Chapter Text
Rain hammered against the windshield in relentless sheets, each drop striking with a sharp, rhythmic insistence. The man behind the wheel watched the wipers drag back and forth, smearing the world into gray streaks. It was always raining, no matter where he went—heavy, suffocating rain that clung to him like a memory he couldn’t shake. Maybe it was a sign of how this so‑called vacation was destined to go.
He tried the word again in his head.
Vacation.
That’s his cover story? That‘s what his superior came up with really? He supposed it had to do with the different kind of mission this was. After all the places he was sent to had the kind of reputations of places turned into apocalypse states.
But this place had a reputation too, he supposed. One with the most cape population in the country, People who could level buildings. Gangs that ruled entire districts. A city stretched thin and was an unlit powder keg just waiting for somebody to light the fuse.
He lifted his gaze to the battered green sign looming through the rain: NOW ARRIVING AT BROCKTON BAY. The letters were chipped, the metal rusted, as if the city itself was giving up.
Ahead, red and blue lights pulsed through the downpour. A line of cars crawled toward a police barricade, engines idling, drivers tense.
He eased the black SUV forward, the tires hissing on the wet asphalt. The closer he got, the more the scene resembled something he’d seen too many times—exhausted officers, makeshift floodlights, the faint smell of smoke carried on the wind.
His shoulders tightened. Old instincts stirred.
He scanned faces, exits, the way officers held themselves.
Not fear—fatigue. Stress. The kind that came after chaos, not before it.
An officer stepped up to his window, waving him forward. He rolled it down, letting in a blast of cold, damp air. The man looked worn down to the bone. His eyes had the same hollow fatigue he’d seen in people who’d been pushed too far for too long.
“License and registration, please,” the officer said. His nameplate read J. MILLER, the letters dulled by rain and time.
The driver retrieved his ID and the rental paperwork from the center console. Miller took them, shining a flashlight briefly across his face before passing the documents to another officer behind him.
“Nice ride,” Miller said, nodding toward the SUV.
“Thanks,” the man replied. “Mind telling me what all this is about?”
Miller blinked, as if surprised he had to explain. “You haven’t heard?”
“No. I’m new in town. Here on vacation.”
The officer gave him a look—half disbelief, half pity. “Hell of a place to pick for that.”
He gestured vaguely at the barricades, the chaos, the restless movement of police and PRT vans. “Lung went on a rampage a few miles up the road. Something about a robbery involving the Undersiders. I don’t have all the details. All I know is Armsmaster managed to take him down. They’ve got Lung locked up at PRT HQ now.”
The driver’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
Not out of fear—out of habit.
He’d learned long ago that when someone dangerous was taken off the board, it didn’t always mean the danger was gone. Sometimes it just meant the next problem was already on its way.
“Well,” he said, “that’s good news.”
Miller gave a tired smile. “Yeah. Sure is.” He accepted the returned paperwork from the other officer and handed it back through the window. “Everything checks out. Enjoy your stay in Brockton Bay, Mr. Kennedy.”
Leon nodded. “Thanks. I’ll try.”
He pulled away from the checkpoint, the SUV rolling forward into the dim glow of streetlights. Rain trailed behind him in rippling streams, the city unfolding ahead—dark, battered, and waiting.
"It was a mess", Leon thought. Broken buildings, torn up streets, and footprints far too big—and far too familiar—for his comfort.
While the police presence seemed to have up and vanished the closer he got to the few thankfully empty burning lots and broken buildings that Lung seemed to have demolished in a rage hunting after some small-time villain group called the undersiders.
The presence of the PRT agents was another thing altogether. While he was to make contact with the local PRT and a few old “friends” he was not looking forward to the amount of paperwork and regulations that working with the PRT seemed to always bring.
But things could have been much worse for this whole situation with only major amounts of property damage being the worst Lung seemed to have caused would be a more positive sight for the people that lived here especially since this seemed to end with Lung caught by the end of it.
But as much as he wanted to do something to help it looked by all accounts he was too late to help with this problem.
"Still better check on the progress on this when I get a chance", Leon thought with his hands tight around the steering wheel, legs ready to run, eyes searching for threats, all old and too-comfortable habits by now.
He turned back to the GPS, forcing his eyes away from yet another disaster he’d been too late to stop, and continued toward PRT ENE headquarters.
The rain eased as Leon approached the downtown district, seemingly through the worst of it. The GPS chimed once, then again, guiding him through a maze of half‑lit streets and construction barriers.
The PRT ENE headquarters rose ahead like a concrete bunker pretending to be a civic building. Stark brute rated walls, narrow bulletproof windows, floodlights cutting through the rain in harsh white beams. A pair of armored troopers stood by the entrance gate, rifles slung but ready, their visors reflecting the SUV’s headlights.
Leon slowed the car to a crawl.
Even from inside the vehicle, he could feel the shift in atmosphere. The street behind him was chaotic and exhausting. The space in front of him was the same but in a different way entirely.
He pulled up to the security checkpoint. A metal barrier lowered across the driveway, and a camera swiveled toward him with a soft mechanical whine. He rolled down the window, letting the cold air and the smell of wet concrete seep in.
One of the troopers stepped forward.
“Identification,” the modulated voice said, distorted through the helmet’s speaker.
Leon handed over the ID he’d been issued for this assignment. Not his real one. Not the one that would make people ask questions. Just the one that said he was a federal liaison on a temporary assignment.
The trooper scanned it. The visor dipped slightly—just enough to suggest a notification had popped up on their HUD.
A beat of silence.
Then the barrier was lifted.
“Welcome to PRT ENE, Agent Kennedy,” the trooper said, voice still flat but posture subtly straighter. “You’re expected inside.”
Expected.
Leon didn’t like that word. It meant someone had been watching him which most times meant someone wanted to kill him.
But he rolled forward into the underground parking structure. It was rather sensible that his arrival would be noted, the barrier clanging shut behind him. The sound echoed off the concrete like a vault door sealing.
He parked in the visitor section—empty, of course—and killed the engine. For a moment he sat there, listening to the ticking of the cooling metal, the distant hum of generators, the muted thrum of rain overhead.
His hands rested on the wheel a second longer than necessary.
Another disaster he’d been too late for. Another city on the edge. Another building full of people who thought they understood danger.
He exhaled, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the dim fluorescent light.
Time to meet the PRT and a few old friends.
The glass doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, letting Leon step out of the rain and into the bright, sterile lobby of PRT ENE headquarters. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and ozone—cleaner than the city outside, but in a way that felt artificial, forced.
A receptionist behind bulletproof glass glanced up, startled for half a second before schooling her expression. The guards flanking the security station didn’t bother hiding their curiosity. A lone federal agent walking in after a Lung-level incident was a bit outside norm.
Leon walked forward with a steady measured pace. His boots left faint wet prints on the polished floor behind him.
“Please place all metal objects and electronics in the tray,” one guard said, gesturing toward the conveyor belt and the tinker-tech looking machines.
Leon nodded, wordless. He set down his phone, badge wallet, keys, and a combat knife—legal, but enough to make the guard’s eyebrows twitch. Then he shrugged off his jacket and placed his bag on the belt.
Then removed his pistol from his side holster and put it on the belt too.
The machine whirred to life.
The guard watching the monitor frowned. Then leaned closer and frowned. ‘What the hell? he muttered.
The second guard stepped over. What’s wrong?
“It’s not showing anything. The whole bag’s just… blacked out.”
Leon waited, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable.
“Sir,” the older guard said, voice tightening, “we need you to step back from the belt.”
Leon didn’t move at first. Not out of defiance—just a moment of calculation, the kind that made both guards tense.
He then stepped back.
The younger guard’s hand hovered near his holster. “We’re going to need an explanation. What’s in the bag?”
“Classified Files,” Leon said calmly. “But you won’t find anything dangerous.”
“That’s not the point,” the guard snapped. “Our scanners can’t see through it. That’s a problem.”
The receptionist was already reaching for the phone, eyes flicking nervously between Leon and the guards. The tension in the room thickened—guards shifting their weight, workers peeking through their station windows, the hum of the lights suddenly too loud.
The older guard opened his mouth to say something else—
The phone on the desk rang. Sharp. Urgent.
The receptionist answered, listened, then froze. Her eyes flicked to Leon, then to the guards.
“…Yes, Ma’am. He’s here now.”
A beat.
“Yes. Understood.”
She hung up and swallowed.
“Let him through.”
Both guards turned toward her. “What? We can’t just—”
“That was The Director,” she said, voice tight. “He’s cleared. Immediately.”
The guards looked at Leon again—really looked this time. Calm. Still. Not a flicker of concern in his eyes.
Someone who knew he’d be let through.
The older guard stepped aside slowly. “You’re clear to proceed, Agent Kennedy.”
Leon nodded once, collected his things, and walked through the reinforced door without a backward glance.
Behind him, the guards watched in uneasy silence.