faint thump of her own heartbeat echoing in the glass walls.

David was the first to recover, wetting his lower lip with his tongue. "Why not? What makes him so goddamn special?" There was no accusation in his voice; just a crushing, desperate need to understand what was at stake.

Now Contessa looked at each of them in turn, face scrubbed clean of anything that resembled mercy. "Because the Paths end abruptly should the Warden die."

That shut down every argument in the room. Keith's head jerked as if someone had slapped him. "The Paths end?" His voice came out so faint that the words barely registered. Alexandria could picture the schematic of possible futures unwinding, abruptly shorn off at a single, bloody node.

"There is no future where McClaine is removed," Contessa said, the words as pitiless as a tombstone. For a moment she looked at nothing, her stare blank and depthless, then her eyes flicked shut as if the effort of seeing that much possibility had finally burned her out. Her breathing slowed. Alexandria wasn't sure if Contessa was meditating or simply shutting down under the weight of her own revelation.

David stopped pacing. He just stood there, jaw clenched so tight the veins in his neck stuck out like rebar. Even Doctor Mother looked rattled—a first, as far as Alexandria could remember. The silence stretched, nobody wanting to be the one to break it and risk splintering whatever fragile trust had held them together this long.

Keith's hand trembled as he fumbled for a glass of water. "So what are we supposed to do? Just… let it happen?" He glared at the tabletop, like he wanted to punch a hole straight through to the next dimension.

Alexandria reached for logic, tried to anchor herself. "If there's no viable timeline where the Warden is eliminated, that means any attempt to kill or neutralize him is a guaranteed fail point. We'd just be burning resources and possibly making things worse." She said it flatly, but the taste in her mouth was ash.

Doctor Mother gave a shallow nod. "Then our job is to monitor and adjust. Minimize the vectors of contamination. Study the intersection of parahuman and thaumaturgical phenomena. Perhaps, with better insight, an opportunity will eventually present itself."

David's composure snapped. "We're just going to roll over? Is that it? Hope for a lucky break while these things play god with our planet?"

"Not roll over," Alexandria corrected, "but adapt. Think of it as a strategic retreat." She shot a glance at Contessa, who hadn't moved except to squeeze her own forearm hard enough to blanch the skin.

Keith cleared his throat, voice steadying as the shock calcified into resolution. "If McClaine is critical, we treat him as a sovereign variable. All other operations are secondary. We find out why he's so damn important before anyone else does."

David made a sour face but nodded, grudgingly accepting it. "So we babysit a magical foster kid while the world burns."

Nobody disagreed. The plan, such as it was, felt less like a strategy and more like the grim acceptance of an inevitable train wreck. Alexandria flexed her fingers on the armrest, already mentally assembling the teams she'd need to track and contain the "Warden." Not to mention the additional logistics to watch the new breed of foes now lurking in the shadows of their own damn universe.

Contessa broke the silence with her trademark finality, this time not even bothering to open her eyes. "McClaine will be amenable to working with the less-than-savory element," she said, the words more pronouncement than hypothesis. "His own world is facing a similar apocalypse." Her voice, usually so flat, carried something new: a note of weary inevitability.

A beat passed. Kurt's face twitched, the deep lines of his forehead folding in on themselves as he processed the implications. "We offer membership then?" he asked. The word 'membership' rang hollow—not an invitation, but a lifeline for a drowning man.

The room reacted like a pack of wolves trying to decide who would be first to bite. David looked ready to gnaw his own arm off before he'd let an outsider into their inner circle. Even Alexandria felt her hackles rise. She'd seen what happened when power brokers underestimated the consequences of desperate alliances. Still, they were running out of time, out of options, out of everything except dread.

Doctor Mother steepled her fingers, her expression unreadable. "If we bring him in, he will expect a seat at the table," she said. "He'll want information, authority, autonomy. We do not know how far his allegiance extends or what his true ambitions are."

"It's not like we have a choice," David shot back, more acid than air in his words. "He's a bullet the universe already chambered. Either we point him at the enemy or we let him ricochet around until he puts a hole in the world." He glared at the rest of them, daring anyone to argue.

Contessa opened her eyes then, twin slits of frost, and turned her head just enough to suggest a pivot in the conversation. "The Warden's primary concern is the survival of his immediate associates. If we control those vectors, we control him." There was no malice in her tone; it was simply math, brutal and unadorned.

Keith snorted. "So we hold his leash by the people he loves. That's the plan?" His voice dripped with disgust, but beneath it was grudging respect. They'd all pulled strings before, but few so personal or so tangled.

Alexandria found herself caught between two bad ideas: let McClaine operate independently and risk losing control, or tether him to Cauldron and introduce possible internal corruption. It was the same old calculus—sacrifice the few to save the many—but this time the equation felt all wrong.

Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose. "We could try the carrot before the stick," he muttered. "Appeal to his sense of duty. He's a problem-solver, not a martyr. Give him a crisis to fix, and he'll run himself into the ground trying to save everyone."

"Or he'll see through it in five seconds and turn on us," David countered, always the cynic. "Besides, what are we even offering? He's already up to his eyeballs in Endbringers and genocidal magic cults. A corner office and a shiny badge aren't going to cut it."

Keith couldn't keep from shaking his head, lips peeled back in a frustrated half-grimace. "I can't believe we're actually debating if we should draft a teenager for the fuckin' apocalypse." He slumped forward in his chair, palms flat and white-knuckled against the table. "We're not just out of ideas, we're feeding kids to dragons."

Alexandria's voice carried across the room, crisp as glass. "He is no child, not in the ways that matter. Not after what he's been through." She barely turned her head, but the implied rebuke landed like a brick. "From what Contessa's said, McClaine has nearly as much blood on his hands as any of us here. If that's the standard, he's already earned his seat."

Contessa offered a nod, cool and mechanical, like she was checking items off a list. "The Warden is functionally an adult. His decision-making, his risk calculus, even his ability to compartmentalize loss—he exceeds the average by orders of magnitude. He is a survivor by necessity. His body count matches that of Jack Slash." Her voice was soft, but the observation stung.

Keith scoffed, half in disbelief. "So we just ignore the fact that he's seventeen? That the only reason he ticks those boxes is because he never had a childhood?" He looked around for backup, but the room was a wall of stone.

Doctor Mother gave him a look that might have been sympathy in another life. "None of us did. Not really. The question is whether he can bear what we're about to ask." She shifted, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the table. "You all saw the reports. McClaine's already been manipulated, abused, and weaponized by half of his world's worst actors. The other half are lining up to take their shot."

Keith's shoulders bunched, the weight of it pressing him lower in his chair. His voice was thick with something like guilt. "We're supposed to be better."

Contessa's response came like a guillotine. "We don't have the luxury." A heavy silence rolled through the room, every breath a loaded gun.

Alexandria finally broke the tension. "If we don't bring him in, someone else will. Or he'll drown in the crossfire. Either way, we risk losing our only advantage." She fixed Keith with a stare, unblinking. "Protecting him is not the same as coddling him. The most dangerous thing we could do is underestimate what he's capable of."

Contessa steepled her fingers. "He is the most viable candidate for integration. The psychological profile suggests he is more likely to join Cauldron willingly than any other plausible recruit." She paused, calculating. "But the probability collapses if we attempt overt coercion. He will run—or worse, retaliate."

David, quiet too long, finally piped up. "So we offer him a deal. Leverage his friends, his foster family. Give him an illusion of choice, but make it clear what's at stake." He shrugged, the movement harsh. "Worked on me."

Doctor Mother's gaze flickered. "We cannot afford to drive him into the arms of the Fallen, or the PRT, or worse the Fae." she trailed off, the other threats unspoken but vivid in everyone's mind. "We must give him something to lose, then make it clear what happens to it if he defies us."

Keith looked sick, but forced himself upright. "How do we do that without becoming the monsters we're fighting?"

Contessa didn't hesitate. "We do what is necessary, and no more." Her tone was chillingly precise. "We keep him alive. We keep him useful. We keep him close."

Keith stared at the table, searching the grain like it might give up a secret answer. "How do we protect him, then?"

Keith's question sucked the air from the room. The answer wasn't just strategic—it was existential. The moment stretched, faces flickering from shock to calculation to something darker. Alexandria watched it all happen, counting the microexpressions as each of her colleagues tried to come to grips with the magnitude of the new doctrine. No longer was McClaine a variable to be monitored, a pawn to be maneuvered or a threat to be neutralized. He was the linchpin, the keystone species in a rapidly collapsing ecosystem. Every old grudge or bias suddenly felt childish. If he fell, so did everything tethered to this dimension.

David was the first to say it, voice rough but not unkind. "If he's as important as Contessa says, then we need to make damn sure nothing happens to him." He leaned forward, elbows planted so hard the table creaked. "We become his guardian angels. Or hell, his prison wardens." He looked at Alexandria, eyes asking an unspoken question: could they even do it?

Doctor Mother, for once, didn't try to mask her uncertainty. "We are not equipped to provide proper close protection for a thaumaturge of his caliber. He will sense surveillance, he will slip any net we cast. We must… think laterally." The phrase sounded foreign on her tongue, like it belonged in someone else's strategy session.

Kurt gave a grim chuckle. "We could try to insert a mole. Offer him a friend, something to anchor him here. Someone he trusts, who reports back." He shrugged, defeat in the motion. "But we'd need an agent he can't sniff out, and those are in short supply."

David grunted. "And what if he figures it out? We're all in the blast radius, and then the Warden goes underground forever." He drummed fingers on the tabletop. "If we're going this route, we need to be smarter than we've ever been."

Contessa's eyes remained closed, but she still managed to cut through the noise. "He will test us. He will seek to confirm whether our intentions match our actions. We must be consistent. Transparent, to a point." She opened her eyes, fixing each of them in turn. "The illusion of agency will keep him cooperative longer than any threat or bribe."

Alexandria found herself nodding. It made a vicious kind of sense—the less they acted like puppet masters, the less likely he'd cut his strings and walk. She could already see the outlines of a plan; not a fortress, but a honeycomb, with McClaine at the center, tended by operatives who thought they were helping, not watching. "We embed support. Not security, not handlers. People who augment his strengths and quietly manage his weaknesses. If he wants to save the world, we give him tools to do exactly that—but all roads lead back to us."

Keith looked up, and in that moment, the fear was gone from his face. Only resolve remained. "Then we start today. Get eyes on him, get a team assembled, and pray he never realizes how deep this goes." He met Alexandria's gaze, and for a heartbeat, she almost respected the kid.

She nodded once, crisp. "We'll need our best tactical minds on this. And someone who understands magic—not just from a theoretical standpoint, but how it feels to wield. Someone he can relate to." She glanced at Doctor Mother, who accepted the implied assignment with a flick of her fingers. "We integrate him, not isolate. Give him everything he needs to survive, and every reason to believe his survival is the only rational outcome."

The conversation shifted, the center of gravity now permanently altered. In a world of cosmic threats and infinite betrayals, protecting one boy—one Warden—became their new cornerstone. Alexandria began sketching mental lists, names and contingencies spinning like gears. The only certainty was that failure was no longer an option.

"Then we start today," Keith said again, louder, as if repeating the words would will a plan into existence. He pounded his fist lightly on the table, a gesture as much for himself as the others. "We can't waste any more time. We need a team, a playbook, and eyes on McClaine before someone else gets to him." He glanced at Alexandria as if hoping for backup, but her expression was unreadable, lips drawn in a thin, white line.

Contessa, silent through his outburst, finally opened her eyes all the way—a movement so precise it felt rehearsed. Her gaze pinned Keith, then moved to each person at the table, cold as autopsy steel. "Now is not the time. There are too many active variables. If we act prematurely, we risk exposure." She didn't raise her voice; she didn't need to. The words hit harder for their restraint, like a scalpel instead of a hammer.

Keith's jaw flexed. "We wait, and we lose the advantage. You said it yourself—he's already on every radar in the world. If we're not first, we're dead last."

Contessa gave a fractional tilt of her head, the closest she ever came to annoyance. "If he survives the next forty-eight hours, the probability curve shifts drastically in our favor. If not, he was never viable." She let the math hang there like a death sentence. "When it is necessary, I will be the one to reach out."

The meeting ended with those words, as all important meetings did—by decree of the Path to Victory. There were no further objections, no muttered pushback or side-eyed glances at the woman whose probabilistic tyranny had ruled Cauldron for the better part of a decade. The air hummed with a resigned inevitability; even Keith, who looked like he wanted to take a swing at the table (or maybe at Contessa herself), bit through whatever protest remained and lapsed into a sullen, obedient silence. It was the kind of submission that didn't feel like defeat, only a shifting of burden from the individual to the collective. If the world was ending, at least they'd all go down playing by the highest-percentage odds.

The others took their cue. Alexandria swept out first, her stride a running commentary on the value of efficiency. Doctor Mother lingered long enough to gather her files, her expression glazed with fatigue, but even she wasted no words on goodbyes. Kurt and David left together, sharing a private, whispered calculus that was probably just as vital as anything said aloud. Keith, last to rise, stared at the closed door for a long minute, deliberating some silent war before stepping out and shutting it behind him with a finality that bordered on ritual.

Contessa remained at the far end of the table, hands folded, eyes glassy as if already lost in the intricacies of a million possible futures. For her, there was no such thing as aftermath—only the next step, and the one after that, and the thousand echoes to follow. In that moment, it was impossible to tell if she pitied the boy they'd just condemned to the crosshairs or if, in her grand equation, he had already become a variable too costly to lose.

And that was it—no debate, no ethical wrangling. The Path to Victory was gospel, and they would march to its drumbeat until one or all of them were dust.