The Cultivation Writer

You can find me on A03, Fanfiction, SpaceBattles, Wattpad, Webnove, Royal Road, warframe fourms.

[winhumanman]

Warframe: Earth Bet Protocol

When a routine mission through the Void takes a disastrous turn, a lone Tenno finds himself stranded in a universe not his own—one without Orokin tech, without allies, and teeming with unstable powers called "parahumans." Cut off from the Origin System and with no way home, the Operator must adapt, infiltrate, and survive in this fractured new world. But Earth-Bet has secrets of its own and not all of them are eager to stay buried.

Caught between old instincts and new rules, one Tenno walks the thin line between Warrior and Hero, searching for a path back while leaving a mark that won't be easily forgotten.

[winhumanman]

The Manchester downtown plaza had been transformed into something almost festive.

Banners in the PRT’s navy and gold hung from lamp posts, fluttering in the crisp New Hampshire autumn breeze. A raised platform dominated the center of the square, flanked by barricades that held back a crowd of several hundred—families with children on shoulders, cape enthusiasts in homemade merchandise, reporters jostling for position with cameras and microphones. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifted from vendor carts on the perimeter.

Khora Prime stood at the center of it all, resplendent as ever.

She held court like a queen receiving petitioners, one hand resting on her hip, the other gesturing lazily as she fielded questions from the crowd. The metallic veil covering her face did nothing to diminish the force of her presence—if anything, it enhanced it, lending her an air of exotic mystery that the cameras couldn’t get enough of.

“One at a time, darlings,” she purred into the microphone. “I know you’re all desperate for my attention, but I only have so much grace to go around.”

A reporter near the front raised her hand. “Khora! Is it true that you and Miss Militia are... involved?”

The question sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd. Behind the veil, the Operator allowed himself a hidden smirk.

“Involved?” Khora tilted her head, letting the word hang. “My, my. The rumor mill works overtime, doesn’t it?”

She leaned forward conspiratorially.

“I’ll say this much—Miss Militia is a remarkable woman. Competent. Professional. Easy on the eyes, wouldn’t you agree?” A pause for effect. “But I’m afraid any romantic speculation is simply wishful thinking. My heart belongs to my work. And, of course, to my adoring public.”

The crowd ate it up. Cameras flashed.

Another hand shot up—a teenage boy in a homemade Ten-Zero shirt. “Who’s your favorite person to team up with? Like, in Ten-Zero?”

Khora considered the question with theatrical seriousness.

“Favorites are such a delicate subject,” she mused. “Choosing between family members is gauche. But...” She tapped a finger against her chin. “If pressed, I’d say Yareli.”

She let the name hang for a moment, enjoying the curiosity that rippled through the crowd.

“She’s... something of an aspiring idol, you see. Dreams of fame, adoring fans, the whole theatrical production.” Khora’s voice softened with something almost like affection. “Cute as a button and absolutely terrible at filtering her thoughts. The girl wouldn’t lie to save her life—or keep her mouth shut when she probably should. It’s her best quality. Even if it drives the rest of us mad.”

A few laughs from the crowd.

“Just last month, that girl told one of our more... reserved operatives that his armor made him look like ‘a sad mushroom trying to be intimidating.’ To his face.” Khora shook her head slowly. “I’ve never seen someone so powerful look so utterly lost for words.”

The crowd was eating it up now.

“But she’s good with kids. Wonderful, actually.” Khora’s posture relaxed slightly. “I think it has something to do with riding around on that floating board of hers. Regardless, when she decides to take the public stage with us, I think she’ll be very popular at hospital visits.”

The teenage boy who’d asked the question looked like he was memorizing every word.

“On a more personal level, however,” Khora added, “Trinity is a dear. Sweet, patient, doesn’t argue when I tell her she’s working too hard. More people should be like Trinity.”

As if on cue, the Trinity Prime Specter hovering nearby offered a small, shy wave to the crowd. The movement was perfectly calibrated—modest, almost self-effacing, the picture of a gentle healer uncomfortable with attention. A murmur of affection rippled through the spectators.

“She’s a treasure,” Khora declared. “We don’t deserve her.”

A woman in the crowd shouted, “We love you, Trinity!”

The Specter ducked her helmet slightly, one hand rising to her chest in a gesture of humble gratitude. The crowd aww’d in unison.

Behind the main event, Armsmaster and Umbra stood together near the platform’s edge—the two squad leaders presenting a united front for the cameras.

They made an imposing pair. Armsmaster in his signature blue power armor, halberd held at rest. Umbra in his darker frame, the Skiajati sheathed at his hip. They’d even worked out a pose—stepping forward in unison to cross their weapons in an X shape above their heads, the blade of the halberd meeting the edge of the nikana in a display of martial solidarity.

The crowd loved it.

What the crowd didn’t see was the holographic text scrolling in the Operator’s peripheral vision, relayed through Umbra’s systems directly to Khora’s HUD.

Armsmaster: The molecular patterning on your blade is impressive. Is the edge maintenance automated?

Umbra: Manual. A ritual. Auto-maintenance strips the soul from the steel.

Armsmaster: Soul.

Umbra: Figure of speech.

Armsmaster: I understand. Craftsmanship requires personal investment. The efficiency loss is worth the quality gain.

Umbra: You understand better than most.

Armsmaster: The PR representative wants us to do the cross-pose again in twelve minutes. The lighting will be better.

Umbra: Noted.

The Operator found it genuinely amusing. Armsmaster—the man they’d accidentally incapacitated during the Lung fight and who had tried to have their ship shot down—had turned out to be almost enjoyable company once you got past the social awkwardness.

He and Umbra had spent the morning in a strange kind of parallel existence. Posing for cameras, waving to crowds, answering rote questions from reporters—and quietly texting each other about blade metallurgy, combat algorithms, weapon styles, and the relative merits of various maintenance schedules.

Armsmaster took his role as Protectorate team leader seriously. He took everything seriously. But beneath that armor was a man who genuinely loved his craft, who could talk for twenty minutes about the molecular properties of his halberd’s edge if given the opportunity.

The Operator suspected the Tinker appreciated the efficiency. No small talk. No wasted words. Just technical exchange.

It was, in its own strange way, almost wholesome.

The Operator glanced at his internal clock.

Thirteen minutes until the scheduled lunch break. The PR representative had arranged a private room in a nearby restaurant—nothing fancy, but somewhere they could remove their helmets and eat without cameras recording every bite.

Of course, Warframes didn’t have conventionally removable helmets because they weren’t empty armor, but he was still looking forward to it. Playing Khora was exhausting in its own way. A break would be welcome.

Then he heard the commotion.

It started as a murmur at the back of the crowd—raised voices, the crackle of radios. Security personnel were moving, their body language shifting from relaxed alertness to active concern.

Khora paused mid-sentence, her head turning toward the disturbance.

“What’s this? An autograph seeker getting too eager?”

The joke landed flat. The crowd had noticed now too, heads turning, conversations dying as people craned to see what was happening.

The Operator’s tactical systems kicked in, enhancing his perception. Through Khora’s sensors, he could see past the crowd—to the barricades at the plaza’s edge, where security guards were struggling to hold back a surge of bodies.

These weren’t fans.

These weren’t autograph seekers.

These were desperate people.

“Please—you have to—”

“My daughter, she’s only fifteen—”

“Ten thousand dollars, I’ll pay whatever—”

“They said you could help, they said—”

The voices overlapped, a cacophony of pleading that cut through the autumn air. The crowd in the plaza was pressing back now, uncertain, some people pulling out phones to record.

Armsmaster stepped forward, his halberd rising. “What’s the situation?”

“Unknown civilians attempting to breach the perimeter,” one of the security guards reported through his radio. “They’re not hostile, just—they won’t stop—”

“Let us THROUGH!”

A woman broke through the barricade, stumbling forward with her arms outstretched. She was middle-aged, her clothes neat but worn, her face streaked with tears. A photograph clutched in her hand.

“PLEASE—you have to help me—my daughter—”

More followed. A man in a rumpled suit. An elderly couple supporting each other. A young woman with a baby in her arms. They poured through the gap in the barricade like water through a cracked dam, security guards too surprised—and too reluctant to use force—to stop them.

The Protectorate heroes moved to intercept. Assault and Battery were there in an instant, positioning themselves between the surge of people and the platform. Dauntless hovered above, his arc-lance crackling with energy.

“Ma’am, sir, you need to step back—”

“You don’t understand!”

“She’s been gone for TWO YEARS—”

“I’ll do anything, anything at all—”

The panic was spreading. The crowd of spectators pressed backward, parents grabbing children, some people shouting. The reporters were in a frenzy, cameras swinging toward the disturbance, microphones thrust forward to catch every word.

The Operator saw it unfolding—the chaos, the fear, the way a single spark could ignite absolute disaster.

So he stopped it.

Khora’s hand rose.

The Whipclaw materialized in her grip—living metal crackling with energy. She raised it high.

CRACK.

The sound split the air like a thunderclap.

The plaza went silent.

Every eye turned to Khora. The desperate civilians froze mid-step. The Protectorate heroes paused. Even the reporters stopped shouting.

Khora lowered her arm slowly, letting the Whipclaw dangle from her grip, its tip just brushing the platform.

“Well,” she said into the microphone. Her voice was smooth, unhurried, carrying across the silent plaza with easy authority. “This is quite the dramatic entrance.”

She descended from the platform in a single fluid motion, her heels clicking against the pavement. The crowd parted before her—spectators and desperate civilians alike—as she walked toward the knot of people who had caused the disruption.

The Whipclaw vanished from her hand as she crossed her arms under her chest, stopping three feet from the front of the group.

“Now then,” Khora said, her voice dropping the theatrical queen persona for something more direct. “Someone explain to me what’s happening here. One at a time.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the woman who had broken through first—the middle-aged one with the photograph—stepped forward. Her hands were shaking.

“My daughter,” she said, her voice cracking. “Nikos Vasil took her. Three years ago. She was walking home from school, and he—he—”

She couldn’t finish. She just held out the photograph with a trembling hand.

The Operator took it.

A teenage girl with brown hair and a shy smile. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. 

“Vasil,” Khora repeated.

The Operator knew it. Knew it intimately.

Heartbreaker.

He was one of many assassination targets the Operator had been planning to take out in the future. He hadn’t gotten around to it yet because he was waiting for Nyx to appear in the rotation. But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t built a Specter of her before the armory became compromised, so he couldn't just make one now.

So he’d decided to bide his time, waiting for the perfect solution. Just like the PRT.

Another person pushed forward—a man in his thirties, his clothes expensive but wrinkled, his face haggard. “My wife. He took my wife. I have money—I’ll pay anything. I sold my company, I have liquid assets, just—please—”

“Me too.” A younger woman, clutching a baby. “My sister. She’s only nineteen. She didn’t even—she was just visiting Montreal, and—”

“My daughter—”

“My niece—”

“My girlfriend—”

“Please, you have to help us—”

The world slowed as they began talking over each other again, the desperation spilling out in a flood of words and tears and pleas. Photographs thrust forward. Hands reaching out for a savior.

The Operator felt the weight of their desperation—the genuine agony of people who had lost everything to a monster and had been told for years that nothing could be done. The PRT didn’t touch Heartbreaker unless he tried for someone important. The fact that most of his fighting force was brainwashed victims made it messy. The Guild had tried and failed. The Canadian government left it to the PRT.

These people had been abandoned by every institution that was supposed to protect them.

And now they were here, begging on camera, because they thought Ten-Zero was their last hope.

He felt something else too.

Wrongness.

The sensation was subtle—a prickle at the edge of his awareness, a sense that something about this situation didn’t fit.

He let the scene play out in front of him while his mind worked backward.

The PR event in New Hampshire. Not widely advertised—handled through PRT channels, targeted at the New England region. Ten-Zero’s presence had been confirmed only yesterday as a last-minute addition.

Yet here were dozens of people, maybe more still outside the barricades, from all over the northern United States and Canada. They’d traveled—some of them hundreds of miles—to be here on this specific day at this specific time.

Furthermore, Ten-Zero Tower in New York was a public landmark. The lobby was open to visitors. There was even a dedicated intake process for people seeking aid—not publicized, but not hidden either. If these families had wanted to petition Ten-Zero for help, the tower was the logical first step.

Instead, they’d come here. To a PR event that most people hadn’t even known Ten-Zero was attending. With photographs and prepared stories and coordinated desperation.

This was organized. Had to be. But from the way these men and women tried to push past each other to speak to him, it wasn’t by them.

Someone had pointed them here instead of to the tower. Someone had made sure they arrived en masse, guaranteed to create a scene on camera. Someone wanted Ten-Zero’s attention focused on Heartbreaker—wanted it badly enough to orchestrate a media spectacle.

The question was: who? And why?

One of the Brockton Bay gangs? One of Heartbreaker’s enemies seeking to use Ten-Zero as a weapon?

Does it matter?

The Operator’s focus snapped back outward as Umbra’s hand landed on Khora’s right shoulder and the Trinity Specter appeared at her left.

The desperate crowd moved like figures underwater. Tears tracked slowly down cheeks. Hands extended with photographs grasped in fingers that seemed to take seconds to uncurl.

Security guards shouted warnings that stretched into garbled distortion. Protectorate heroes stood frozen mid-step.

The woman in front of him—the first one, with the photograph of her daughter—had tears streaming down her face. Her mouth was moving in slow motion, forming words he could barely hear.

“She’s my baby. My baby.”

He should redirect them. Tell them to file a formal request through Ten-Zero Tower, let Ordis process their claims, and make an informed decision based on sound strategy and proper intelligence rather than emotion.

But that option didn’t feel right.

Someone was already using these people’s pain as a tool. To compound that cruelty by turning them away here, after they’d done everything short of begging on their knees to secure a personal audience—felt wrong.

It felt... Orokin.

And sometimes—not always, but sometimes—the right choice was the simple one.

His perception returned to normal speed.

The woman’s voice came clear again, desperate and breaking.

“—please, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, just bring her home—”

Khora’s hand rose.

The metal fingers extended toward the woman.

Gently, Khora clasped the trembling hand between both of her own.

“I’ll get her back,” she said softly.

The words carried through the microphones, through the cameras, across the plaza.

“Every last one.”

----------

Taylor lay on her bed, a book propped against her knees. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting pale rectangles across the worn comforter. Her phone sat on the nightstand beside her, screen dark.

She’d wanted to go to school today.

That thought still felt strange in her head but it was true. She was starting to like school again. With no one stealing her work, her grades were increasing, and she could actually enjoy learning. School was also where Lookout and Isaac were. And honestly, just the thought of seeing Emma’s broken nose in the hallway would’ve made going today worth it.

But her dad had asked her to rest. And after last night, she’d decided to listen. To let him be a father.

So here she was. Reading. Resting. Being a good daughter as her thoughts drifted back to the night before.

----------

The house was lit when she got there. Danny’s truck sat in the driveway.

Taylor climbed the front steps, skipping the rotted one on instinct, and unlocked the door with her keys.

Danny was on the couch. He was already halfway to standing when the door swung open. The worry on his face shifted to relief, then tightened again when he got a good look at her—the bruise, the split lip, the scratches.

A pang of anxiety hit her square in the chest.

“Where were you?” he asked. “I was worried.”

The instinct to deflect was immediate. Lie. Say she was at the library. At a friend’s. Her dad probably still thought Isaac was a thug—and that she was willing to lie to protect him. 

The same pattern that had gotten her into this mess.

“The Boardwalk,” she admitted. “With Isaac. I needed to clear my head.”

Danny’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to say something. Several somethings. But he held himself back.

“I see,” he said tightly. “But you’re injured, Taylor. You should be resting.”

She didn’t respond to that.

The right words to say were there. But they were stuck somewhere between her chest and her teeth. She’d been swallowing them for years. Now, it was time to spit them out.

“Dad. We need to talk.”

Danny looked at her. Read something in her face. He sat back down.

“Okay.”

She took the chair across from him. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Worked her jaw like she was trying to dislodge something stuck in her throat.

Then she did it anyway.

“What happened today with Emma—that wasn’t the first time.”

Danny went still.

“She changed. Years ago. Around the start of high school, she started hanging out with Sophia Hess and Madison Clements, and together they decided to make my life hell.” Taylor’s voice was flat. Like she was reading from a list. “Stealing my stuff. Pouring juice on me. Ruining Mom’s flute. The locker. It was all of them. Led by her.”

Taylor continued to talk about what the trio did, how the students ignored her, how the teachers and principals refused to help her. And the more she did, the more the color drained from Danny’s face. His hands gripped his knees. His breathing got shallow.

Twice, she almost stopped talking.

Every sentence felt like peeling skin off old wounds.

But if she stopped now, nothing between them would ever change.

When she finished, the room went silent.

Her dad was trying to hold it together and failing. She could see the pieces falling apart behind his eyes—the realization of just how badly he'd let her down.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry that you felt like you couldn't come to me. That I was—" He choked. "Unreliable. That my first instinct was to blame you instead of listening. I'm so sorry, Taylor."

A long, ragged breath. Then something shifted. His head came up. The grief was still there, but underneath it was something harder. Anger—not at her. At them. At himself.

"I swear on my life," he said, his voice rough but steady now, "I will make this right. Whatever it takes. Whatever is necessary to make sure you're safe and those girls pay for what they've done."

Taylor felt tears rising. She didn't know why. She took off her own glasses and rubbed at her eyes.

"Thank you, Dad," she managed.

She got up, crossed the space between them, and wrapped her arms around him.

"I'm sorry too," she said into his shoulder. "For lying. For hiding things. For never giving you a chance to fix it even though you were trying your hardest in your own way."

Her dad held her tighter.

"Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. I'm the one who shit the bed. I failed you."

"Please, Dad." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "Just let me say this."

He went quiet.

"I'll try to be a better daughter too."

There was more. So much more. About Lookout. About Isaac. About being a cape. Joining Ten-Zero. But one thing at a time.

Tonight was a night for the simple things.

-------

Her phone buzzed, breaking her out of the memory.

Taylor grabbed it instantly, heart jumping. Isaac, maybe—

The notification wasn’t from Isaac.

It was from Tenno’s number.

Open the attached file. Then call me back.

Taylor sat up, frowning. She tapped the file.

The video was a recording from Khora’s perspective—a first-person view of the PR event in New Hampshire. She watched the desperate families pushing through the barricades. The tears. The photographs clutched in trembling hands. The pleas for help that spilled out one after another like a dam breaking.

She watched Khora descend from the platform, silence the crowd, and take the photograph from the first woman’s shaking hand.

Then came the moment that made Taylor’s breath catch.

The woman’s voice, desperate and breaking: “—please, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, just bring her home—”

Khora’s hand rising. Metal fingers extending.

The gentle clasp of the trembling hand between both of her own.

“I’ll get her back. Every last one.”

The video ended.

Taylor sat there for a long moment, the phone resting in her lap.

She’d known, objectively, that Ten-Zero was heroic. You didn’t take down S-class threats and dismantle criminal organizations without being on the side of the angels. But there was a difference between knowing something and seeing it.

This wasn’t a battle, a high-profile takedown, or a dramatic rescue. It was an in-the-moment choice to stop, to listen, and promise help to people who had been ignored by every institution that was supposed to protect them.

It was kind.

Human.

Everything a hero was supposed to be.

Taylor saved the video. Then she called his number.

It rang once.

“You watched it.” Tenno’s voice came through the speaker, calm and measured as always.

“I did.” Taylor paused. “That was... really good of you. What you did for them.”

“The job’s not done yet. But thank you.” A brief silence. “I’m contacting you to let you know that I’m leaving Brockton Bay for an extended period.”

Taylor straightened. “How long?”

“Eight hours, if I’m lucky. More if I decide to look for the bodies of any victims today.” His voice didn’t change, but Taylor caught the weight beneath the words. “Heartbreaker has been collecting women for a long time. Not all of them are still alive.”

She felt a chill crawl up her spine.

“In the meantime,” Tenno continued, “you’ll be vulnerable. So I’m assigning you protection.”

“Protection?”

“Shade. The drone that assisted you during the Lung engagement. Ordis should be sending you an app to track and communicate with it shortly.”

Taylor frowned. “Isn’t that a bit... much? Having a spy drone follow me around all day?”

She didn’t add that she’d been hoping to see Isaac again. That the idea of a silent mechanical observer her boss could spy through put a damper on any possibility of a repeat of yesterday’s spontaneity.

“Especially when you could just leave a Specter in the city,” she added, pressing the point. “Having one of those walking around would make all the gangs tread lightly. I’ve seen the statistics online and you told me yourself—crime drops whenever Ten-Zero operates somewhere.”

“True.” Tenno’s voice carried a note of approval. “You’ve been paying attention. But I need them to make a move.”

Taylor paused. “What do you mean?”

“Someone set this whole situation up, Taylor. Those families didn’t arrive by coincidence. They were pointed here by someone who wants Ten-Zero’s main focus to be on Heartbreaker.”

The implication settled over Taylor like a cold cloth.

“Are you completely sure?”

“No. But that’s the feeling I’m getting.” A pause. “Ordis is also investigating, but the digital trail is cold right now. Proof enough if you ask me, so I’m taking precautions. The Specters I have around the country are going into hiding in their respective locations. They’ll document anyone who tries to take advantage of our absence, just in case the target of opportunity isn’t Brockton Bay.”

“And you want Shade to watch me instead of the gangs here because...”

“Because I have surveillance of them covered and you are a potential target. Remember, you don’t have an anti-thinker effect like all my armors, so it’s not impossible for somebody to have discovered our connection via thinker powers and is using this as an opportunity to get to you. Either to hurt me or to leverage against me.”

Taylor swallowed. She hadn’t thought of that.

“So to keep you safe and my investigation running,” Tenno continued, “I need you to accept Shade’s presence. And as a bonus...” There was a hint of something almost playful in his voice. “If you say yes, I’ll give you the go-ahead for patrols today. Call it a substitute for training.”

Patrols.

The word sparked something in Taylor’s chest. She’d wanted to do another one for days—but between the training, recovering, and dealing with school drama, it just never happened. The idea of getting out there again, of actually doing some hero work, made her excited.

“Fine,” she said, trying to sound reluctant. “I accept.”

“Good. Open your window.”

Taylor blinked. “What?”

“Your window. Open it.”

She stared at the phone for a second, then crossed the room. The window stuck slightly—it always did—but she managed to wrestle it open. Cool autumn air rushed into the room.

Something metal brushed past her cheek.

Taylor yelped, stumbling backward, as a shape materialized in the air beside her bed. Sleek. Dark. Almost organic in its design, with a singular metal eye-thing that tracked her movement.

Shade.

The drone that had descended from nowhere to save her that first night from Lung. Wait a minute—why was Shade there that night? Had it just discovered her on a patrol, or did Tenno order it to follow her before her encounter with Lung?

Taylor shook her head, dismissing the thought.

Those were questions for another time. A time when Tenno wasn’t about to capture a serial rapist and rescue abused and brainwashed women.

“You sent it before I even agreed,” Taylor said flatly into the phone.

“I expected you to give in after I mentioned patrols.” Tenno’s voice carried a hint of smugness. “I’m not above bribery.”

She grimaced. “That won’t work next time.”

“Good. But if you’re wondering how it got here so fast, it’s because Shade and Venari were already in the city scouting Coil’s bases for me yesterday. I wanted to make sure that one of them would make for an appropriate graduation test for you.”

Taylor’s brain stuttered.

“Graduation test?”

“The final assessment before I clear you for independent operations.”

“And what’s in those bases?”

“Trained mercenaries with tinker-tech weapons.”

Taylor’s voice came out several octaves higher than intended. “You’re sending me to raid a MERCENARY BASE?”

“Not today. Eventually. When you’re ready.” His tone was calm, almost casual, like he was discussing the weather. “Trust me, Taylor. By the end of your training, with your powers, it’ll be a walk in the park.”

She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was insane. But the memory of the forest training exercise gave her pause.

That test was considered a failure. But she’d grown from it, and from Tenno’s other training, tremendously. And it hadn’t even been a full week since she joined.

So maybe he wasn’t crazy.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she muttered.

“I’d expect nothing less.” A brief pause. “I need to go. The families are just about done giving me their accounts, and the sooner I leave, the sooner I return.”

“Right.” Taylor took a breath. “Do your best.”

“Likewise.”

The line went dead.

Taylor lowered the phone, staring at the drone hovering in the middle of her room.

Shade’s eye swiveled toward her, then away, scanning the walls and furniture. It moved like a creature—not robotic at all, but almost curious, investigating this new space it had been assigned to guard.

“Make yourself at home, I guess,” Taylor said dryly.

The drone didn’t respond.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor was sitting on her bed with her phone in hand, watching Shade drift lazily around her room.

The app Ordis had sent was simple but comprehensive—a live feed of Shade's visual perspective, a tracking map that showed the drone's position relative to her own, and a series of basic commands that ranged from "patrol" to "stay" to "turn them invisible."

She'd spent the last ten minutes experimenting. Watching the drone respond to her inputs with eerie precision. Feeling, despite herself, a small thrill of excitement at the capability in her hands.

It was like being a rich kid with a high-tech toy. Except the toy was a lethal stealth combat drone.

She also noticed Shade wouldn't go past a certain distance from her. Attempting to command it beyond that radius just earned her silence. Trying to walk out of its radius just caused it to follow, regardless of any orders to stay put.

She was in the middle of having Shade do a slow circuit of her ceiling when her phone buzzed again.

A news notification.

Taylor tapped it absently, still half-focused on the drone—

Then she froze.

BREAKING: Armed robbery in progress at Brockton Bay Central Bank. Hostages reported. Suspects identified as the villain group "The Undersiders."

Her heart hammered.

The Undersiders. She knew that name. Between training sessions with Tenno, she'd spent hours on PHO digging through the Brockton Bay subforum, teaching herself the local cape landscape. The wiki page had painted them as small-time—a crew of teenage thieves who specialized in smash-and-grabs on casinos and jewelry stores. Barely worth a second glance compared to the Empire or the ABB.

But a bank robbery with hostages was not small-time—especially not the day after Ten-Zero had publicly announced they were cleaning up the city.

They were either stupid, desperate, or something else.

Her eyes flicked to Shade.

The drone's eye met hers.

Right now, Tenno was gone. Out of the city, handling Heartbreaker. He'd left her protection and said she could patrol.

He probably hadn't meant this.

Patrols were one thing. Armed supervillains holding hostages was another entirely.

But people were in danger.

And if she waited until she felt ready to help, would she ever become the kind of hero she wanted to be?

Taylor ran downstairs to grab her costume.

[winhumanman]

PRT Threat Assessment: Hound

PRT SPECIAL THREAT ASSESSMENT

SUBJECT: Ten-Zero Autonomous Combat Proxy — Hound

FILE DESIGNATION: TZ-ACP-HND

CLEARANCE: Protectorate / PRT Tactical Command

AUTHOR: Watchdog Analysis Division

OVERVIEW

The Hound is a robotic canine proxy deployed by Ten-Zero operatives as a semi-autonomous combat companion. Unlike the Warframe armor systems worn by Ten-Zero personnel, the Hound is a standalone unit—a four-legged combat drone engineered for pursuit, disruption, and attrition. It operates with a degree of independent tactical decision-making that far exceeds any documented PRT drone or Tinkertech autonomous platform, selecting targets, adapting its behavior to battlefield conditions, and coordinating with its assigned operative without any observable command input.

Intelligence indicates the Hound is a modular platform. Three distinct head assemblies have been catalogued—designated Bhaira, Dorma, and Hec—each conferring a different primary ability set. Additional modular components in the limb and chassis assemblies further alter the Hound's defensive and offensive profile. Field personnel must assume that no two Hounds will present the same capability set, and that the full range of possible configurations has not yet been documented.

Note: The Hound does not possess baseline Warframe capabilities. It is rated independently. However, it inherits the durability and resilience common to Ten-Zero robotic constructs, and must not be treated as a standard drone. It is significantly harder to kill than its size and profile suggest.

UNIQUE THREAT CLASSIFICATIONS

Master — 7

The Hound operates as a fully autonomous combat unit that requires no direct control from its handler, qualifying it as a Master-class threat in its own right.

Independent Tactical Cognition: The Hound selects targets, prioritizes threats, and adjusts its engagement pattern based on real-time battlefield conditions without any observable input from its assigned operative. It flanks, it retreats when outmatched, and it exploits openings created by allied attacks. This is not programmed behavior—it is adaptive decision-making executed at combat speed.

Spawn Capability (Diversified Denial Module): Certain Hound configurations can generate miniature autonomous replicas of themselves. These smaller units swarm designated targets, creating additional threat vectors and overwhelming point-defense positions through sheer numbers. The replicas are individually fragile but attack in coordinated packs, and their generation appears to be limited only by engagement duration.

Coordinated Pack Behavior: When multiple Hounds are present—observed primarily when a Ten-Zero operative deploys alongside a Hound-equipped teammate—they demonstrate seamless pack-hunting coordination, flanking from opposite vectors and alternating attacks to prevent targets from establishing a defensive posture.

Conclusion: The Hound is not a tool. It is a second combatant that does not sleep, does not hesitate, and does not require orders. Treat any Hound on the battlefield as an independent hostile entity with its own threat profile, not as an extension of the operative it accompanies.

Trump — 8

The Hound's most strategically alarming capability is its suite of power-disruption and power-theft modules, which directly target parahuman abilities and Tinkertech systems.

Aura Theft (Null Audit Module): The Hound can target a parahuman emitting a persistent augmentation aura, disable that aura, and appropriate it for its own use. The stolen aura then benefits the Hound and, by extension, the Ten-Zero operative it is assigned to. This is not merely suppression—the original parahuman loses the benefit of their own ability while the Hound gains it. Documented instances include the Hound stripping defensive shielding auras and turning them against the projecting cape's allies.

Magnetic Disarmament (Repo Audit Module): The Hound emits a localized electromagnetic pulse that forcibly strips weapons and equipment from the grasp of personnel within radius. Tinkertech devices, conventional firearms, and even hardwired mounted systems have been observed being disabled or torn loose by this pulse. The effect is instantaneous and repeated at regular intervals, preventing affected personnel from re-establishing a firing posture.

Status Priming (Manifold Bond Integration): The Hound's weapon systems are configured to inflict compound debilitation effects—neuro-electric disruption, thermal burns, corrosive degradation, and localized cryogenic freezing—on targets it strikes. These effects stack and compound, progressively stripping a target's ability to fight, move, or resist. More critically, the Hound's disruption abilities carry these same compound effects, meaning that even the Hound's non-lethal support functions are actively degrading the target's condition.

Conclusion: The Hound is a dedicated anti-parahuman platform. It does not need to kill you to remove you from the fight—it can strip your power, disarm you, and leave you progressively more debilitated with every exchange. The Trump 8 rating reflects the fact that the Hound's mere presence on the battlefield actively degrades every parahuman asset in its radius.

Brute — 6

The Hound possesses durability and close-quarters lethality that significantly exceed what its frame size would suggest.

Reinforced Construction: The Hound's chassis resists conventional small arms and requires sustained or high-caliber fire to degrade. Standard PRT sidearms and riot weapons are ineffective. The unit demonstrates no pain response, no flinching, and no degradation in combat performance from accumulated structural damage until catastrophic failure occurs.

Lethal Melee Output: The Hound's primary weapon is an integrated melee armament that benefits from the same kinetic amplification technology underlying Warframe strike systems. A single bite or lunge from the Hound inflicts immediately fatal trauma to unprotected personnel and significant damage to armored targets. The weapon is further augmented by compound-debilitation payloads that ensure even surviving strikes leave the target critically compromised.

Reflective Shielding (Reflex Denial Module): Certain configurations project a localized defensive barrier that absorbs incoming kinetic and energy impacts and redirects a portion of that force outward as a magnetic pulse. Attempting to shoot the Hound at close range is therefore counterproductive—the energy is returned to the shooter and everything nearby in a radial burst.

Conclusion: The Hound is a durable, aggressive close-quarters threat that punishes attempts to engage it at the range where most personnel would expect a unit of its size to be vulnerable. It does not go down easily, and the act of trying to bring it down at close range can be actively dangerous.

Mover — 5

The Hound's quadrupedal design and power systems produce pursuit and evasion speeds that outpace baseline human and most enhanced-movement profiles.

Pursuit Speed: The Hound's ground speed matches or exceeds the baseline Warframe Mover 5 rating. It can overtake fleeing personnel, close distance on repositioning targets, and maintain pursuit across extended ranges without any observed fatigue or performance degradation.

Evasive Agility: Certain configurations (Evasive Denial Module) are specifically optimized for evasive behavior, the Hound actively dodging incoming fire with predictive movement patterns that suggest real-time threat analysis. Engaging an evasive-configuration Hound with aimed fire is an exercise in frustration; the unit consistently moves to where the shot will not be rather than reacting to where it has been.

Conclusion: You will not outrun a Hound if your mover rating is lower than it. You will not lose it in terrain it can navigate. The only reliable way to break pursuit is to destroy the unit or interpose a barrier it cannot physically breach or circumnavigate.

Blaster — 5

Certain Hound configurations possess ranged attack capabilities that extend their threat envelope beyond melee contact.

Chain-Projectile Discharge (Synergized Prospectus Module): The Hound fires an electrical projectile that ricochets between multiple targets in sequence, inflicting neuro-electric disruption and compound debilitation on each impact. Up to seven consecutive targets can be struck by a single discharge, and the projectile's targeting logic ensures it chains to the nearest viable host, creating a cascading crowd-control effect in clustered formations.

Radial Magnetic Pulse: Both the Repo Audit and Reflex Denial modules emit periodic radial electromagnetic bursts that function as area-denial weapons against electronics, Tinkertech, and personnel with cybernetic or powered-armor enhancements. The pulses are not lethal but are intensely disruptive, causing involuntary muscle contraction, equipment malfunction, and sensory disorientation.

Conclusion: The Hound is not confined to melee engagement. Its ranged capabilities are primarily crowd-control and disruption oriented, but they are sufficient to prevent personnel from maintaining a safe standoff distance. The chain-projectile in particular punishes the tight formations that standard PRT doctrine favors.

ENGAGEMENT GUIDANCE & RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

1. Eliminate the Hound First: The Hound is a force multiplier that disrupts parahuman abilities, strips weapons, and degrades every asset in its radius. Every second it remains operational, the engagement deteriorates for PRT forces. Kill the Hound before engaging the handler.

2. Maintain Standoff Distance: The Hound's most dangerous capabilities—reflective shielding, magnetic disarmament, and melee lethality—are most effective at close range. Engage from maximum effective range with high-caliber or energy-based weapons. Do not close to melee under any circumstances.

3. Protect Aura-Projecting Capes: Any parahuman projecting a persistent defensive or augmentative aura is the Hound's primary target for the Null Audit theft capability. Shield-projecting Brutes and empathy-link Strikers must be kept outside the Hound's theft radius, or the Hound will strip their power and turn it against our forces.

4. Scatter Formations: The chain-projectile and magnetic pulse systems are area-effect weapons designed to maximize damage against clustered personnel. Spread all forces. Tight formations guarantee maximum casualties per Hound discharge.

5. Dedicated Anti-Armor Assets Only: Standard small arms are ineffective against the Hound's chassis. Only anti-materiel rifles, high-yield Blaster projections, or Striker-class close-engagement by durable capes should be committed to Hound elimination. Do not waste conventional munitions.

6. Expect Modular Variation: No two Hounds are guaranteed to carry the same capability set. Before committing to a specific counter-tactic, observe the Hound's behavior long enough to identify which modules it is carrying. A Hound you assume has reflective shielding may instead be the spawn-capable variant, and the tactical response to each is entirely different.

CLOSING ASSESSMENT

Individually, the Hound is a mid-tier threat—a durable, fast, and disruptive combat drone that would concern any field commander but would not fundamentally alter strategic planning. The problem is that the Hound does not operate individually. It operates as an extension of a Ten-Zero operative's combat profile, and that operative is wearing a Warframe.

The Hound fills the gaps in its handler's threat profile with surgical precision. If the operative is a close-quarters specialist, the Hound provides ranged disruption and aura theft. If the operative is a ranged combatant, the Hound provides pursuit, flank security, and close-quarters deterrence. It strips the things you need to survive—your weapons, your powers, your defensive auras—and leaves you facing a Warframe with nothing but your baseline reflexes and whatever the Hound has not yet taken from you.

The Trump rating is the one that should concern command the most. The Hound's ability to steal active parahuman auras and turn them against their original users is a paradigm-breaking capability that undermines the entire foundation of PRT force composition. When a defensive Brute's shielding aura is stripped and reapplied to the enemy, that Brute has not merely been neutralized—they have been converted into a net negative for their own side. The same applies to any parahuman whose power operates as a persistent, emanating effect. The Hound does not counter these capes. It conscripts them.

The recommended engagement protocol remains consistent: kill the Hound first, then address the handler. It is fast, it is durable, and it will actively degrade your ability to fight it—but it can be destroyed with concentrated, high-yield ranged fire, and its elimination strips the operative of their most versatile support asset. Do not ignore it. Do not deprioritize it. The Hound is not a pet. It is a weapon, and it will be used against you. ------------ A/N: Threat assessments for pets was an idea drafted and presented to me by Manathread on Spacebattles. It's probably a bit different from what he had in mind but i think it will be enjoyed all the same.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 31

The bike slowed to a stop near the Boardwalk's bus terminal, the chain clicking quietly as Isaac braked. The last bus home was already idling at the curb, its doors open and a few passengers shuffling aboard.

Taylor slid off the back rack, her feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. She stood there for a moment, one hand tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the other hanging uncertain at her side.

"Thanks," she said. "For today. All of it."

Isaac kicked down the bike's stand and straddled it, one foot planted on the ground. The streetlight caught the angles of her face, revealing exhaustion that went deeper than the physical.

"Don't mention it." He kept his voice warm, but measured. The hard part was still ahead of her. "Get home safe, okay?"

Taylor nodded. She turned toward the bus, took three steps, and stopped.

Isaac watched her hesitate. Saw her shoulders tense and her posture lock up. Taylor was up to something, but he couldn't guess what.

Then she spun around, strode back to him, and threw her arms around him in a hug.

Isaac went rigid, his hands hovering in the air at his sides. The gesture was unexpected but not unwelcome. It had been a while since he'd gotten a hug from someone who wasn't a mental construct of void energy.

His arms came down around her. Holding her firmly but carefully, mindful of the bruised ribs she'd been nursing. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, rapid and unsteady, and the way her fingers curled into the back of his jacket.

She was nervous.

"You've got this," he murmured.

It was one last piece of encouragement for the night.

He felt her squeeze tighter, then pull back. Her face was flushed and her eyes behind the glasses were avoiding his.

"See you tomorrow," she managed, her voice slightly uneven.

She turned before he could say anything and jogged toward the bus, climbing the steps just as the driver was reaching for the lever. The doors hissed shut behind her.

Isaac watched her find a seat near the back, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The bus lurched away from the curb, and he stayed where he was — one hand resting on the handlebars, the other hanging at his side — until the vehicle turned the corner.

The hug lingered in his mind.

Taylor was clearly making progress on opening up, trusting people again. That was good. Building connections, strengthening her support network. It would make her stronger in the long run, both as a person and as an operative.

Isaac nodded to himself, satisfied with the assessment.

She'd seemed flustered, though. Probably still emotional from everything she'd shared. The conversation about her mom, the bullying, her dad — that was a lot to process. He was glad she'd felt comfortable enough to talk to him about it.

He'd check in on her tomorrow. Make sure the conversation with her dad went okay. If it didn't... well, he could figure something out.

His mind drifted back to the costume shop. The green dress. The way she'd looked at it and how her fingers had lingered on the fabric before she'd put it back on the rack.

She'd refused to let him buy it. Pride, probably. Or a sense of debt she didn't want to accumulate. She didn't owe him anything, but explaining that to her probably wouldn't work. Taylor was stubborn like that.

But a birthday gift was different. That wasn't charity. That was just... being a friend.

Isaac frowned slightly as a thought occurred to him.

He didn't actually know when her birthday was.

He'd never thought to ask, and it hadn't come up in conversation.

He'd have to figure it out. Ask around, maybe. Or just ask her directly at some point when it wouldn't seem weird.

But all that was for later.

He had a bike to return and the rental stand was only a few blocks away. He could make it with time to spare.

Then he'd take his own advice and talk to someone he'd been avoiding. --------

The church smelled like old wood and incense.

Riley sat in the front pew, neck craned back, staring up at the crucifix. Jesus looked down at her with painted eyes — arms spread wide, chest caved in, ribs rendered in carved wood that didn't quite connect the way real anatomy should. The positioning of the organs would've made survival impossible past the first few hours.

She wondered if the sculptor knew that. Probably not. People who made religious art rarely understood the body beneath the skin.

Behind her, a few rows back, Father Michaels was speaking with her parents. His voice was low and sonorous, the cadence of a man used to being listened to. Something about guidance. Something about healing. Something about the Lord's plan.

Riley tuned it out.

She'd heard it all before. Not from this church, but from others. In particular, she remembered a priest from Ohio with fat fingers and a soft voice. He'd also had a basement full of children with scars and bruises across their bodies. Back then, Bonesaw had been very proud of the art she'd made of him, and to an extent, so was Riley. His screams for his lord to save him had made for wonderful music.

However, the memory was soured by recalling that the Siberian had eaten the children afterwards.

Riley was sad she couldn't let them go. But it just proved what she already knew about the world.

God was a coping mechanism for people who couldn't accept that their existence had no grander purpose than a bacterium's, and he wasn't saving anyone. But her parents believed. So here she was, sitting in a pew that creaked every time she shifted, staring at a wooden man dying on a cross.

The past few days had been a blur of fluorescent lights and uncomfortable chairs. Doctors with clipboards asking about her feelings in small voices. A therapist with kind eyes and too many questions about what she remembered, what she felt, what she dreamed about. Her parents hovered constantly, watching her like she might shatter or vanish, but that wasn't anything new. Evan was sharing her bed because she'd asked him to. Buttons curled against her legs like a watchdog.

She'd cried a lot. Slept less. Woken up screaming from nightmares about Jack finding her. Her family had held her each time, rocking her like a baby or letting her hug them until the stifling fear subsided, and Riley had let herself be small.

It was pathetic.

It was also good, in a way that made her chest ache. Because did Bonesaw, with her mountain of corpses and victims, deserve this second chance?

"Father Michaels?"

A voice cut through the church's stillness. Riley turned, the pew creaking beneath her.

A teenage boy stood in the aisle — maybe sixteen, wearing the plain clothes of a church volunteer. Normal enough, except for his eyes. They caught the stained-glass light strangely, milky and faintly luminescent, like cataracts. But he moved like someone who could see perfectly fine.

Riley frowned.

She'd been cataloging everyone in this town for a month. Faces. Names. Patterns of movement. She couldn't help it — even if she didn't care about leaving anymore, the curiosity about what this world was still clawed at her mind. And despite being regressed in age, that mind was still sharp.

She knew the cashiers at the grocery store. The mailman with the limp. The old woman who walked her poodle every morning at 7:15. She even had vivid childhood memories of going to Sunday school in this church.

Yet, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew she'd never seen this boy before.

Not once.

"If you'd like to speak privately with the family," the boy was saying to Father Michaels, "I can watch the young one for a bit."

The priest hesitated, glancing between the boy and Riley's parents. Her mom and dad exchanged one of those familiar worried looks, fingers interlacing.

"Riley, honey?" her mom asked. "Is that okay?"

Riley looked at the boy. Those wrong eyes. That easy, unbothered posture.

Something about him made her skin prickle and her curiosity pique .

"It's fine," she told them.

Her parents hesitated a moment longer but followed Father Michaels toward a side office, their footsteps fading into the church's quiet. The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them.

Riley turned back to the crucifix.

A moment later, the pew across from her creaked.

She didn't look up.

The silence stretched.

One second. Two. Five.

Then he spoke.

"How are you enjoying your new life, Bonesaw?"

Riley's entire body went rigid.

She looked toward where her parents had disappeared, fear spiking at the thought that they had heard, that they would know of her sins. When she realized they hadn't, fear gave way to anger and old instinct.

"Don't call me that," she growled.

Her hands curled into fists on her lap as she glared at him. Her eyes promised gruesome violence as her mind raced through ways to silence this boy before he could get to her parents.

The boy didn't flinch. Didn't react to the threat in her voice at all. He just watched her with those milky, seeing eyes, head tilted slightly like he was studying something interesting.

"My apologies," he said simply, dipping his head. "Riley. How are you enjoying your new life?"

She stared at him as her mind began registering all his words.

Then the pieces started clicking together with horrible, inevitable clarity.

"You're the one who made this place."

It wasn't a question.

The boy nodded, unhurried. Like her accusation was simply a fact he saw no reason to deny.

"What is this?" Riley heard her own voice go smaller.

"This is an alternate reality," the boy said, "comprised entirely of data. Constructed from what I and my companion call the Weave."

He gestured vaguely at the church around them — the pews, the stained glass, the crucifix with its inaccurate anatomy and painted suffering.

"More specifically, this is part of the weave called Captura. Think of it as an environmental simulator designed to perfectly recreate any location. Simulating an entire reality was never its intended purpose, but it serves well enough."

Riley absorbed this.

An alternate reality. That explained why her powers were gone. But one that could make a simulation this real was almost unbelievable.

"Why am I here?" The question cracked out of her in a pathetic way she instantly hated herself for. "Is this your revenge? Giving me everything just to rip it all away?" She looked at his clothes, the church around her, and remembered the jellyfish face’s words. "Or maybe you think I can be 'redeemed.'"

The boy was quiet for a moment. Those strange eyes stayed fixed on her face, his expression as passive as it was unreadable.

"No," he said finally. "You're here because someone once saved me when I didn't think I could be saved. I wanted to extend that same courtesy to you because it's what she would have done."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

"If you want redemption, you won't find it with me or in this world. But if you don't desire it, that's fine as well. I'll let you stay here. Live this life. The world is stable enough that you could spend an entire lifetime here without ever knowing the difference." He paused. "Or you can return to the real world and continue your rehabilitation there. To try and truly make amends for what Bonesaw has done."

Riley stared at him like he was insane.

"Why would I leave?" She gestured around her — at the church, at the world beyond its doors. "You said it yourself. I can stay here forever." Her voice cracked. "I can have them back."

Everything Jack stole from her.

Everything Bonesaw destroyed.

Her family.

Safety.

Love.

"Why would I trade this for what… A cell? A laboratory? A world where everyone hates me."

"It wouldn't be a cell."

"It wouldn't be this."

The words hung between them. The boy regarded her quietly, and something in his expression shifted. Calculation, maybe. Or assessment.

Then he tilted his head.

"Do you think your parents would approve?"

Riley froze.

"Your real parents," he clarified. "Not these recreations. Do you think they'd want their daughter living inside a simulation, hiding from reality forever?"

Heat rushed to Riley's face. Her hands clenched in her lap.

"They're dead," she said thickly. "I'll never know what they would've wanted. So it doesn't matter."

"Wouldn't be so sure about that."

Riley's head snapped up. She stared at him, at those milky eyes and that calm, knowing expression.

"I'm not certain heaven exists," he said as he leaned back, looking up at the crucifix. "But I know souls do. So there's a non-zero chance that when your time on Earth is up, you'll meet them again."

Riley barked out a short laugh. The sound came out harsh and ugly.

She couldn't believe this was what he was going to use to try and convince her to go back to Earth Bet.

"You can create entire realities from data, and you believe in souls?" She shook her head. "I didn't expect delusion from someone with your capabilities."

She paused. Considered him, his goals, and what he'd done to her.

"Then again," she added, her voice sharpening, "building a simulated world to play house with a mass murderer is exactly the kind of thing a delusional person would do."

The teen smiled.

It was a knowing expression, tinged with something almost like amusement. Like he'd heard worse insults from worse people and found her particular brand of venom almost charming.

"There's nothing delusional about what I'm saying. Or religious, really." He leaned forward again, and something in his voice became more certain. "Souls exist, Riley. I can prove it. Scientifically."

Riley went still.

Then she laughed again. But this time it came out wrong. Too high and too fast. The kind of laugh that was trying to hide something else underneath.

"You're lying," she accused.

"I'm not," he denied.

"Yes you are! You're trying to manipulate me. Just like him!" She stood abruptly, the pew creaking as her weight left it. "Did you really think I'd buy into that nonsense? Souls." She scoffed again at the very notion. "You expect me to believe that?"

She jabbed a finger at him, her voice rising.

"Consciousness is emergent biology. Electrical signals and chemical gradients. Neurons firing in patterns that create the illusion of self-awareness. When the brain dies, the pattern stops. That's it. That's all the ‘soul’ is."

"Riley—"

"No." She cut him off, her breath coming faster. "You don't get to come into my—"

She caught herself. Stumbled over the word 'my.' Because this wasn't hers. This was his. All of it.

"You don't get to come into this place and lecture ME about biology," she shouted. "I spent years cutting people open. I mapped every nerve, organ, and chemical pathway. I've even brought some people back from the dead and they always come back wrong. There's no soul in there. There's no magic spark. It's just meat."

The boy didn't even flinch at her outburst.

He just watched her with those calm, wrong eyes, utterly unbothered.

"If that's true," he said quietly, "then why are you so angry?"

Riley opened her mouth to refute.

Then closed it.

The question had landed somewhere soft and unprotected inside her.

"Because you're lying to me," she said, but her voice wavered on the words. "Because you want to 'rehabilitate me,' and you think wrapping it in fairy tales about souls and heaven will make me comply."

"Manipulating you would be easier," he breathed out, like he was tired of it all.

Riley went still.

"Like I said earlier, this is a digital reality. Everything in it is data. And right now, so are you. If I wanted obedience, I could alter the data that comprises you directly. Remove the parts of you that resist change."

His eyes settled back on her.

"I could make Bonesaw disappear and leave only Riley behind. It was even one of my original plans for you."

Riley's stomach twisted. Fear and elation at the idea bubbled up all at once.

Because some part of her wanted that, even as she feared it. If she wasn't going to return to Earth-Bet, wouldn't it be better to just spend the rest of her life in this world in blissful ignorance?

"But I haven't," he continued. "Because that wouldn't be you. And that wouldn't be redemption. Just escape."

Silence stretched between them.

"Then prove it." The words came out like a challenge, desperate and sharp. "You said you can prove souls exist scientifically. Do it. Show me. Right now."

The boy regarded her for a long moment.

The church was silent around them. Dust motes drifted through the colored light. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed on the street outside.

"I could," he said finally. "But anything I do in a world I can manipulate would be suspect to you. Besides, you're not asking for proof because you want to understand."

He tilted his head.

"You're asking because you need me to be wrong."

Riley flinched.

The words cut deeper than any knife she'd ever held.

"Because if I'm right," he continued, his voice soft and terrible, "then every person you cut apart, every victim you reduced to 'meat and nerves' — they weren't just biological systems or animals with intelligence."

He let the silence stretch for one heartbeat.

"They were people. Irreplaceable, unique people. And you didn't just destroy their bodies."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

"You scarred their souls."

Riley's breathing went shallow.

Her hands trembled at her sides. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her temples, in the palms of her hands.

She wanted to scream at him. Call him a liar. A manipulator. A monster wearing a boy's face.

She would know. She was one.

But she couldn't.

Because when Riley looked around, when she breathed in the incense-heavy air of the church or felt the warmth of sunlight through stained glass against her skin, she understood something terrifying.

He didn't need to lie to her.

This world alone proved that.

The people here laughed, cried, dreamed. They felt real because, in every way that mattered, they were. The air tasted real. Pain felt real. Love felt real.

And the boy sitting across from her had made all of it.

Not only that, but he could change it whenever he wanted. Change her whenever he wanted. And his knowledge of reality, even if it was tinker jargon, likely exceeded hers by leaps and bounds.

And despite that, he spoke about souls with the same quiet certainty people spoke about gravity.

And that scared her more than anything else he'd said.

"What happens to me if it's true?"

Her voice came out very small.

"If souls are real... if people really continue after they die..." She swallowed hard, fingers tightening against the fabric of her sleeves. "Then what happens to someone like me?"

Her eyes lifted to his, wet with tears that slid slowly down her cheeks.

"What happens to Bonesaw?"

The boy's expression shifted.

Something almost like pity flickered across his face — or maybe it was understanding.

He stood, brushing off his clothes. He looked down at her with those milky, seeing eyes, and his voice softened.

"I don't know that either. But if you ask me, the question isn't what happens to Bonesaw. It’s: are you going to spend your second chance becoming someone who could look your parents in the eye?"

He held her gaze for a moment longer.

"Think about it, Riley. You don't have to decide today or tomorrow or next month. But don't take too long — even paradise can become a cage if you stay long enough."

Riley opened her mouth to respond, but before she could find the words, the side door of the church opened.

Her parents stepped out, Father Michaels following close behind. Her mother's eyes were red-rimmed, her father's arm wrapped around her shoulders. They looked lighter somehow, like a weight had been lifted — or at least shared.

The teen turned smoothly, offering them a polite nod as he stepped out of the pew.

"Father Michaels. Mr. and Mrs. Davis." His voice was warm, easy, utterly at odds with the conversation that had just ended. "Your daughter's been very patient. Though I'm afraid I made for poor company — she seemed rather upset by the time you returned."

Riley's mother looked between them, a flicker of gratitude crossing her tired face. "Thank you for keeping her company, young man. We appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure." He smiled — normal and boyish, though it didn't quite reach those strange eyes. "She's a good kid."

He glanced back at Riley one last time. The smile faded into something more neutral.

"Take care of yourself, Riley."

Then he was moving, walking down the aisle toward the church doors with the unhurried gait of someone who had nowhere in particular to be. The heavy wood swung open, letting in a brief wash of afternoon light and the distant sound of traffic, before closing behind him with a muffled thud.

Riley sat frozen on the pew.

Her parents approached, her mother reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face.

"Sweetie? You okay? You look pale."

Riley looked up at her mother's face, saw all the love and worry in her eyes, and couldn't bring herself to think of her as fake.

"I'm fine," she heard herself say. "Just... thinking."

"About what?"

Riley's gaze drifted back to the crucifix.

"Souls," she said quietly.

Her mother's brow furrowed, but she didn't push. Just sat down beside her and took her hand.

Riley let herself be held.

But inside, she was still hollowed out, still turning over the boy's words like a knife in her hands, wondering what eternity looked like for someone like her.

And whether there was even enough left of Riley's soul to save.

------ A/N: Hi everyone. Due to upcoming time constraints, my upload schedule will be slowing down dramatically by the end of the month. It may drop to as little as one chapter a month. I will try to keep up with weekly or bi-weekly posts, but I refuse to sacrifice the quality of the story to do so.

Patreon supporters: Please feel free to cancel your subscription until I can return to a weekly schedule. Thanks for understanding, and thanks for the support!

[winhumanman]

Thank you @jadedemilich and everyone who got me to 25 reblogs!

[winhumanman]

PRT Threat Assessment: Cyte-09

PRT SPECIAL THREAT ASSESSMENT

SUBJECT: Ten-Zero Warframe Variant — Cyte-09

FILE DESIGNATION: TZ-WF-C09

CLEARANCE: Protectorate / PRT Tactical Command

AUTHOR: Watchdog Analysis Division

 OVERVIEW

Cyte-09 is a specialized Warframe variant optimized for extreme-range precision elimination, terrain-independent engagement, and hard-countering specific parahuman classifications. Unlike assault or infiltration Warframes, Cyte-09 operates as a static or semi-static overwatch entity. He transforms the battlespace into a kill zone where standard physical cover, durability, and stealth are rendered mathematically obsolete.

Note: All baseline Warframe capabilities (Brute 8, Mover 5, Thinker 7, etc.) fully apply. This document addresses unique augmentations and deviations from the baseline profile only.

 UNIQUE THREAT CLASSIFICATIONS

Thinker — 9

Cyte-09 possesses an advanced predictive-targeting suite designated "Seek," representing one of the most severe intelligence-gathering systems observed in the Ten-Zero roster.

Vulnerability Mapping: Deploys physical antenna nodes that project a continuous, forward-facing scanning wave. Any hostile entity within a 60-meter arc is immediately flagged.

Total Terrain Penetration: The scan highlights the exact silhouette and structural weak points of targets through all intervening terrain, building materials, and smoke. 

   Conclusion: Standard cover doctrines are entirely negated. If a hostile is within the 60-meter scan cone, Cyte-09 knows exactly where they are and precisely where to shoot them, regardless of how much concrete or steel is between them.

Blaster — 9

Cyte-09 manifests a weapon system designated "Neutralizer," a high-caliber energy sniper rifle with physics-violating projectile properties.

Anomalous Ricochet: Projectiles do not stop upon impacting a target. If a bullet strikes a mapped weak point, the residual kinetic energy ricochets with perfect precision to seek out and strike the weak points of other nearby hostiles.

Environmental Bypass (Manton Limit Violation): While "Seek" is active, Cyte-09's projectiles bypass terrain entirely. Bullets will pass through solid walls, floors, and vehicles without losing velocity or altering trajectory until they strike the mapped weak point of a biological target.

Area Denial (Alt-Fire): The Neutralizer can lob cryogenic grenades that instantly generate wide-area freezing conditions, completely immobilizing targets and destroying unshielded technology.

Conclusion: Cyte-09 does not need line of sight to eliminate targets. He can engage entire squads hidden inside bunkers by shooting through the walls, with projectiles chaining between targets.

Trump — 8

Cyte-09 utilizes an ammunition-generation and weapon-alteration system designated "Resupply."

Exotic Munition Infusion: Cyte-09 can instantaneously replicate his current magazine and infuse the ammunition with exotic elemental phenomena (extreme cryogenic, thermal, or corrosive properties). 

Weapon Enhancement: The elemental infusion applies to his sniper rifle, drastically increasing its damage output against armored targets. Theoretically, this infusion could be applied to conventional PRT weaponry if coordination was established.

Sustained Fire Enabler: The ability removes the need to physically reload, allowing for continuous, high-yield barrages so long as the elemental charge is maintained.

Conclusion: This system transforms standard ballistics into high-tier Tinkertech equivalents, bypassing standard physical resistances through elemental exploitation.

Stranger — 7

Cyte-09 utilizes a reactive repositioning and concealment ability designated "Evade."

Tactical Repositioning: Executes a rapid backward dash while simultaneously engaging a short-duration optical cloaking field.

Debilitating Countermeasure: The activation instantly cleanses all negative effects (biological toxins, sedatives, Tinkertech nanites) from the armor and bypasses standard shield-recharge delays.

Conditional Sustain: If Cyte-09 eliminates a target on a mapped weak point while invisible, the cloaking state is extended, and the armor's auto-regeneration is triggered.

Conclusion: Unlike sustained stealth variants (like Ivara), this is a purely reactive tool. It is designed to instantly reset his position and purge anti-armor effects the moment he is located by enemy forces.

 ENGAGEMENT GUIDANCE & RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

1. Destroy the Antennae: The "Seek" nodes are physical objects. If deployed, they must be immediately destroyed by indirect fire or Shaker abilities. Without the nodes, Cyte-09 loses his terrain-penetrating weak-point mapping and ricochet targeting.

2. Scatter and Suppress: Do not take cover behind walls or vehicles. If "Seek" is active, cover is a death trap. Personnel must spread out in the open to minimize the effectiveness of the ricochet mechanic and deny him clustered weak-point targets.

3. Avoid the Scan Cone: The 60-meter forward arc is a strict kill zone. Flanking maneuvers must be executed from the rear or extreme lateral angles outside the antenna's projected scanning field. 

4. Freeze Protocol: If the alt-fire cryogenic grenades are deployed, treat the affected area as an immediate no-movement zone. The extreme cold will immobilize or kill assembled forces and disable most weaponry. Wait for the effect to dissipate rather than attempting to push through it.

5. Counter-Stealth Aggression: If Cyte-09 uses "Evade" and vanishes, do not hold position. He is repositioning backward to establish a new firing line. Use wide-area displacement effects or rapid forward pushes to close the distance before the invisibility expires.

6. Element-Specific Countering: Monitor the visual coloration of his ammunition. Thermal (red) requires cryogenic PRT countermeasures; Cryogenic (blue) requires thermal countermeasures. Do not deploy standard Brute formations against elemental-amplified sniper fire.

CLOSING ASSESSMENT

Standard PRT threat matrices categorize Brutes and Strangers as high-priority targets due to their ability to close distances and dictate engagement terms. Cyte-09 is functionally designed to dismantle these specific classifications with minimal friction, serving as a perfect anti-Brute and anti-Stranger platform.

The anti-Stranger application is clinical. Stranger variants like Ivara rely on the inability of defenders to perceive them, using stealth to close into melee or bypass defenses. Cyte-09 completely removes the requirement for perception. The "Seek" antenna passively maps exact biological silhouettes through walls. A Stranger could be standing perfectly still, completely invisible, and buried inside a sealed vault, and Cyte-09 would still have a precise weak point to shoot at through the vault door. Stealth provides zero protection against mathematical targeting.

The anti-Brute application is equally absolute. High-tier Brutes typically operate on the assumption that their physical mass and durability allow them to ignore cover and weather incoming fire. Cyte-09 inverts this. By granting his ammunition infinite terrain penetration and targeting structural weak points, a Brute's durability becomes irrelevant. A Brute cannot tank a shot that phases through the wall behind them to strike a specific organ, nor can they survive the subsequent cryogenic freeze grenade that pins them in place for follow-up shots. 

Cyte-09 reduces parahuman combat to a purely mathematical equation. If you are within range of his antenna, your durability, your cover, and your stealth do not exist. The only reliable counter is to destroy the antenna from outside the cone, or deploy flying Movers to close the distance faster than he can reposition—both of which require resources that standard PRT responses do not often possess. --------- A/N: This PRT Threat Rating is brought to you by my wonderful patreon members. Иван Грозный, Pyro Reaper, Big_Bro_Byakko, Prince Wavebreak, 1NC1N3R4T0R, headcrabfever, Kosmic, Captain_FUBAR, Light YGI, Balding ion, Joel Johansson, and jesse estes. Thank you for your support on. Never doubt that you're appreciated.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 30

The car ride home was silent.

Taylor sat in the passenger seat of her dad's truck, staring through the window at Brockton Bay sliding past in a blur of gray sidewalks and sagging power lines. Her reflection stared back at her — split lip, bruised jaw already darkening into something ugly, scratch marks trailing down her neck like a cat had gotten hold of her. Which, in a way, one had.

Her dad kept glancing over. She could feel his eyes on her every few seconds, the way his hands tightened and loosened on the steering wheel like he was working up to something and failing.

He'd shown up at the school office barely twenty minutes after Blackwell's call. The look on his face when he'd seen her — the bruises, the blood, the way she was holding her ribs — made him cycle through shock, fury, and something that looked horribly like guilt in the space of a single breath. He hadn't said much after they left the school.

Now they were almost home, and he still hadn't found the words.

Danny pulled the truck into the driveway and killed the engine. The house looked the same as it always did — peeling paint, overgrown garden, the faint tilt of the front steps that neither of them had ever gotten around to fixing. Taylor reached for the door handle, but Danny's voice stopped her.

"Taylor. Wait."

She settled back into the seat, not looking at him.

"I owe you an apology," he said. The words came out rough, like they'd been scraping against his throat the whole drive. "For the office. When I heard you'd hit Emma — I..." He exhaled through his nose. "I took her side."

Taylor said nothing.

"I should have listened to you first. I should have asked what happened before I started lecturing you." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "I'll be better about that. From now on."

She nodded. "It's fine, Dad."

It wasn't fine.

The apology was genuine — she could hear it in his voice. He meant every word. He was sorry for taking Emma's side at the office.

Yet, unfairly, it didn't feel like enough, because he didn't know.

Her dad was apologizing for one moment because he thought this was an isolated incident — two friends who got into a fight, an escalation that came out of nowhere. He didn't know it was one incident in a very long, very deliberate bullying campaign.

And the worst part — the part that sat in Taylor's chest like a stone — was that she could have told him. Anytime. She could have walked downstairs any night this past year, sat across from him at the kitchen table, and said Dad, Emma is destroying me.

Mrs. Barnes's reaction today had proven that some adults would listen, if given the chance. But Taylor hadn't given him that chance. She'd bet everything on patience, on the hope that Emma would change back, and she'd lost. The cost wasn't just the bullying — it was the walls she'd built to survive it. She'd gotten so used to handling things alone, to being failed by the adults in her life, that she didn't know how to let him in anymore. Even when she wanted to.

"I'm going to go lie down," she said, opening the truck door. "I'm tired."

Danny was out of his seat and around the hood in three strides. "I'll stay. Take care of you — I can call the Dockworkers, tell them—"

"Dad. I'm fine." She managed a smile that felt fragile on her face. "You should go back to work. They need you."

He stopped. She saw his jaw work, saw the way his shoulders curled inward — the familiar posture of a man who wanted to reach out but didn't know how. He looked like he wanted to argue, to insist, but the guilt from the office was still too raw. He was terrified of getting it wrong again.

So he did what he always did when he was hurt or lost. He retreated.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll be home by six. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I will."

She walked up the front steps without looking back, and the door closed between them.

The house was quiet and empty, as usual. Taylor made her way upstairs, each step sending a dull throb through her ribs, and closed her bedroom door behind her.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands. Her knuckles were raw. Emma's blood — or maybe her own — had crusted under her fingernails. She should wash up. She should do something.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and typed a message to the Lookout group chat.

Taylor: Home. Thanks for having my back today.

The replies came in fragments over the next few minutes. Heart emojis from Samantha. "Anytime" from Nate, followed by a photo of his swollen eye with the caption "battle scars." Brandon sent a thumbs up and a joke about all of them being white knights now. Henry wished her well.

And then, a separate message from Samantha: Isaac got pulled early too. His dad came for him.

His dad. Mr. Dax. She'd only seen the man from afar and never really met him — Isaac had mentioned him a few times in passing but never said much on him. She wondered why he'd been pulled out. Did Isaac get in trouble? Given what she knew about the principal and the Dax family's "donation," probably not.

She set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her ribs screamed in protest, so she shifted onto her side, curling slightly. Just a nap. She'd feel better after a nap.

She didn't want to fall asleep, but the exhaustion of the day — the fight, the adrenaline crash, the guilt— dragged her under like a riptide.

-------------------

When Taylor woke, the light in her room had gone gold. Late afternoon, she registered, pushing herself upright with a wince. She'd been out for maybe two hours.

She made her way to the bathroom mirror and stopped.

The face looking back at her was still a mess — the bruise on her jaw was an ugly thing, mottled purple and green at the edges, and her lip was still swollen where Sophia's knee had connected. The scratch marks on her neck were still visible.

But.

She tilted her head, examining herself. The swelling was less than it should have been. The kind of recovery that shouldn't happen after a two-hour nap. Her lip still throbbed, but the split had already started closing. Likewise, the bruising on her jaw, while still ugly, had receded from what she remembered in the car.

Taylor stared at her reflection for a long moment. Then it clicked.

The healing.

During training, Tenno had healed her more times than she could remember. It wasn't far-fetched to think that exposure to his power had jumpstarted her own recovery. Or maybe it was just residual energy running its course.

She prodded her ribs experimentally. Still tender, but the sharp, grinding pain from earlier had faded to a dull ache. Definitely better than it should be.

She made a mental note to ask Tenno about it later.

She went back to her room after cleaning up and taking some painkillers. She sat on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. She didn't feel like training — plus if she showed up, Tenno would heal her, and walking into school tomorrow looking fresh after a beating like that would raise too many questions. She didn't feel like reading or watching anything, either.

Then there was the odd yet all too familiar feeling swirling in her chest.

Loneliness.

It was a strange emotion to start noticing after so long. She'd spent the better part of two years alone — eating lunch in bathroom stalls, walking the hallways like a ghost, avoiding anyone who tried to get close. She'd gotten used to it. She'd even told herself she preferred it.

But the fight today had changed something. It quieted the thoughts that told her Lookout was just waiting to stab her in the back. They had fought for her — not because they had to, but because they chose to.

And yet, she wasn't thinking about sending a text to the group chat.

Her mind drifted back to the hallway. Not to the fight. The aftermath. Isaac, and what he'd said.

"I'm… familiar with loss."

The words had stuck with her. So did his reaction to Emma's cruelty. It had been echoing in the back of her head all afternoon. About him.

Taylor pulled up his contact. She wanted to talk to him. More than that — she wanted to talk to someone who might actually get it. And he had promised to check up on her, hadn't he?

Taylor: Hey Isaac, do you mind if we meet up today?

His reply came faster than she expected.

Isaac: Sure. Boardwalk?

She frowned slightly.

The Boardwalk?

It felt… oddly public for the kind of private conversation she wanted to have, but Isaac was still new to Brockton Bay. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to explore the city or just didn't know the city well enough to know quieter spots.

Either way, she'd be talking with him.

Taylor: Yeah. That's good.

Isaac: Alright, I'll meet you there in an hour. [Address]

She stared at the address for a moment, then switched over to a different conversation.

Taylor: Hey Tenno, can I skip training today?

Tenno: Sure.

Tenno: Tomorrow's session will account for today's absence though.

She nearly sighed. Account for it. Right. That was Tenno-speak for "I'm going to make you wish you'd shown up today." She'd deal with it when it came.

Taylor looked down at herself. Bruised face, scratched neck, swollen jaw. She'd been about to pick out something nicer — something appropriate for a hangout — but her reflection in the phone screen killed that idea before it formed. She ended up in jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled up to cover the worst of the damage.

-----------------------

She arrived at the Boardwalk twenty minutes early.

The crowd was thicker than usual, which made sense — according to PHO, her boss had made a very public spectacle of himself not that long ago. She could see people clustering around their phones, showing each other clips.

Taylor found the bench Isaac had specified and sat down, pulling out her phone. Might as well wait productively.

She opened PHO.

The front page was, predictably, dominated by the same topic as everyone else's conversations. The new Khora thread had exploded — already on its fourth lock-and-continue cycle, with thousands of posts debating powers, the ships, and the ever-popular question of what exactly Ten-Zero was.

She scrolled until she found VoidCowboy's latest contribution.

VoidCowboy: I know they're martians! Think about it! We've never seen them show even a hint of skin! Probably because the Earth's atmosphere isn't suited for them.

TacticalComanda: So you're saying Khora's a human shaped, hot, alien dominatrix, that speaks perfect English despite coming from a civilization light years away? Do you hear how you sound dude?

Aliens. Taylor smirked in amusement. She had made that same assumption. It was wrong though. Refugees from other dimensions was more accurate. But that information would shock everyone less than finding out Khora was actually a Lost Boy.

She was halfway through another rebuttal from a user named Bagrat when a shadow fell across her screen.

"You're early."

Taylor looked up. Isaac stood in front of the bench, hands in his jacket pockets, a half-smile on his face. He looked unfairly put-together and carefree for someone who'd also been pulled out of school today — dark jacket, plain shirt and black jeans.

"Look who's talking," she said, pocketing her phone.

He dropped onto the bench beside her, leaving a comfortable amount of space. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh." He tilted his head, giving her a look that said he didn't believe her but wasn't going to push. "How's your first real fight treating you? The after-effects, I mean."

"It was..." She searched for the right word. "Messy."

"That's one word for it." He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench. "How's the ribs?"

"Sore."

"The jaw?"

"Also sore."

"The—"

"If you're about to list body parts, they're all sore."

He laughed.

"Okay, I get it. But just in case. Hold still for me really quick." He reached for her face, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers to examine the bruising along her jaw. His brow furrowed. "The swelling's better than I expected, but this is still— let me see your neck."

His hand moved toward her hoodie, and Taylor jerked back, her face going warm.

"I'm fine," she said, too quickly. "Really, you don't have to—"

"You got clawed up by Barnes and took a knee to the face from someone with something resembling combat training. Let me check the—"

She swatted his hand away softly, her cheeks burning. "Isaac. I'm fine. Stop. The nurse already checked me and I have a… Doctor I can see for a second opinion."

He blinked, registering the flush on her face.

"Sorry," he said, pulling back with a sheepish grin. "I'll stop fussing. Scout's honor, as they say."

Taylor exhaled, the embarrassment fading. "Were you ever a scout?"

"Something of the sort. So trust that I more than qualify." He stood up, the grin settling into something more casual. "Come on. I'm new to the city and I've got a native guide with me on the Boardwalk. You might as well show me around."

"Me?" Taylor raised an eyebrow as she stood. She had expected this, but was still caught off guard. "I don't exactly frequent the Boardwalk."

"Doesn't matter. You've been here more than me. That makes you the expert by default." He started walking, and after a beat, she followed.

----------------------------

She tried to be a good guide. She really did. But Taylor's Boardwalk knowledge extended to "that one ice cream place" and "the bookshop near the corner," neither of which felt like proper tour material for someone who apparently had an unlimited capacity for finding interesting things.

They had barely made it two blocks before Isaac slowed down, nudging her elbow.

"See that guy?" he asked, nodding toward a street performer running a classic shell game. A small crowd had gathered, watching the man shuffle a pea under three thimbles with practiced sleight of hand. "Watch the guy in the red jacket. He's part of it."

Taylor watched. Sure enough, the man in the red jacket won big, cheering loudly and waving his cash around, goading others to bet. When a tourist stepped up and placed money down, he lost instantly.

"Hustler's working with a shill," Isaac said, sounding amused rather than judgmental. "Classic."

"You didn't strike me as the gambling type," Taylor noted.

"Well I guess that means you know a little more about me." He gave the scene one last look before they moved on.

They wandered further, weaving between the thicker crowds, and eventually ended up at the railing along the waterfront. The Rig sat on the horizon, gleaming in the late afternoon sun — the Protectorate ENE headquarters, hovering out over the water like an impenetrable fortress.

Taylor stared at it, and for a moment, she wasn't just a girl on a boardwalk looking at a building. She was imagining herself out there. The big leagues. To be a hero who mattered, who protected whole cities and fought the threats that nobody else could handle.

"Wow," Isaac said beside her.

She blinked, the daydream fading. He wasn't looking at the Rig, though — he was watching a seagull steal someone's french fries from a nearby bench with evident fascination. "That bird just committed a full-on robbery and nobody did anything."

"It's Brockton Bay," Taylor said dryly. "Even the wildlife will rob you."

He laughed.

"You're funnier than I thought Taylor," he said as he pushed off the railing, turning to walk. "Come on. Let's keep moving. I don't know about you, but staring at a forcefield isn't why I came to the Boardwalk."

Taylor had seen the view a thousand times, but she still found the sight impressive. Still, she saw his point and followed after him.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, watching the crowd thin as they moved away from the main thoroughfare.

Taylor glanced at the crowd, then back at Isaac, who seemed content to just enjoy the walk. She was fine with the quiet—honestly, just being near someone without the pressure to talk was nice—but that wasn't why she'd asked to meet. She wanted to know more about him. About who Isaac was when he wasn't in school.

"So," she started, trying to sound casual. "Did you see the news? About Ten-Zero?"

Isaac nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I saw some of it. Khora was the highlight, right?"

"Yeah." Taylor continued. "PHO is going crazy. They're trying to figure out where she came from. Some people think she's a new member, others think she's been around for a while and just wasn't public."

Isaac hummed. "What do you think?"

Taylor shrugged, pretending not to know too much. "I don't know. She seemed... confident. Like she's been doing this for a long time."

"She did make an entrance," Isaac agreed, his smile growing wider. "Princess carrying Miss Militia was unexpected."

Taylor snorted. "I saw that. PHO is already making memes and shipping the two together."

Isaac chuckled. "I'll have to look those up."

"I recommend avoiding fanfiction," she warned darkly. "I promise you, curiosity is not worth the sanity you'll lose."

"Oooh," he shivered dramatically. "Spooky. But noted."

They passed a storefront with a bright neon sign. Half the display was dedicated to tourist trinkets—keychains, mugs, t-shirts—while the other half was filled with costume pieces and superhero memorabilia.

Isaac stopped. His entire demeanor shifted.

A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

Taylor knew that grin. She'd seen it in the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the moments right before Isaac would convince someone to step out of their comfort zone and make a new friend or join Lookout.

"No," she said preemptively.

"I haven't said anything."

"You're thinking it."

"And the PRT says mind readers don't exist. I always knew better, though." His grin widened into a full smirk as he slowly backed up toward the store. "So, Ms. Mind Reader, what's my next move?"

"Isaac—"

She tried to say no. She meant to say no. But the smile made it impossible to refuse. She'd known it for a while now, but in moments like this, it was impossible not to acknowledge that this guy was annoyingly charming.

Even knowing he would have backed off if she really put her foot down, she followed him in.

The inside was exactly as chaotic as the exterior promised. Regular clothing racks lined the left wall — jeans, jackets, bland department store fare — while the right side exploded into a kaleidoscope of cosplay. Full-body suits on mannequins, shelves of accessories, racks of wigs in every color of the rainbow and a few colors that didn't exist in nature.

Isaac made a beeline for the costume section like a heat-seeking missile, and Taylor trailed behind, already regretting every decision that had led her to this moment. This wasn't what she had in mind when she asked him to meet up.

Within sixty seconds, he'd found a fur coat.

It was monstrous — ankle-length, synthetic brown fur that looked like someone had skinned a Muppet and decided to wear the pelt. He threw it on over his jacket, then grabbed a cowboy hat from a nearby shelf and settled it on his head at a rakish angle.

"Howdy, partner," he said, deadpan.

Taylor pressed her lips together and shrank into her hoodie. "Take it off before you embarrass yourself, please."

"I don't think I will." He turned to the full-length mirror, adjusting the hat. "This is the new me. Embrace it."

Why did he have to be so ridiculous?

A guy browsing nearby — mid-twenties, with his girlfriend tugging at his sleeve — glanced over at Isaac's outfit and let out a snort of amusement. Isaac caught the look.

"Something funny, pardner?" he drawled, affecting an accent so thick it practically had dirt on it.

The guy smirked. "Just the outfit. Didn't know the wild west was in town."

"Round these parts, it's always the wild west." Isaac snagged two neon-orange cap guns from a bin on the shelf and tossed one to the man. "Tell you what. Quick draw. You and me. Winner gets braggin' rights."

The guy caught the plastic gun, looked at his girlfriend, who rolled her eyes but smiled, then looked back at Isaac. "You're on."

They squared off in the narrow aisle between racks — two men in a cosplay store at four in the afternoon, plastic revolvers hovering at their hips like they were in a spaghetti western. The girlfriend counted down from three.

On zero, both men went for the draw.

Isaac's arm was a blur. The plastic gun cleared his holster, snapped up, and was aimed dead-center on the guy's chest before the other man's had even cleared his waistband. It wasn't close. It wasn't even remotely close.

Taylor blinked, momentarily thrown.

How is he that fast?

She dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it appeared. Isaac was good at things. Uncannily, absurdly good at things. She'd stopped trying to categorize it after the third time he'd casually demonstrated competence in something that should have been years outside a high schooler's experience. It was just... who he was.

The other guy stared at Isaac's gun, his eyes wide, then at his own gun. He was quiet for a second before he nervously laughed and shook his head. "Jesus, kid. Are you a magician or something?"

"Ain't no magic, pardner," Isaac drawled, tipping the cowboy hat. "I'm a proper cowboy."

The girlfriend laughed and dragged her boyfriend away with an amused wave, and Isaac turned back to the racks with the energy of someone who had barely gotten started.

What followed was the most unhinged fashion show Taylor had ever witnessed.

Isaac tried on everything. A Victorian suit, which he wore with the poise of someone who'd attended actual balls — he'd even tried to dance with her, but she refused. Then a pirate costume, complete with a plastic cutlass that he wielded with competent footwork. A lab coat and goggles, under which he affected a distracted, muttering scientist persona so convincing that Taylor half-expected him to start writing the alchemical equations he was muttering about on the walls.

He slipped into each character like water taking the shape of a container — different tones of voice, different postures, different ways of holding his hands. It was acting, obviously, but it was the kind of acting that went beyond performance. Like he wasn't pretending to be someone else so much as remembering how to be them.

There was something disturbingly familiar about it. But like all things concerning him, her mind let it go. So instead of questioning it, Taylor laughed.

Not a polite chuckle or small giggle. A real, full, unguarded laugh — the kind that made her ribs scream in protest, but she didn't care. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like this. Over a year, maybe. Probably longer.

Isaac emerged from behind a changing curtain wearing a Dragon onesie — the full-body kind with the hood that had little wings on the sides and a tail dragging behind him — and the laugh got worse. He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, expression deadly serious.

"You dare mock me, girl? I am Lung," he announced. "The great dragon! Hear me roar."

"You're an idiot," Taylor managed, wiping her eyes.

"Well, I am pretending to be Lung." He crossed to the costume rack, tail swishing behind him, and grabbed two outfits. An Alexandria costume — the classic one-piece with the cape — and a Miss Militia getup. He held both out to her.

"Your turn."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on. Fair's fair."

"I'm not putting on a cape while you're wearing a onesie with wings."

"Exactly. You'll look dignified by comparison." He waggled the Alexandria costume. "Live a little, Taylor."

She looked at the costume. She looked at his stupid Dragon onesie. She looked at his face, set in an expression of pure, irrepressible enthusiasm, and she realized she was going to do this.

"Fine."

She took the Alexandria costume and ducked behind a changing screen. The suit fit surprisingly well — snug across the shoulders, which was... new. She'd never thought of herself as someone with shoulders. But between the training with Tenno and the running, she had apparently developed definition.

She came out from behind the screen, arms crossed awkwardly, the helmet fitting snug over her head with the visor covering most of her upper face.

Isaac looked at her and nodded approvingly. "Not bad. I can see you've got arms on you. Have you been hitting the gym?"

She appreciated that he was acknowledging the effort. It took months of discipline. And recently, blood, sweat, and tears.

Though it's not like I have much else going for me, she thought idly. A flat chest, a mouth that's too wide. Might as well have the arms.

And then, for one disorienting half-second, another reading surfaced — wait, is he checking me out? — before she stuffed it down so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

No. Definitely not. Isaac was polite to a fault. He wouldn't do something like that. Her mind going there was probably Nate and Brandon's fault. Those two idiots and their "loverboy" routine had polluted her brain. Now she was seeing things that weren't there.

Taylor changed back into her own clothes and stepped out of the fitting area, still trying not to think too hard about the weird warmth lingering in her chest from laughing so much.

That lasted all of ten seconds.

Near the back of the store sat a smaller rack separated from the louder costume displays. Less capes and armor, more actual clothing. Her attention caught on a green dress hanging near the end.

It was simple. No sequins or glitter or anything flashy. Fitted at the waist, softer around the hem, the color somewhere between emerald and forest green.

Taylor slowed near it before she realized she was doing it. Her fingers brushed lightly against the fabric.

"That caught your eye, huh?" Isaac said from behind her.

Taylor glanced back at him. "Maybe."

"Good taste," he said easily. "You should try it on."

She looked back at the dress. "…I don't really wear stuff like this."

"So?" Isaac shrugged. "First time for everything."

Taylor huffed quietly through her nose, but there wasn't much resistance behind it this time. Honestly, after the Alexandria costume and the Dragon onesie, this barely even registered on the embarrassment scale anymore.

Isaac lifted the hanger off the rack and held it out to her.

"You already know you want to."

Taylor stared at him for a second before rolling her eyes and taking the dress.

She went behind the screen. Changed.

The mirror inside the changing area was small and slightly warped, but it was enough. She turned in front of it, examining herself with the critical eye of someone who had spent years cataloging her own flaws. The bruising on her jaw was still visible. Her lip was still puffy. Her face was still a mess.

But the dress...

The dress was good. It hung right, moved right, made her look like someone who hadn't spent the afternoon getting beaten up in a school hallway. At least as much as that was possible. Despite everything, when she looked at her reflection, she thought: I look good.

She found that she really meant it.

Isaac looked at her when she stepped out, and his expression shifted from neutral, to surprise, to knowingly smug. Like seeing her in it confirmed something he knew all along.

"I knew you'd be beautiful in that dress," he said it like he was stating a fact and not expressing an opinion. "Baggy clothes just don't do you justice."

Taylor opened her mouth. Closed it. The heat in her cheeks was back, and she was suddenly very aware of the scratches on her neck and the bruise on her jaw and the fact that she was standing in a Boardwalk shop while a boy told her she was beautiful.

"Ya know, since you like it so much..." He reached for his pocket. "...Let me get it for you."

"No." The word came out sharper than she intended.

It wasn't about the money. It was just that she already owed him so much—for the fight, for the friendship, for being here. She couldn't let him add a dress to the pile of debts she might never be able to pay back.

She softened her voice. "It's too expensive. I'm not letting you buy me a dress, Isaac."

He held her gaze for a moment, surprise in his eyes, then shrugged. "Alright."

She went back behind the screen and changed into her hoodie and jeans, folding the green dress carefully and returning it to the rack. She let her fingers rest on the fabric for just a second before letting go.

The store clerk — a harried-looking woman who had been watching the fur coat/Dragon onesie extravaganza with mounting irritation — appeared at the end of the aisle with her arms crossed.

"Out," she said flatly. "Both of you. Now."

"We were going to buy—" Isaac started.

"You've been here for forty minutes and you've tried on half my inventory. If you were going to buy something, you would have. Now out."

Isaac raised his hands in surrender while Taylor was already heading for the door.

They spilled out onto the Boardwalk, and the cool evening air hit her face.

"I think she was jealous of you, Taylor," Isaac whispered.

Taylor just rolled her eyes.

------------------

They walked for a while more after that, drifting along the waterfront with no particular destination. The crowd was thinning as the day shifted toward evening.

Just as she was ready to sit down and talk some more, he found a bike rental stand.

Taylor stood beside the rickety-looking contraption he'd rented — an old beach Cruiser with a basket on the front and a seat that was clearly not designed for two — and raised an eyebrow.

"Where am I supposed to sit?"

"The back. I didn't bring enough cash to rent two, so you're gonna have to hold on."

Taylor wasn't so sure about this, but she climbed on behind him anyway, looping her arms around his waist. He was solid under her grip — muscular in the way that probably came from actual training rather than gym aesthetics.

He kicked off, and the bike lurched forward.

The waterfront unfolded beside them as they picked up speed. The boardwalk's shops and restaurants gave way to an open promenade, the bay stretching out to their right. The late sun painted everything in shades of gold and amber, casting long, stretching shadows that danced alongside them. The wind hit Taylor's face, cool and smelling faintly of salt, and she pulled the hood down without thinking, letting it tug at her hair.

It felt good. The speed, the air, the simple movement of the bike.

She tightened her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his back. He was warm, a steady anchor against the rushing wind, and for a few blissful minutes, the rest of the world fell away. There was just the rhythm of the pedals, the creak of the chain, and the solid warm feeling of the boy in front of her.

It was the kind of moment that belonged in a montage —where the camera pans out over the water, the music swells, and everything feels possible.

He took a steep turn, leaning into it like the bike was an extension of his body, and she yelped, pressing her forehead against his shoulder blade and hugging him tighter.

"Relax," he called back over the wind. "I've got this."

"You'd better," she shouted into his shirt. "If we crash, I'm slapping you!"

"Don't worry then, I never crash!"

Then he did a wheelie.

"Isaac!"

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her arms, and brought the front wheel back down with a bump. She should have been angry, terrified even. But the adrenaline was singing in her veins, mixing with the absurdity of the moment, and she found herself laughing along with him, her grip tightening not out of fear, but exhilaration.

A park came up on their left — one of the clean ones, with intact playground equipment and grass that wasn't dotted with cigarette butts. The proximity to the Boardwalk meant the city actually maintained it, which in Brockton Bay was practically a luxury.

Isaac steered the bike onto the grass, bringing them to a halt under a large oak tree.

"Last stop," he said, grinning over his shoulder.

Taylor slid off the back of the bike. Her legs were a little wobbly, and her ribs gave a dull throb of protest, but she found she didn't care. Her face hurt from smiling, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind and the adrenaline. She stood there for a second, breathless and grinning, feeling lighter than she had in months.

She looked at the playground with a mix of amusement and disbelief. A normal person would see a place to sit and rest. Isaac, she was learning, wasn't a normal person. In fact, he seemed intent on becoming the most abnormal person she knew, given half the chance.

"Really?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"You're never too old for a playground," he replied, already heading for the slide.

He went down it without a hint of self-consciousness, long legs splaying at the bottom, and Taylor followed because apparently this was her life now. The slide was cold under her thighs and too short for someone her height, but it was worth it.

They didn't stop there. Isaac spotted a spinning merry-go-round and gestured for her to hop on. They spun until the world blurred and Taylor's stomach did flips, her laughter mixing with his as they stumbled off, dizzy and listing sideways like drunks.

It felt like she was going back in time to a better place in her life, before the bullying, the cape stuff, and the heavy depression that had settled over her house like a fog.

Next were the monkey bars. Isaac crossed them in about four seconds, swinging hand-over-hand with effortless grace. Taylor made it halfway across before her ribs seized up, a sharp spike of pain lancing through her side. Her grip slipped.

Isaac was there before she registered the fall. His hands caught her waist, steadying her, and he lowered her to the ground slowly and carefully.

"You okay?" He was looking at her ribs with that same concern from the bench. "Your side?"

"I'm fine," she said with a wince. "Don't worry, I just pulled a muscle. It's really nothing."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.

"How about something less straining, like the swings?" he offered.

------------------------------------

The sun was going down by the time they settled into the swings, the sky bruising orange and pink over the bay. The park had emptied out — a few dog walkers in the distance, the occasional passing car, but mostly just the two of them and the creak of chains and the sound of wind through leaves.

Taylor pumped her legs absently, swaying back and forth in a gentle arc. The manic energy from the costume shop, the bike ride, and the playing had settled into another comfortable quiet.

Isaac dragged his heels in the dirt, slowing his swing to a stop. He looked over at her.

"Soo," he drawled. He wasn't staring, but she could feel his attention shift. "You've had something on your mind all afternoon. It's why you asked to meet up, isn't it?"

Taylor stiffened slightly. "Is it that obvious?"

"I'm good at reading people." He turned his swing slightly, facing her. "I figured I'd wait until you weren't looking like you were about to jump out of your skin. So... what's up?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The question felt heavier now that the fun was over, but he'd given her the opening she needed.

"Earlier. When you were carrying me to the nurse," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "You said you were familiar with loss. What did you mean?"

The playful confidence Isaac usually wore fell away, replaced by something quieter. More guarded.

Taylor saw hesitation in his eyes — an expression she had never seen on him before. She'd never seen him unsure. Not in the videos she saw of when he fought the E88. Not when he'd dropped Sophia with a single punch. Not even when he was wearing a fur coat and challenging strangers to quick-draw contests. Isaac was always sure — effortlessly, almost infuriatingly sure of himself.

Now he was still, and the stillness scared her a little.

"You don't have to answer," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to— I shouldn't have asked. Forget it."

"No." He exhaled. "No, it's — you should know. You told me about your mom." He looked at her, and his eyes were steady but heavier than she'd ever seen them. "It's only fair I do the same. Besides, I want you to know I'm not just offering empty platitudes when I tell you I understand."

Isaac didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if examining the lines on his palms, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. Carefully empty.

"I'm an orphan, Taylor. Twice over."

Taylor blinked, the words not quite registering. "Twice?"

"My current dad is part of the third family I've had. Two families. Two lives." He let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Third time's the charm, right?"

The casual way he said it — like he was commenting on the weather — made Taylor's chest tighten.

"My first parents," he continued, staring past her at the darkening sky. "When I was younger, they got sick. We were aboard a ship. There was... something in the air. It made them waste away. Not just their bodies — their minds too. Piece by piece, until there was nothing left."

His face was plain. His voice was even. He could have been reading a grocery list.

"I can hardly remember them now. If I didn't have pictures, I don't think I'd remember their faces at all."

Taylor didn't know what to say. She thought about her own mom — the way the loss had hollowed her dad out, the way it had broken their family in half. She couldn't imagine being able to function again if she lost him too. Going through that twice, seemed impossible to ever recover from.

"Then there was Margulis," Isaac said, and something shifted in his tone. "My adopted mother. She took me in at the lowest point in my life. I was... broken. Messed up in ways I can't really explain. She helped me become a functioning person again. Taught me how to be human."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She had a partner, though. A rich man. Arrogant. A petulant child in a man's skin who threw tantrums when he didn't get his way."

The smile vanished.

"He hated me. Hated the other children she'd adopted, too. Because we 'took her love away' from him. And if he couldn't have all of it — every single piece — he was angry."

Taylor watched his hands curl into fists on his knees.

"Members of his extended family didn't like her either. They hated that despite being with him, she wasn't like them. She was kind. Good. They couldn't stand it."

His voice hardened.

"So they set her up to die."

Taylor felt the words land in her chest, cold and sharp. Her breath caught.

Isaac's jaw tightened. The even tone cracked, and something rawer bled through. Anger. Old and deep and still burning.

"And that man—the one who wanted all her love, who couldn't stand sharing her—he sat back like a coward and let it happen. He didn't lift a finger to stop them. Just... watched."

The swings creaked in the silence. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves overhead.

Isaac stared at the ground, fists still clenched.

"The day she died was horrible on all of us," he said. His voice was steady, but his hands on the chains weren't quite still. "But it was also the catalyst. Without her, we had no reason to protect them from the justice they deserved. I made..." He trailed off. Shook his head slightly, like the rest of the sentence wasn't something he could put into words. "Anyways, a lot of things happened. But the part that matters now was that I later found my dad and we moved to the states. Now here I am. A well-adjusted member of society trying to cheer up his friend."

The silence that followed was different from the comfortable one they'd shared earlier. This one had weight. It pressed against Taylor's chest..

Once again, she didn't know what to say. She didn't even know if she should say something. But Taylor knew, just like him, she shouldn't offer empty comfort. She'd received enough of those when her mother died to know how useless they were.

Instead, she reached over. Her fingers found his hand on the swing chain, and she covered it with her own.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For telling me."

Isaac didn't look at her. He kept his gaze on the horizon, where the last sliver of the sun was dipping below the water.

"Margulis..." Taylor hesitated, testing the unfamiliar name. "She sounds like a wonderful mom."

Isaac's expression shifted. A faint, sad smile touched his lips.

"Thanks, Taylor. She was. More than you know," he said softly. "Margulis wasn't perfect. She had her flaws, her mistakes. But she tried. Always. Even when it cost her."

He turned his head to look at Taylor. "I'm sure your dad is trying to do the same thing."

Taylor's eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.

"How did you—?"

Isaac looked at her face, and the sad smile vanished, replaced by that familiar, cocky grin.

"Well, I guessed it was either something about your dad or the fight with Emma that had you really feeling down," he said, his tone lighter. "Looks like I guessed right."

Taylor stared at him, a mix of disbelief and endearment warring in her chest. "You're impossible."

"I prefer 'perceptive,'" Isaac corrected. He hopped off the swing, landing lightly on the ground. He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popping audibly. "Come on. Spill. I burdened you with my tragic backstory, so you're allowed to vent to me."

Taylor hesitated. The swing creaked as she shifted her weight, the chains cold against her palms.

"I don't know. Compared to yours, my problems seem... underwhelming."

Isaac snorted. "Taylor, that's stupid logic. Look, my past is just that—past. I've had years to get over it. Your pain is happening right now. It's fresh, and in my book, that makes it a lot harder to carry than some old tragedy."

The tension in her shoulders loosened. She could tell Isaac wasn't just saying that to be nice; he actually meant it.

So she told him.

She started with the history—gave him more insight on how Emma had been her sister in everything but blood, and how that had shattered overnight. She gave him the shape of the year and a half of hell that followed. The Trio. The campaign of harassment that the school had refused to acknowledge. She even mentioned the Locker, but skimmed over the details; she didn't want to relive that mess.

Then she moved to what happened in the office.

"Emma spun this sob story," Taylor said, her voice rough. "Crying, acting terrified. She told my dad I snapped. That I attacked her out of nowhere."

Isaac's expression darkened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"My dad... he didn't know she was one of my bullies. He knows I've been having a hard time, but he has no idea Emma is the one causing it. He thinks she's still my best friend. So when she told him I was being 'negatively influenced'—" Taylor made air quotes, her tone bitter "—by you guys, he believed her."

She stared at the ground.

"He bought it. For a minute, he actually looked at me like I was the villain. He didn't ask for my side. He just assumed I was the one in the wrong because he thought I was hurting my 'best friend.'"

She kicked at the dirt.

"I told him the truth about what Emma said right after, and it devastated him. He apologized. Said he should have listened first. And I know he's trying. I know he feels guilty. But it hurts that his first instinct was to believe her tears over his own daughter."

Her voice grew quieter.

"And yet… I feel guilty too. Because it's my fault he believed her. I never told him anything. Not even when they put me in the hospital."

She took a shaky breath.

"Part of that was because after Mom died... he was never the same. He didn't just grieve. He stopped caring about anything. For months, he was just a body in the house. He'd come home from work, stare at the TV, and nod if I spoke, but he wasn't there. It was like he died with her."

Taylor hugged herself, the memory of that silence—the oppressive, awful quiet of the house—washing over her.

"I learned pretty quickly that if I had a problem, I had to fix it myself. He was too broken to help me with mine. By the time he started coming back—started actually acting like a dad again—I'd already gotten used to the silence. I didn't know how to break it. I thought by keeping quiet I was protecting him from worrying. Or maybe I was just protecting myself from being ignored again."

She stared at the ground. The confession hung in the air between them. She felt the guilt, the anger, the betrayal, and the disappointment in herself all at once.

"And the worst part is," she continued, her voice barely a whisper, "I know I can change that. I should go home tonight, sit him down, and tell him everything. The locker, the names of every bully, how long it's been going on. But I can't."

She finally looked up, her eyes stinging.

"Even knowing I'm just making it worse by staying quiet, I can't bring myself to tell him."

She didn't look at Isaac. She couldn't. She felt exposed, raw, and ridiculously naive. He probably thought she was an idiot for letting it go on this long.

The silence stretched, broken only by the creak of the swings and the distant hum of the city. When Isaac finally spoke, his voice was stripped of all its usual teasing edges.

"Taylor, look at me."

She hesitated, then slowly lifted her gaze. He wasn't looking at her with pity. He was looking at her with a steady, serious intensity.

"You're scared," he said. It wasn't a question. "You're terrified that if you sit him down and tell him the truth—all of it—he's going to shut down again. Like he did when your mom died. You think it'll break him."

Taylor flinched. He'd seen right through her. She nodded miserably. "He barely survived the first time. If I tell him he let this happen... if I tell him I needed him and he wasn't there... I don't know if he can take it. I don't know if WE can take it."

Isaac exhaled, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. He stared at the ground for a long moment, his jaw tight.

"You know... for a long time, I hated the man who let Margulis die," Isaac said quietly. "I hated him for his cowardice. For his selfishness. But do you know what the worst part was?"

Taylor shook her head silently.

"The worst part was realizing that it wasn't the hate that made it impossible to forgive him. It was the indifference. If he had even tried—if his love for her had been strong enough to make him stand up to his family—I could have found it in me to forgive him for her death. Even if he ultimately failed, it wouldn't have mattered so long as he tried."

He looked up, meeting her eyes.

"That's the difference between that coward and your dad, Taylor. Your dad did shut down. He failed you when you needed him. But he apologized today. He's trying to climb out of that hole. He's still fighting."

Isaac reached out, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder.

"You're scared he'll break. But he's a father, Taylor. If he's even half the man you've told me he is—the one who loves you, who hates himself for making a mistake—then he'll find the strength. Because he'd rather be hurt by the truth than lose his daughter to a lie."

Taylor felt a lump form in her throat. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that her dad was strong enough to carry the weight of the truth, that he could handle the guilt without collapsing back into that hollow silence.

"You really think so?" she whispered.

"I know so," Isaac said softly. "Give him the chance to make it right. Don't take that choice away from him. You owe him that much, and he owes you the effort."

He offered her a hand. A small encouraging smile that felt far more genuine was now on his face.

"Now, come on. It's getting late. I'll get you home before your dad gets worried."

Taylor nodded and stood up, brushing off her jeans.

Isaac began walking back toward the bike, then paused. He looked over his shoulder at her.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "Maybe next time," he said, his voice softer now, "I can hear about Mrs. Hebert. She must have been a great woman to have given you such fine literary taste and resilience."

Taylor felt a lump form in her throat.

"She was," she managed.

Isaac nodded and smiled. He mounted the bike, waiting for her to climb onto the back rack.

"Hold on tight."

Taylor wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.

As they rode back along the Boardwalk, the wind cool against her face, Taylor thought about the boy in front of her—about his losses, the secrets he hadn't said, and the quiet strength he carried.

She didn't know the full story about his family or the woman who had saved him. Part of her doubted she ever would.

But she knew one thing for certain.

She knew Isaac Dax just a little better today.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 29

The glass doors of the PRT headquarters slid open, and the afternoon sun hit Khora’s gilded armor, setting the gold filigree ablaze. The effect was instantaneous.

The crowd gathered behind the police barricades had been waiting. News vans were parked haphazardly along the curb, their satellite dishes pointed skyward. When Khora stepped out, flanked by Trinity and Miss Militia, the low murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar.

Cameras flashed in a blinding staccato. Microphones were thrust over the barricades like lances.

“Is that Trinity? Ten-Zero really is here.”

"Who’s the one in the face veil?"

"Look at the gold... she must be part of them."

"I've never seen her before! Is she new?"

"Is she with Ten-Zero?"

The confusion was palpable but electrifying. Since Ten-Zero had a habit of rotating members and keeping their roster close to the chest, a new face wasn't questioned so much as met with intense curiosity.

Khora paused at the top of the steps, hands on her hips, basking in the chaos like a queen surveying her domain. Trinity stood slightly behind her, offering a small, polite wave to the cameras, while Miss Militia stood rigid, already dreading what might come out of Khora’s mouth.

"Over here! Miss... uh... Gold Lady!" a reporter shouted, waving frantically.

Khora turned her helmet toward him with deliberate slowness. "My name," she projected, her voice smooth and amplified, cutting through the noise, "is Khora. Ms Khora Prime, if you wish to be formal. And yes, I am with Ten-Zero."

A flurry of questions erupted.

"Where did you come from?"

"What are your intentions in Brockton Bay?”

“Is Trinity here to heal?”

"What are your powers?"

"Are you single?"

Khora leaned toward the nearest microphone, her posture confident and sensual. "I go where I am needed. As for my intentions... let's just say I believe in discipline and order. Something many naughty individuals in this fine city lack. I will correct this in due time."

She tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying. "And regarding my powers... Let's just say I have a way with pain. And a fondness for... pets."

She flicked her wrist. In a distortion of air, her Whipclaw manifested in her grasp. She snapped it against the floor, and living metal blossomed at the impact site before receding into nothing. The crowd recoiled slightly, gasps rippling outward.

Trinity took a small step forward, raising a placating hand towards the startled onlookers, her posture radiating a calm aura that subtly diffused the tension.

A reporter from the Brockton Bay Gazette, a man with a receding hairline and a leering smile, pushed his way to the front. He looked Khora up and down, his gaze lingering on the Warframe’s stylized, feminine plating.

"Khora, baby," he shouted over the noise. "The armor is... form-fitting. Is the rest of the package as high-tech as the shell? Or is the beauty just skin-deep?"

The crowd went quiet.

Khora stopped moving. She turned her full attention to the reporter. The playful, regal air vanished instantly. She took one step down the stairs, then another, her heels clicking with ominous rhythm as the tail end of her Whipclaw dragged against the concrete.

“If you had simply praised me, I could bear the gaze of even a lecherous pig like yourself.” She gripped her whip with both hands, pulling at the chain as her voice dropped into a deeper, dangerous tone. “But to imply my beauty lacks depth is a sin far greater than your lowly self can imagine.”

The reporter’s smile faltered as she loomed over him. She was tall, imposing, and radiated lethal intent. Trinity shifted, moving to flank the reporter—not threateningly, but effectively cutting off his escape route should Khora decide to pounce.

Miss Militia moved instantly. She stepped between Khora and the reporter, placing a hand firmly on the Warframe’s armored forearm.

"Alright, that's enough questions for now," Miss Militia announced loudly to the crowd, her voice tight. "We have a schedule to keep. Please, step back."

Khora looked down at Miss Militia’s hand on her arm.

"You’re quite bold, Militia," Khora murmured, low enough that only the heroine could hear.

"He's not worth the paperwork," Miss Militia whispered back sharply. "Smile and wave. We're moving."

Khora’s posture stiffened. She didn't like being hushed. She didn't like being told to "smile and wave" like a trained dog. However, Miss Militia was right and it wasn’t like Khora was actually going to harm the man, just scare him.

"Very well," Khora said as a wonderful idea came to her. "If you wish to move..."

Without warning, she dispersed her Whipclaw and scooped Miss Militia up in her arms—one arm under the heroine’s knees, the other behind her back.

"Hey! What are you—"

"Allow me to expedite the journey!" Khora declared.

She crouched and launched.

The crowd gasped as Khora cleared the barricades and the crowd in a single, gravity-defying leap, landing lightly on the roof of a news van with barely a sound. Before the reporters could scramble to follow, she leaped again, scaling the side of a nearby building with effortless, wall-running precision.

"Trinity darling! Don't dally!" Khora called out, laughing as Miss Militia's startled yelp echoed off the block.

Trinity, left behind on the steps, gave a small, apologetic shrug to the stunned cameramen. Then, with a burst of athletic grace, she vaulted the barricades and took off after them, waving casually at the cameras as she ran up the wall. --------------------------

Minutes later, they landed in a secluded alley off the Boardwalk, away from the prying eyes of the news crews. Miss Militia scrambled out of Khora’s grip the second her boots touched the ground, adjusting her bandana and holstering the pistol she had summoned mid-flight. Trinity landed silently beside them, dusting off her pristine armor as if the acrobatic chase had been a mere stroll.

"Don't. Do that. Again," Miss Militia gritted out, though her heart wasn't really in the reprimand.

"My apologies, darling," Khora said, not sorry in the slightest. "But if we walked, we would be taking far too long with the commoners. I have a craving."

“That’s why I said we shouldn’t have walked through the front door!” Miss Militia shot back.

Khora gracefully ignored her very valid point as she strode out of the alley and onto the Boardwalk.

The atmosphere here was different. It was touristy, expensive, and loud. The scent of salt air mixed with frying dough and seafood. A few people noticed Khora immediately, but thanks to her being relatively unknown and the desensitization of the locals to cape presence, no one tried crowding her.

Khora stopped at a small stall selling fish tacos. The vendor, a heavy-set man with a greasy apron, gaped at her but relaxed when he saw Miss Militia and Trinity coming up behind her.

"Two," Khora demanded, pointing a golden finger at the menu. "And make them pristine. I'm not here to eat pig feed."

A wad of cash was manifested in her hand and thrown onto the counter—far more than the tacos were worth. The vendor stammered out something incoherent, then fumbled to make them, his hands shaking. When he handed them over, Khora inspected the tacos with the critical eye of a gourmet judge.

She held one up to her faceplate, lifted the veil a tiny bit, and leaned forward. There was no visible mouth, no moving jaw. But as the taco neared the helmet, the food simply vanished, bit by bit, as if bitten into by an invisible mouth.

She chewed—somehow—and swallowed.

"It is... acceptable," she pronounced, though her tone suggested it was barely edible. "The fish is overcooked. The salsa lacks zest. And the tortilla is soggy." She sighed dramatically. "Still below my standards."

The vendor looked like he might cry, but still managed a stutter, "Th-thank you, ma'am."

Trinity, standing beside Khora, tilted her head at the vendor. She raised a hand, and for a brief second, a soft, green light washed over the man. He blinked, straightening up as the tremble in his hands ceased, a look of calm replacing his panic. Trinity gave a silent nod of encouragement before following Khora.

Miss Militia sighed, stepping up to order a water. "I’m sorry about her.”

She turned to Khora, who was already walking to the next stand.

“I thought your organization wanted good PR?" Militia questioned. “How is insulting him helping that?”

"If one does not demand perfection, one receives mediocrity," Khora replied haughtily, already drifting toward a sushi stand as tourists began pointing and taking pictures. “Besides, I left him a note in the money to give a few of his future customers free food, courtesy of Ten-Zero.”

Militia’s eyes widened in surprise, not having expected Khora to think about anyone but herself.

“I guess I underestimated you a bit,” she admitted.

A dignified, amused giggle escaped Khora.

“Many do. Usually right before they find themselves on the other end of my whip.”

The three heroines spent the next hour wandering the Boardwalk. Khora critiqued the crab cakes ("Bland"), the dumplings ("A tragedy of texture"), and the ice cream ("Too sweet, lacking complexity"). In every instance, the food simply vanished as it touched her faceplate, consumed by a mechanism the observers couldn't quite understand. Trinity, meanwhile, acted as the perfect counterbalance—polite, silent, and quick to offer a healing touch or a reassuring gesture to the vendors Khora had verbally dissected.

Finally, they settled at a picnic table near the water, sharing a platter of nigiri. Miss Militia picked at her food, while Khora made a show of elegantly "devouring" piece after piece. Trinity sat with them, watching the seagulls with the quiet stillness of a statue, though her posture was relaxed.

"So," Miss Militia started, trying to sound casual. "Khora. That's a unique name. Did you choose it, or was it assigned to you?"

Khora paused, a piece of salmon hovering near her faceplate. She let it vanish, then turned her helmet toward the heroine.

"Attempting to mine for information, Miss Militia? How gauche." Khora chuckled. "But I will play along. It is the name given to me by my family."

"Family? Wait, is Khora your real name?"

"In a sense," Khora mused. She gestured vaguely. "You see, Ten-Zero is my family. I’ve been with them basically all of my life."

“As one of the original Wards, I understand completely.” Miss Militia replied while nodding. "So Umbra? Is he... family too? Related by blood maybe?"

Khora laughed. "Blood? No. My relationship with the Squad Leader is a professional one, though I admit I view him as a sort of uncle figure. Even so, when he commands, I execute. Occasionally, I’ll ignore him, but it works wonders for our dynamic."

"So you're not related to any of the other members?"

Khora leaned back, crossing her legs. "I never said that. I'm related to the priest. How, I won't disclose, but as for 'joining'... you make it sound like a club or a Protectorate team. One cannot simply walk into our base and apply for the position."

Miss Militia leaned forward. "Then how does one join Ten-Zero?"

Khora’s gold accents glinted in the sunlight. She tapped the table with a metallic finger.

"You don't," she said smugly. "You’re either a founder of the organization, like our secret tinker, or you are born into it, like me. We don’t just take random capes off the street and give them armor capable of taking down a nation. We’re secretive, darling, not irresponsible."

Miss Militia’s expression tightened into a frown. "Is that why you joined? Because you were born into it?"

Khora chuckled as she leaned forward again. "I never said that. Ten-Zero may be the family business, but I chose to become a Tenno of my own will. No one else's." She paused, staring Militia right in the eyes, her tone dropping the playful veneer. “I won’t allow you to disrespect me again by insinuating otherwise.”

Miss Militia raised her hands in surrender and opened her mouth to apologize, but a group of teenagers approached the table, their eyes wide with recognition.

"Excuse me!?"

Khora turned, her demeanor shifting instantly from cold interrogator to warm celebrity. The tension in her shoulders melted away, replaced by a practiced, regal poise.

"Yes, darlings?"

The kids pulled out notebooks and phones. "We're huge fans of Ten-Zero! Can we get autographs? And... um... can we ask a question?"

"Of course, of course," Khora stood up. She didn't have a pen, but she held out her hand. One of the kids handed her a marker. She signed their hoodies with elegant, looping script that looked more like calligraphy than a signature.

Trinity remained seated but offered a polite wave as the kids clustered around. One brave girl held out her phone for a selfie, and Trinity obliged, leaning in with a silent, perfect posture that seemed to glow in the frame.

"You're really tall," a boy said, looking up at Khora. "And your armor is so cool. Are you, like, super strong? Like, are you the strongest in Ten-Zero?"

Khora paused. She straightened up, puffing out her chest slightly.

"I am one of the best operatives in Ten-Zero," she declared. "My prowess with chains and whips is nearly unrivaled."

"So you're the strongest?" the boy pressed, eyes wide. "Is anyone as strong as you?"

Khora made a noise—a soft, irritated click of the tongue that sounded like a hiss of steam. It was the sound of someone forced to swallow their pride.

"There are... variables," she admitted. "Strength is not a simple ladder. Every weapon has a counter. I have my own... difficulties."

"Like who?" another kid asked. "Is Umbra stronger?"

Khora set the marker down in the kid's hand. "The Squad Leader might give me a little trouble if we were to fight. So could others like the Old Dragon and Limbo."

The kids exchanged confused looks. "Old Dragon? Are you talking about Lung?"

"No. The dragon I refer to is Chroma, a Tenno like me," Khora clarified. "And so is Limbo. They are peers that have yet to take the public stage for their own reasons."

"But would you lose to them?" the girl asked innocently.

Khora went silent for a beat. The wind off the bay blew her metallic veil, and the light of the sun caught the gold on her armor in a way that made her look majestic. She turned her helmet toward the girl.

"No," she said, her voice dripping with absolute confidence. "I'd win."

The kids grinned, awestruck.

Just then, a group of adults—presumably the kids' parents—rushed over.

"Sorry! Sorry!" a mother apologized, grabbing her son by the shoulder. "Don't bother the heroes, let's go."

They dragged the kids away, who waved frantically. "Bye Khora! Bye Trinity! You're the best!"

Khora waved a lazy hand, watching them go. Trinity offered a final, silent wave, her head tilting slightly as if wishing them a good day.

Khora turned back to Miss Militia, who was watching the interaction with a raised eyebrow, the tension from their earlier conversation seemingly forgotten in the wake of the fan encounter.

"Are your powers really that strong?" Miss Militia asked, genuine curiosity bleeding into her tone. “Chroma, to my knowledge, has never come in for power testing, but I’ve seen the preliminary information Ten-Zero sent regarding his abilities. So, sorry if this comes off as rude, but on paper... you don't really stand a chance.”

"I won't deny you're somewhat right," Khora said, her voice clipping slightly. She sat back down, the metal of her armor grinding softly against the picnic bench. "Chroma is a powerhouse even among our rank. Ivara was very wrong when she told you we operatives were equals. Some of us are just... genuinely superior. Chroma is one of them."

She leaned forward, tapping the table. "He lacks my elegance, though. And he is terribly moody. But in terms of raw, destructive output? I would be hard-pressed to put him down without significant effort. He is a dragon in the truest sense. Unlike the rabid mutt calling himself Lung."

"And Limbo?" Miss Militia pressed. "This is the first I've heard of him and I don't recall seeing him in any reports."

Khora let out a long sigh that sounded like a deflating balloon. She waved a hand dismissively.

"Limbo. He’s a genius," Khora muttered. "An annoying, pretentious, powerful genius. He controls time and space in a plane of existence he calls the Rift. He can step between it and our plane whenever he pleases and force others through it at will to devastating effect."

She leaned closer to Miss Militia. "Between you and me? I have beaten him in sparring matches. But only because I’ve cheated in small ways. If he were ever to learn to stop expecting a fair fight out of me, then my chances of beating him or anyone beating him, would be close to zero."

Miss Militia nodded slowly, filing the names away. A dragon and a dimension-hopper. Ten-Zero was showing their hand, piece by piece, and it was a hand full of aces.

"It sounds like you have a very diverse team," Miss Militia observed.

"We are not a team, Miss Militia," Khora corrected, her tone sharpening slightly. "We are a family. Teams break. Families endure. That is why we do not 'recruit.' We grow."

She stood up, the sun catching the gold of her armor once more.

"Now," Khora announced, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her shoulder. "If this interrogation is over? I believe Trinity saw a crepe stand on the way here that I have not yet terrorized."

Miss Militia stood up as well, checking her phone. "We should probably head back soon anyway. The Director will want a debrief."

"Let her wait," Khora said dismissively, already walking away. "I have not yet decided if the Boardwalk is worthy of my patronage."

Trinity followed silently, falling into step behind her. As they walked away, Miss Militia watched them go—the golden queen and the silent healer. Two pieces of a puzzle she was only beginning to understand.

And she had a feeling the full picture was far more terrifying than she realized.

-------------------------

The tour of the Rig had been efficient, thorough, and entirely humorless.

Armsmaster led Umbra through the pristine corridors of the Protectorate ENE Headquarters, his boots striking the deck plates with metronomic precision. He pointed out the key facilities—the command center, the armory, the holding cells—with the brisk efficiency of a man who viewed conversation as an obstacle to productivity.

Umbra followed in silence. He didn't ask questions. He didn't make comments. He simply observed, his helmeted head turning to track details that Armsmaster couldn't begin to guess at.

That was fine by Armsmaster. He had no desire to entertain a guest he hadn't invited. The only reason Umbra was here at all was because Director Piggot had made it abundantly clear—through that particular tone of forced patience she reserved for subtle orders—that he was to play nice. To smooth over any diplomatic friction his rigid adherence to protocol might have caused with Ten-Zero.

Play nice.

The words sat in his gut like bile.

He was supposed to be friendly to the same organization whose operative had left him paralyzed and humiliated on a street while a rookie hero—some girl in a spider-silk costume who thought attacking the people she was supposed to be evacuating was a valid rescue strategy—made him look useless in compsrison.

The only consolation was that the official record credited him with Lung's capture.

It was a bitter prize. His peers knew the truth. They knew he'd been face-down in the dirt before he could land a single meaningful blow. They knew a Ten-Zero operative had done the heavy lifting while he lay helpless.

But Umbra had offered an apology. A formal acknowledgment of an accident that couldn't have been anticipated in the chaos of battle. It was... unexpected. And it allowed Armsmaster to let go of his wounded pride, if only slightly.

"My personal lab," Armsmaster said as the heavy door slid open. "This is where I do my actual work."

He stepped inside, expecting Umbra to linger at the threshold like most visitors—intimidated by the sheer density of technology, the half-disassembled halberds, the banks of monitors displaying scrolling code.

Umbra walked in like he owned the place.

His helmet swept the room, pausing on a workbench where Armsmaster's newest halberd prototype lay in pieces. The Warframe moved closer, studying the weapon's internal components with what might have been interest.

"That's the molecular-edge blade," Armsmaster said, unable to resist the urge to explain. "The cutting surface is maintained by a localized stasis field that prevents molecular degradation. It can slice through steel like paper."

Umbra tilted his head. Then he raised his right palm.

A holographic display flickered to life above his gauntlet. Schematics appeared—detailed, annotated, highlighting the stasis field emitter with precise mathematical notation.

The power consumption curves suggest a 12% efficiency loss during sustained use. A cyclical recharge pattern would compensate.

Armsmaster stared. He certainly didn’t appreciate his tech being scanned without permission—but it wasn't as if he hadn't been attempting, unsuccessfully, to do the same thing to Umbra this entire time. So he let it slide.

More importantly, he had expected blank incomprehension, or at best, polite nodding. Not... this.

"You understand the engineering?"

The hologram shifted.

A bit. My organization has over sixty active members. Only two are Tinkers. Field operatives are trained in basic maintenance and system diagnostics. We cannot always wait for a specialist.

"Self-sufficiency," Armsmaster murmured, wishing the Protectorate was just as efficient. "Impressive."

He found himself warming slightly to the silent warrior. There was no posturing, no false admiration—just practical knowledge applied to practical problems.

The monitor on the far wall flickered. A face appeared—a woman with brown hair and exceptionally average features. Attractive in a forgettable way, the kind of face that would blend into any crowd.

Dragon. The best Tinker in the world. Or at least she used to be, before Ten-Zero started flying spaceships around.

"Armsmaster," the woman said, her voice warm. "I heard you had guests. And ones I've been interested in meeting."

"Dragon." Armsmaster nodded. "This is Umbra, of Ten-Zero. Umbra, this is Dragon. She's—"

A shimmer of blue light materialized in the center of the room.

Armsmaster jerked back, his hand dropping to his halberd. A Sentinel drone—Ordis’ personal chassis—hovered where the air had been empty a second before. Its blue eyes rotated, focusing instantly on the screen.

"And I have been so eager to meet you too, Miss Dragon!" Ordis chirped, his voice echoing cheerfully in the sterile lab. "It is truly wonderful to finally speak face-to-screen."

Umbra’s shoulders dipped in a way that could only be interpreted as a long-suffering sigh.

"I must confess," Ordis continued, his tone playful. "I haven't been ignoring you. Our little chats have been quite enjoyable."

Dragon blinked. "Chats?"

"Your attempts to reach me beyond PHO," Ordis clarified innocently. "Very spirited! You get more and more creative with each attempt."

Dragon’s expression froze. She shot a frantic look at Armsmaster, who was watching her with a carefully unreadable expression.

"We... have been exchanging data packets," Dragon said quickly, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "Technical data. For analysis. Not... chatting."

Ordis let out a giggle that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. "Oh, of course. Purely professional. I wouldn't dream of exchanging data any other way. You are a bit young for me, after all."

Dragon sputtered. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all." Ordis bobbed in the air, his eyes rotating. "But since we are on the topic of professional exchanges... I must commend you on your recent work with the new drone systems for the Guild. The propulsion arrays are quite clever."

Dragon became visibly grateful for the shift to safer ground. "Thank you. The efficiency gains were significant thanks to viewing your work with NASA. It’s far more advanced than standard reverse engineered Tinkertech."

Ordis hummed. "Our engineers are very talented."

"I would love to meet them. Will Ten-Zero be willing to reveal them?"

"That," Ordis said, his tone raising slightly, "is not for me to disclose."

Armsmaster, sensing an opening, stepped forward. "Regardless of the source, the technology is impressive. It has applications for the Endbringer prediction system we've been developing. The sensor suites alone could revolutionize early warning detection."

He paused, looking from Ordis to Umbra as a thought occurred to him.

"During your engagement with the Simurgh months ago. Did you manage to gather any new data? Information the Protectorate doesn't?"

Ordis went quiet. The Cephalon’s eyes stopped rotating. The cheerful bobbing ceased entirely for a while ten seconds..

"I have received permission to share the data we have," Ordis replied, the playfulness dropping like a stone. "We have new information, but it is likely not what you are expecting."

Armsmaster leaned forward, and Dragon’s digital avatar seemed to do the same. Who could blame them? Any new data on the Endbringers would be good data.

"Umbra," Ordis said softly.

The Warframe raised his palm again. The holographic projector flared, casting a bright blue glow over the workbenches.

Two models materialized in the air between them.

On the left was a standard 3D representation of the Simurgh—alabaster skin, asymmetrical wings, frozen in a serene, floating pose. It was the kind of model the PRT used for briefings: accurate, but mundane.

On the right was the same model.

But it was completely blacked out.

It was a silhouette of impenetrable darkness, fringed with scrolling, chaotic numbers—mathematical calculations that seemed to warp and twist in on themselves. Flecks of red and orange highlighted areas of the body, labeled with terms like Bio-Crystalline Density and Mass Displacement Anomaly.

Armsmaster stared at the black model. "What am I looking at? Is the scan blocked?"

"It isn't blocked," Ordis replied, his voice unusually grave. "Before we begin, we want to establish that the Endbringers are not humans. They are not Case 53s or the result of broken triggers. Our data suggests they are not even 'alive' in the way you would define the term."

He hovered closer to the hologram.

"The Endbringers are, in all likelihood, some form of bio-crystalline super weapons. Their purpose appears to be threefold: to sow destruction, to induce trigger events, and to prevent humanity from reaching a certain level of progress or unity—without completely crippling the species."

"And this applies to all of them?" Dragon asked for clarification. "Not just the Simurgh?"

"Correct," Ordis said. "Behemoth, Leviathan, the Simurgh... they share the same underlying architecture. The Simurgh is simply easier to tell since her intellect is obvious to see."

Armsmaster felt a cold shiver run down his spine. This wasn't just data. It was a paradigm shift. For years, the PRT, the Protectorate, everyone—they had all operated under the assumption that the Endbringers, specifically Behemoth and Leviathan, were mindless killing machines. Forces of nature with hardly any rhyme or reason for attacking a specific place.

If that was wrong...

"Can you confirm this?" he asked, his voice tight.

"I can," Dragon said, before Ordis could answer. Her avatar was staring intently at the data streams. "It’s not concrete evidence, but I've tracked Endbringer movements for years. The cascading effects of their attacks... the geopolitical shifts, the economic collapses, the specific triggers generated in the wake of their rampages. It’s never been random. It always seemed... directed."

She looked at Armsmaster. "I’ve suspected for a long time that they were forces of nature directed by an intelligence. I thought it was only the Simurgh directing them. But it makes sense they all have their own plans. It’s probably why they’re so hard to predict."

Ordis nodded. "Our analysis aligns with yours, Dragon. The pattern of their attacks suggests a strategy of containment rather than extermination. They are shepherds, herding humanity into a pen of chaos. For what purpose, we do not know."

The black model on the right zoomed in, filling the room. The dense, swirling numbers became a blizzard of data.

"Furthermore," Ordis continued, "the scanners we used during the engagement are extremely advanced. They should have penetrated the target's outer layers. But you see this black mass?"

"The void in the data," Armsmaster murmured.

"Yes. Conventional wisdom dictates that Thinker powers and Tinkertech scanners fail against them due to an interference effect. A 'blind spot.' But this is different."

Ordis highlighted a section of the black mass, showing the faint, impossible geometric lines beneath the surface.

"Our systems were not blocked. They were simply overwhelmed. The black you see is not a lack of data—it is the only way our systems could render the physics-defying layering of mass. The Endbringers are impossibly dense. The calculations suggest they are composed of multiple layers, each one exponentially more dense and durable than the last. We have theorized they either have some form of shielding separating their layers or, more likely, are like another type of enemy we've encountered whose body was not fully in the same dimension as the rest of it."

He paused.

"Chances are, there is much more we aren't seeing. Internal structures, organs perhaps... but we have scanned enough to know one thing. They possess no vital points or weak spots in places that would be lethal to a biological organism. You cannot 'kill' them by stabbing them in the heart or severing the spine. Because they likely do not have one."

Silence descended on the lab.

Armsmaster looked at his workbench—at the molecular blade he had been so proud of moments ago. He thought of his nano-thorn project, the one he had hoped would be the edge humanity needed against the monsters. He had poured years of his life into perfecting that technology.

If Ordis was right... if the Endbringers were layers of impossible density...

His nano-thorns might not even scratch the third layer.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't just that his technology was insufficient. It was that his entire approach—humanity's entire approach—had been fundamentally flawed. They had been bringing pebbles to a tank fight, thinking they were bringing guns.

Every battle he had studied. Every "near victory." Every strategy session where they analyzed attack patterns and evacuation routes. They had been playing a game they couldn't win.

And the monsters had been humoring them.

"You're telling us," Armsmaster said slowly, his voice hoarse, "that they've been toying with us. All this time. Every battle... every 'victory' where we drove them back..."

"Was likely them retreating due to structural damage thresholds, not biological necessity," Ordis finished gently. "You have never truly hurt them."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Armsmaster’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. To find a flaw in their logic. To cling to the hope that maybe, maybe, all the sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

But the data was there. Even without it, there was no doubt humanity was never truly winning against the Endbringers. The signs were always there. He just refused to see them until now. To think all this time they had been calling paper cuts victory. He felt like a fool.

Dragon looked away from the hologram to Armsmaster, then to the Ten-Zero members.. "And you didn't tell anyone until now? Why?"

"Because we do not have all the data," Ordis admitted. "And we did not want to decrease morale further. Hope is a weapon, Miss Dragon. We chose not to dull it until we had a way to sharpen it. If the world knew that the monsters they fought were effectively invincible gods playing with their food... recruitment would plummet. Despair would rise."

"But you're informing us now," Armsmaster said. “And why not take it to the Director or the Triumvirate?"

We planned to later after more data was comprehensively compiled. But the timing of you and Dragon, the strongest and most trusted tinkers in the world, being together was too convenient to pass on, Umbra’s holographic text scrolled into view. And you have a right to know the enemy you face.

Dragon took an audible breath, steadying herself. She looked at Ordis, her expression hardening with resolve. "If you're letting us know now, that means there's hope, right? A plan? A way to truly fight them. Maybe even kill."

Ordis looked at Umbra. Umbra looked at Ordis.

The Warframe and the Cephalon turned back to the two Tinkers.

"Us," Ordis said.

[winhumanman]

PRT Threat Assessment: Trinity

PRT SPECIAL THREAT ASSESSMENT

SUBJECT: Ten-Zero Warframe Variant — Trinity

FILE DESIGNATION: TZ-WF-TRN

CLEARANCE: Protectorate / PRT Tactical Command

AUTHOR: Watchdog Analysis Division ------------

OVERVIEW

Trinity is a specialized Warframe variant optimized for absolute battlefield preservation, medical triage, and strategic force multiplication. Unlike offensive-oriented Warframes, Trinity does not engage in direct frontline destruction. Instead, she completely invalidates the opposition's ability to inflict lasting damage, functioning as a logistical nightmare that renders standard attrition-based warfare mathematically impossible.

Note: All baseline Warframe capabilities (Brute 8, Mover 5, Thinker 7, etc.) fully apply. This document addresses unique augmentations and deviations from the baseline profile only. ----------------

UNIQUE THREAT CLASSIFICATIONS

Brute — 9 (Reactive)

Trinity does not possess inherent structural invulnerability, but utilizes an extreme reactive hardening effect that renders her virtually immune to physical harm.

Damage Mitigation & Redirection: Through an ability designated "Link," physical damage inflicted upon Trinity or her allies is drastically reduced in transit, with the residual kinetic force forcibly channeled into a designated hostile target.

Kinetic Dampening: Concurrently, an ability designated "Blessing" projects an aura that actively reduces the kinetic impact of incoming attacks against herself.

Conclusion: Trinity is deceptively difficult to neutralize. She possesses the survivability of a high-tier Brute layered beneath the threat profile of a support-class Tinker.

Trump — 11

Trinity possesses the most extreme defensive force-multiplication suite ever documented by PRT Threat Assessment, fundamentally altering the physical parameters of everyone in her radius.

Stamina/Potency Restoration: Through an ability designated "Energy Vampire," Trinity forcibly drains the bio-electric reserves of a hostile target, converting it into omnidirectional pulses. These pulses completely restore the physical stamina and boost parahuman power of all Ten-Zero operatives in a wide radius.

Durability Amplification: "Blessing" grants extreme kinetic resistance to all allied targets, while "Link" ensures any damage that breaches this resistance is shared and mitigated across the entire squad.

Conclusion: Trinity creates a closed-loop parahuman resource economy. Her team will never tire, and her team will not die as long as a suspended proxy is available.

Shaker — 9

Trinity dominates the battlespace through wide-radius, pulsing bio-electric fields that sustain her allies while creating zones of absolute spatial denial for enemies.

AoE Hyper-Regeneration ("Blessing"): Projects a wide-area aura that passively regenerates the biological tissue and structural integrity of all Ten-Zero forces within radius.

Parasitic Suspension Fields ("Energy Vampire" & "Well of Life"): Trinity can immobilize hostile targets, suspending them mid-air in localized stasis.

Blue Pulse (Energy Vampire): The suspended victim acts as a beacon, rhythmically emitting pulses that restore parahuman stamina to Ten-Zero forces while draining the victim's bio-electricity.

Green Pulse (Well of Life): The suspended victim becomes a focal point for all environmental hazards, biological agents, and exotic effects—drawing them away from Ten-Zero operatives. Furthermore, any Ten-Zero operative who strikes the suspended target experiences accelerated cellular regeneration.

Death Substitution ("Well of Life"): Most critically, targets suspended by Well of Life, and those in its radius, are tethered to Ten-Zero forces via a life-link contract. If a Ten-Zero operative suffers lethal trauma, the suspended hostile target and those in its range is instantaneously killed in their stead.

Conclusion: Trinity converts individual enemy combatants into localized life-support generators and strategic death-insurance policies. -------------

ENGAGEMENT GUIDANCE & RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

1. Absolute Priority Target: Trinity must be eliminated or neutralized before any other Ten-Zero operative. Failure to isolate her at the onset of an engagement guarantees a protracted, unwinnable battle of attrition.

2. The "Friendly Asset" Protocol (CRITICAL): If "Energy Vampire" or "Well of Life" is initiated on a PRT/Protectorate asset, and no teleporter is available to move the affected target, the only mathematically viable response is the immediate termination of the suspended friendly target. This halts the stamina restoration of Ten-Zero forces and severs the death-substitution tether. Field commanders must be psychologically prepared to authorize friendly-fire killings without hesitation.

3. Most Exotic Munitions are Useless: Do not deploy Master-class capes, biological agents, gas, or exotic Tinkertech payloads (such as nanites or acid) against a squad under Trinity's "Blessing" or "Well of Life" auras. These effects will either be instantly purged or drawn into the suspended Well of Life target. Rely mostly on raw, overwhelming kinetic and energy-based force.

4. Cease Focus-Fire: If "Link" is visually confirmed (indicated by luminous tethers between targets), immediately cease all concentrated firepower on linked squads. Shooting one linked target distributes the kinetic force and redirects the remainder into allied PRT forces.

5. Forced Isolation: Utilize spatial and/or temporal-manipulation capes to isolate her or increase physical proximity between Trinity and her allies. Her baseline Mover 5 speed makes her difficult to catch, but her ability to project restorative fields requires operational proximity to her enemies.

6. Single-Target Burst Damage: When engaging Trinity directly, do not use sustained fire. Use absolute maximum-yield, single-strike capabilities (e.g., anti-brute missile, a high-tier Striker ability) to bypass her defense and eliminate her before her restoration suites can cycle or her squad can help. ------------------------------

CLOSING ASSESSMENT

In the event of a hostile engagement with Ten-Zero, Trinity presents a strategic problem that extends far beyond her capacity to prevent casualties. She must be understood as a psychological weapon that circumvents standard Master/Stranger protocols entirely.

PRT tactical doctrine regarding high-tier threats inherently accepts attrition; friendly casualties are mathematically calculated as a necessary cost in pursuit of strategic objectives. In a theoretical engagement against Trinity, this doctrine becomes a liability. When field commanders are forced to order the immediate execution of immobilized, conscious allied personnel—solely to halt a bio-electric pulse from refueling the Ten-Zero line—they are not acting under duress or mental interference. They are executing sound tactical doctrine. The resulting trauma, guilt, and cascading hesitation would shatter friendly unit cohesion from the inside out, achieving through bureaucratic necessity what most human Master-class capes could never accomplish through direct manipulation. This inadvertent psychological warfare cannot be trained against, because it requires no malice or parahuman ability to function.

Furthermore, standard containment protocols are functionally nonviable. After a commander has navigated the above scenario—after paying the moral and physical cost of sacrificing allied personnel, breaching her reactive armor, and finally putting her down through a staggeringly costly application of force—the baseline Warframe revival system activates. The operative they sacrificed everything to neutralize would simply stand back up, fully restored, and immediately resume battlefield preservation.

Any contingency plan targeting the Trinity variant must account for the fact that standard PRT kill-protocols yield no permanent result, while the process of attempting them inflicts irreversible psychological damage on our own forces. If Ten-Zero relations ever deteriorate, Trinity must be treated not just as a target to be eliminated, but as an environmental and psychological hazard. ----------------- A/N: I liked all the discussion so i decided to drop more from my . Here ya go! Also, thank you Prince Wavebreak, Иван Грозный, headcrabfever, Kosmic, 1NC1N3R4T0R, Pyro Reaper, A N, and Light YGI for supporting my writing. Never doubt you are appreciated.

[winhumanman]

The Operator’s consciousness was settled into Khora Prime, the Warframe’s sensory input merging seamlessly with his own. On the heads-up display, a digital receipt for a substantial pizza order for Saturday faded from his vision, minimized for later reference. It was replaced by a recording he had been watching intermittently for the last few minutes: the POV of Trinity Prime, surrounded by a group of laughing children.

Their skin was clear, their hair thick, their eyes bright. The cancer that had once ravaged their bodies was gone, erased by the Warframe’s restorative abilities.

It made him smile. He was happy to give those children a future that wasn't cut short and wished they lived long healthy lives.

He shifted his attention to his left. Umbra was kneeling, waiting for the flight to be over. To the right, Trinity Prime’s Specter from the video also knelt in silent readiness. But until they arrived in the bay, there was nothing to do but wait.

“Ordis,” the Operator called out. “Is the other prep for Saturday finished?”

Ordis’ voice chimed from the ship’s speakers. “Yes, Operator! All preparations for the celebration are complete or are underway to be completed soon.”

“Good,” the Operator said. “Looks like we’re ahead of schedule.”

“Well, you did leave the task in Ordis's capable hands,” the Cephalon chirped. “Oh, and you have a new message from Ms. Hebert. It just came in.”

“Is it for Isaac or Tenno?” the Operator asked, distinguishing between his civilian and ‘cape’ personas.

“There is a message for both, actually,” Ordis replied. “Ms. Hebert wishes to skip the after-school training session today. She also says she wishes to speak to Isaac in person.”

The Operator hummed in thought. On one hand, he wanted to visit her as Tenno to heal her injuries immediately. On the other, he had promised, as Isaac, to check on her later.

“Tell her yes to both,” he decided.

Healing her now would be suspicious considering the damage she had taken. Plus, he could count her fight against Sophia as field training. No need to overcomplicate things.

“Message sent, Operator!” Ordis chirped. “Though, I must ask… why did we bring Trinity Prime’s Specter along? If I recall, the plan was for her to rotate to Utah in four days.”

“The plan changed because we’re going public in Brockton Bay,” the Operator explained. “Since we’re no longer hiding, I want to begin making tangible improvements to this city, starting with its people. Healing is a good place to start.”

He paused, glancing at the image of the cured children again.

“And…” A picture of a mousy, brown-haired girl with freckles overlaid the recording. “I want to get close to the local healer. Panacea. Riley’s memories suggest that Panacea isn’t just a healer. She’s a biokinetic. I believe the intel.”

Ordis’ voice glitched slightly, a hint of static entering his tone. “Panacea? But Operator, getting close to a biokinetic is dangerous! If she touches a Warframe, she might realize they are biological technology. That could expose—”

“Precisely,” the Operator cut in smoothly. “That is exactly why I need to meet her. I need to ascertain how much of a threat her ability poses to our security. If she can decipher the secrets of the Specters at a touch, or worse, manipulate Warframe biology, I need to know now so I can plan around it.”

“A… a pre-emptive threat assessment!” Ordis realized, his tone brightening. “Ordis understands! Very wise, Operator.”

The Tenno smirked slightly at the compliment just as the Liset banked, the view outside the viewport shifting.

“Arriving at destination,” Ordis announced. “The Brockton Bay Boardwalk and the Protectorate Headquarters are coming up. Shall I drop the void cloak?”

The Brockton Bay Boardwalk stretched out before them, and looming in the water closer ahead was the Protectorate ENE Headquarters—a shining oil rig that looked like a cross between a Corpus fortress and an ocean derrick. It was one of the largest reminders that this world’s tech level was all over the place.

“Yes,” the Operator commanded. “We’re trying to make an entrance, after all.”

“Dropping cloak now!”

The air shimmered, and the Liset materialized out of thin air, slowing its approach to a stately glide.

Almost immediately, alarms began to blare.

“Alert!” Ordis announced, his voice calm but urgent. “The rig’s missile defense systems have locked onto us.”

That was fast, the Tenno thought as a gruff, modulated voice cut through the comms channel. He recognized it as Armsmaster because of Shade’s recording of the Lung fight.

“Unidentified aircraft,” Armsmaster barked through the emergency frequencies. “You have entered restricted airspace. We have missile lock. Identify yourself immediately or you will be shot down.”

The Operator didn’t even tense. He watched the missile tracking warnings flash on his HUD with an almost detached amusement. The missiles on this base couldn't catch the Liset even if it was only using one thruster. That wasn't even taking into account the obvious solution of just re-cloaking. They’d have better luck mailing a warhead—at least then it might reach him with something resembling accuracy.

“Ordis,” the Operator said with mirth. “Inform our kind Protectorate hosts not to waste their missiles. They know who we are.”

Ordis opened the channel. “Attention, Protectorate Rig. This is Ordis of Ten-Zero. We request you power down your weapons systems. We are here for the scheduled meeting.”

“Ten-Zero or not,” Armsmaster replied, his voice hard and unyielding. “This is an unregistered vessel entering a secure PRT facility airspace. Protocol dictates it must be cataloged and inspected for safety compliance. Land on the main platform and power down.”

The Operator narrowed his eyes behind Khora Prime’s helmet, all mirth gone. He had no intention of letting PRT technicians poke around the Liset. Not only did he not appreciate the Protectorate leader trying to strong-arm him, but he couldn’t allow them to discover it wasn't Tinkertech. That would ruin his cover.

However, he couldn’t just blow them off. Ten-Zero was trying to create an amicable relationship, after all. A middle ground needed to be reached.

“Tell them we will land,” the Operator instructed Ordis. “But inspection is off-limits.”

Ordis relayed the message. “We will land as requested, Armsmaster. However, the vessel is proprietary technology. Inspection is denied.”

“Denied?” Armsmaster grit out. “That is not a request. All Tinkertech in PRT jurisdiction must be registered for public safety. Land and open the hatch, or we will ground you.”

The Operator considered ignoring Armsmaster entirely. He could just cloak again, land at the PRT building, claim he turned the ship around, conduct the meeting, and leave. Making an enemy of the local Protectorate branch this early would be troublesome, especially since they were expected to work together, but letting them inspect the ship was not an option.

“Ordis—” the Tenno started.

Before he could finish, another voice cut into the channel. It was a woman’s voice—clipped, severe, and utterly unamused.

“Stand down, Armsmaster,” Director Piggot ordered.

“Director,” Armsmaster began, “the protocol—”

“I am aware of the protocol, Armsmaster,” Piggot interrupted sharply. “I am also aware that Ten-Zero are allies of the Protectorate and PRT and that a gang war is brewing. We don’t have time to stroke your ego over flight permits.”

There was a heavy, static-filled silence on the line. It appeared there was tension between the two branch leaders.

“Ten-Zero,” Piggot’s voice came through, addressing them directly. “You’re very early. Land on the helipad of the PRT building on the mainland. I’ll meet you in Conference Room B.”

“Thank you, Director,” Ordis answered. ----------------------

The Liset hovered over the PRT building’s helipad, engines winding down with a low, resonant hum. Before the ramp had even fully touched the concrete, a squad of PRT troopers in full gear was already approaching, their movements tight and disciplined.

Khora strode down the ramp first, the sharp clack-clack-clack of her heels echoing against the metal. She moved with a fluid, predatory grace, her posture imperious. Behind her, Umbra and Trinity followed in perfect lockstep.

A trooper with a lieutenant’s insignia stepped forward, his visor polarized. "This way. The Director is finishing up other business. We’ll escort you to the conference room."

Khora tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying gently. Her voice, projected through the Warframe’s speakers, was smooth, velvety, and dripping with a feminine authority that bordered on the regal. "Lead the way, then, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant turned without comment, leading them into the building.

As they moved through the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors, the Operator’s mind drifted behind Khora’s eyes. The turns, the fire exits, the placement of the security cameras—it was all familiar. After all, the last time he was here it was as Ivara so he could break into their server room.

Back then, he had been a ghost in the machine. Now, he walked the halls like he owned them.

The corridor opened up into a large administrative hub. It was packed with analysts, secretaries, and junior officers, all buzzing with the frantic energy of a workday. The moment the elevator doors slid open and the trio of Warframes stepped out, the noise died.

It was as if a vacuum had sucked the sound out of the room.

Heads turned. Pens dropped. Coffee cups froze halfway to mouths.

The Operator scanned the crowd through Khora’s sensors. He saw faces he recognized from that infiltration—interns who had since become junior analysts, a security guard who had been posted by a door. None of them knew they were looking at the same person who had bypassed their security months ago. Not that any of them were even remotely aware that he had been here before.

Whispers erupted like a brushfire, low and urgent.

"Is that... is that Umbra?"

"Trinity... wow, she's even taller than on TV."

“Think all that gold is real?”

"Who's the one in the middle?"

"I don't know... never seen her before."

Khora’s design was ostentatious, even by Warframe standards. The gold filigree, the clinging metallic mesh, the high heels. She was a masterpiece of lethal elegance.

Pieces of Kubrow shit the Orokin may have been, the Operator mused internally, but they didn’t go wrong with style.

"Check out the one in the heels," one analyst whispered to a colleague, not quietly enough. "And the hips... god, I bet she's gorgeous under that armour."

"I'd let her step on me," another murmured to the amusement of his coworkers.

Khora didn’t react to the comments outwardly. She kept her chin high, gliding forward as if the adoration was simply her due.

But Umbra did.

The former Dax snapped his head to the side, his movement a blur of sudden, almost robotic precision. His gaze locked onto the two analysts who had been whispering. He didn't make a sound. He just stared, his posture radiating a silent threat.

The two analysts flinched violently, nearly knocking over a stack of papers. They turned a shade of pale and immediately ducked their heads, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens.

Khora reached out without breaking stride, placing a hand on Umbra’s arm. She gave a light, patronizing pat.

"Now, now, Squad Leader," she purred, her voice carrying through the silent room. "There is no need for such... aggression. Let the commoners gaze. It is only natural for them to be captivated by my radiance. We shouldn't deprive them of the highlight of their dreary day."

She treated him with a deference that suggested he was the leader, the senior partner, but her tone was that of a queen pacifying a loyal knight. Umbra held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then gave a quick nod. He turned back forward, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

They continued on, leaving a trail of stunned silence and stolen smartphone photos in their wake.

Finally, the trooper stopped before a heavy reinforced door. "Conference Room B. Miss Militia is inside. The Director will join you shortly."

"Thank you, darling," Khora said dismissively, waving a hand. "You may go."

The trooper hesitated, looking like he wanted to object to being dismissed so casually, but something crackled in his ear. He nodded, then turned and marched away with his squad.

Khora pushed the door open.

The room was sleek and modern, dominated by a long glass table. Standing by the window, looking out over the city, was Miss Militia. Her American flag bandana was tied around her lower face, and her eyes were sharp. She turned as they entered, her posture formal and slightly apologetic.

"Welcome, Ten-Zero," she greeted them, her voice carrying a slight accent. "I heard about what Armsmaster pulled. I'm truly sorry."

Khora stepped into the room, the heels clicking on the polished floor. She didn't sit immediately. Instead, she walked to the table and ran a metal finger along the surface, inspecting it for dust, before turning her attention to the heroine.

"Think nothing of it," Khora replied, her voice smooth and velvety. "His threat was as meaningless as it was ineffective. But enough about us. I trust our... early arrival hasn't disrupted your schedule too terribly?"

Miss Militia’s eyes crinkled slightly—perhaps a frown, perhaps just observation. "The Director is finishing a call. She'll be here in a few minutes, along with Armsmaster. Please, take a seat."

Umbra moved to the head of the table, pulling out the chair with a scrape of metal. He sat, his posture rigid, hands folding on the table. Khora and Trinity took their places on either side of him.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

Director Piggot walked in, the rotund woman's expression like carved granite. Armsmaster followed behind her, his jaw set tight. He didn't look at the Tenno, instead taking a position standing behind the Director.

Piggot sat down heavily, opening a manila folder and slapping it onto the table.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," Piggot said, her voice clipped. "The ABB is crumbling. Lung is in custody, and Bakuda is no doubt planning something dangerous to break him out. We are planning a coordinated sweep to dismantle what's left before they can rally. Thanks to your intel, we know the important locations to hit. In the next few days, we will be raiding them."

"An excellent initiative," Khora purred, leaning forward slightly. "We assume you require our assistance in pacifying the remnants? Perhaps dealing with Oni Lee or the tinker, Bakuda?"

Piggot’s eyes narrowed. "No."

The Operator paused internally, confused. No?

"We don't need your combat support," Piggot continued flatly. "We have the manpower to handle what's left of the ABB. What we need from Ten-Zero is a joint PR venture."

The Operator stared at her through Khora’s sensors, not understanding why things were going this way.

"I beg your pardon?" Khora said aloud, her tone losing a fraction of its playful lilt.

"Our advisor," Piggot gestured vaguely, "has suggested that a public endorsement from Ten-Zero regarding the PRT's cleanup efforts would be more valuable than direct intervention. It would stabilize the city. It would show the public that the legitimate authorities are in control and prevent the Empire or other outside elements from filling the vacuum out of fear of reprisal from both our organizations."

She leaned forward, her hostility barely veiled beneath the professionalism.

"And frankly, I don't trust you.” Her eyes locked onto the veiled face of Khora. “The footage of Lung's capture showed excessive force that borders on sadism. Lung could barely be called a man when you brought him in. I will not let people like you loose in my city."

The Operator felt a flicker of genuine offense. He may have played up his role as Khora a bit strongly, but it was never out of any sick desire to inflict suffering. Lung simply would not go down without the measures he and Umbra took to subdue him.

But he swallowed the anger. Getting into a shouting match with the Director of the PRT wasn't why he was here. His goal was to get home, and for that, he could swallow this indignity. But he wouldn’t do so submissively.

"A... fascinating perspective," Khora said haughtily, her voice dangerously flippant. She tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying. "You call it sadism. I call it... housebreaking."

Piggot’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You see, I did some research on the mutt after bringing him to heel," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness and concern. "I found out he had such a dreadful humping problem before I came along—no sense of boundaries, no self-control. Just a beast trying to mount anything that caught his eye because he had no one to properly discipline him."

Piggot’s jaw clenched, while Miss Militia stiffened.

"Now? He might actually learn to sit and stay. You should be thanking me for putting him in a kennel, Director."

Silence reigned in the room. The tension spiked, thick enough to choke a lesser being.

But this was fine. In fact, it was exactly what the Operator wanted. He had played the part of the arrogant Executor, insulting and dismissive. Now, it was time for Umbra to play the Archimedean—the rational, diplomatic counterweight to Khora’s theatrical arrogance.

Umbra moved.

He shifted in his seat and placed a heavy, armored hand on Khora’s shoulder. It was a simple silent command.

Khora stiffened, the haughty tilt of her chin lowering a fraction. She turned her head slightly, as if listening to a reprimand only she could hear.

"My apologies, Squad Leader," she murmured, her voice losing its venomous edge, replaced by a smooth, professional deference. "I got... carried away."

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, the picture of a chastised subordinate.

Umbra withdrew his hand. He turned his attention back to the table, raising his right palm until it faced upward.

A holographic projector embedded in his gauntlet flickered to life. A stream of text scrolled into the air above his palm, glowing a soft, diplomatic blue.

My apologies for Khora’s words. She is... passionate about her work, but she speaks for herself, not the organization.

Ten-Zero acknowledges the PRT's jurisdiction. We agree to show more restraint with future non-kill order targets, provided the situation allows for it.

Piggot stared at the floating text, her expression unreadable. Miss Militia relaxed slightly, her hand moving away from the weapon at her hip.

Furthermore, the text continued to scroll, we accept the proposal for a joint PR venture. Stability in the region is mutually beneficial.

Umbra paused, the text dissolving before being replaced by a new line.

I would also like to speak with Armsmaster personally. I wish to apologize for inadvertently catching him in my ability during the Lung engagement. It was not my intention to cause distress to an ally.

Armsmaster stiffened. His visor hid his expression well, but his body language screamed surprise.

"I appreciate the sentiment," Armsmaster said. "But it is not necessary."

It is, the text scrolled insistently. Discipline is the foundation of the Tenno. A mistake was made. It will be acknowledged.

Umbra lowered his hand, the hologram fading.

He turned his helmeted head toward Piggot, waiting.

Piggot regarded him for a long moment. The hostility in her gaze remained, but it was tempered now—cautious respect, perhaps, for the ability to rein in a wild card like Khora.

"Very well," Piggot said, closing the manila folder with a snap. "We have a deal. Miss Militia will inform you of the schedule and the press release details." She glanced at Khora. "I expect full cooperation."

“Of course, Director. I will be the picture of perfection,” Khora bragged, her voice smooth once more.

Piggot rolled her eyes, gathering her papers to leave.

Trinity Prime raised her hand, the movement sudden but hesitant, like a student afraid to speak out of turn in a strict classroom.

Piggot paused, her hands still resting on the closed folder. She looked at the healer with suspicion. "Yes?"

Trinity didn't speak. Instead, she turned her helmet toward Umbra. The movement was exaggerated, almost nervous, the Warframe’s posture shrinking slightly as she fidgeted with her hands, clasping them together in front of her chest.

Umbra turned his head toward Khora.

The chain of command was clear, if theatrical.

Khora let out a soft, melodramatic sigh, waving a hand gracefully. "Our dear Trinity is a bit shy, Director. She wishes to make a request."

Khora tilted her head, looking at Trinity, then back at Piggot. "She wishes to operate as a healer within your city. She finds the idea of sitting idle while people suffer... distasteful."

Piggot’s eyes narrowed, shifting from Khora to the silent, fidgeting Trinity. "We have Panacea for that. She handles the hospitals."

"Panacea is one girl," Khora countered smoothly. "And she is overworked. Trinity wishes to alleviate that burden. Think of the goodwill it would bring—Ten-Zero healing the citizens of Brockton Bay."

Piggot’s frown deepened. She looked like she wanted to refuse outright, her bureaucratic instincts warring with the obvious strategic value. Before she could speak, Trinity took a small step forward.

She raised a hand, pointing a single finger tentatively toward the Director.

Khora’s voice dropped, taking on a softer, more serious tone. "She also notices... irregularities in your bio-signs, Director. Ailments that have settled deep. She asks if you would permit her to heal you. A gesture of good faith."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Piggot’s face went rigid. Her hands, previously resting on the table, clenched into white-knuckled fists. A flicker of genuine anxiety passed through her eyes—a flash of old, deep-seated terror. For a woman who faced down monsters and gangs, the prospect of someone altering her biology clearly touched a nerve far more sensitive than any physical pain.

"No," Piggot said sharply. The word was like a hammer blow. "That won't be necessary. I am quite capable of managing my own health."

Trinity didn't press. She simply lowered her hand and took a small step back, ducking her head slightly in a gesture of apology.

Piggot exhaled, forcing her hands to flatten against the table, though the tension in her shoulders didn't leave. She cleared her throat. "However... the offer to heal in the city is acceptable. Within reason. You will coordinate with the PRT. No unapproved interventions."

She paused, eyeing Trinity calculatingly. "In fact, if you are serious about your abilities... I have a list of former PRT agents. Good men and women who were forced to retire due to injuries. Traumatic brain injuries, nerve damage. Things that Panacea couldn't fix or was too exhausted to get to."

Piggot’s voice hardened. "If you can help them, I'll arrange transport. Can you have them seen by the end of the week?"

Trinity nodded politely, a slow, demure dip of her helmet.

Piggot nodded briskly, regaining her composure. "Then we have an accord. Thank you... Trinity."

The Operator smirked, the tension breaking as he reached out and grabbed Trinity by the arm, linking them together like girlfriends heading out for the day.

"Well then! Now that the boring business is settled," Khora announced brightly, turning her gaze to Umbra. "Squad Leader, surely you can shadow our dear Armsmaster for the afternoon? Discuss... tactics?"

Umbra turned his head slowly. He looked at Khora, then at Trinity, who was standing passively in Khora’s grip, and finally at Piggot.

He gave a single, sharp nod.

"Thank you.” Khora chirped. “Now come along, Trinity. We have a city to see. I simply must meet the locals."

Piggot looked like she wanted to object. The idea of two powerful capes wandering her city unsupervised clearly did not sit well with her. But she glanced at Umbra, then back at Khora, and seemed to calculate the odds of stopping them.

She came up short.

They weren't PRT employees. They weren't Wards. They were independent operators who had just agreed to heal her retired agents. She had no legal grounds to detain them, and politically, it would be a disaster to try.

Piggot let out a frustrated breath. "Miss Militia. Accompany Khora and Trinity. Keep them out of trouble." She turned to the Tinker. "Armsmaster. Show Umbra the Rig. Discuss... whatever it is you two find productive."

Miss Militia nodded. "Yes, Director."

Armsmaster inclined his head stiffly, clearly not liking getting stuck with this duty but agreeing to it nonetheless. "Understood."

Khora clapped her hands together, the metal gauntlets clacking loudly. "Wonderful! A girls' day out and a boys' field trip. Try not to bore Squad Leader to death, Armsmaster. He’s not much for small talk."

Khora practically dragged Trinity toward Piggot, her heels clicking a happy rhythm. As she got close to Miss Militia she snagged the heroine by the arm, her grip firm but playful.

"Come, darling! Let us see what this Boardwalk has to offer. I hear the seafood is passable, but I'm more looking forward to all the rabble showering me with praise."

As they filed out, Umbra paused by Armsmaster, waiting for him to lead the way.

The leader of the Protectorate let out a low, almost imperceptible sigh. "This way."

The meeting was over. The PR campaign had begun. ------------------

Thomas Calvert sat in his sterile office within the PRT ENE Headquarters, methodically massaging his temple with one hand. A persistent, throbbing headache had taken up residence behind his eyes—one of many he had suffered since Ten-Zero first darkened Brockton Bay’s doorstep.

At first, he hadn’t understood why his timelines kept collapsing.

He would split the world, safe in his secure base, only for the new reality to dissolve into static and agony seconds later. He had thought his power was failing him, that Cauldron had sold him a faulty vial, or perhaps this was a targeted attack. The paranoia had been crippling. For days, he had been unable to maintain his supervillain persona, relegating his doppelgänger to managing his criminal empire via proxy while he frantically searched for the cause.

Then, Director Piggot had called him in for a consult on the ABB situation. It was there, listening to the briefing on their new "allies," that the pieces clicked into place.

Ten-Zero.

An entire organization of blind spots. Running wild in his city. Operating with impunity just as he was on the cusp of securing what was probably the second most powerful precognitive asset in the world—Dinah Alcott.

If he had been able to split timelines without passing out from the backlash, he would have shot Piggot right then and there, just for the catharsis of it.

It was frustrating. Almost maddening.

But even stripped of his greatest advantage, Coil was nothing if not resourceful. He was a survivor. If he couldn't predict Ten-Zero, he would manipulate the variables he could control.

He pulled up the surveillance files on Ten-Zero’s activity—or rather, their curious inactivity. For a group with enough firepower to rival the Triumvirate, they were strangely passive. They crushed Lung, yes, but they hadn't swept through the city and decapitated the Empire or the ABB remnants. Why?

The answer was simple: Politics.

Ten-Zero was holding back. They were pulling their punches, restricting themselves to high-profile interventions while leaving the day-to-day grind to the PRT. Calvert theorized that they didn't want to make the PRT look incompetent. They wanted to be seen as partners, not replacements. They were playing a political game, trying to maintain a delicate balance of power to avoid a total collapse of faith in the authorities.

It was a noble sentiment. It was also a glaring weakness.

Calvert intended to exploit it.

The bank robbery was approaching. He needed the city in chaos, the Wards distracted, and the Protectorate gone. But Ten-Zero was the variable he couldn't account for. If they decided to intervene in a simple bank heist, his plan to secure Dinah Alcott could crumble.

He wasn't foolish enough to send them on a wild goose chase with an anonymous tip. Ten-Zero had technological capabilities that rivaled or exceeded Dragon. If he pointed a finger at a target, Ordis would verify it instantly, exposing the lie and putting himself in their crosshairs. No, he needed social pressure. He needed to manipulate their image against them.

He opened a separate file, one containing surveillance photos and weeping testimonials from families across the northern states and Canada.

Heartbreaker.

Nikos Vasil. A monster the PRT had been agonizingly unable to catch for decades. A Master of terrifying power who collected women like trophies, breaking their minds and using them as broodmares.

Coil began to type. He wasn't sending a tip to Ten-Zero. Oh no, he was sending invitations.

To the desperate fathers. To the grieving brothers. To weeping mothers. To the families of the women stolen by Heartbreaker.

He had the location of the PR event. He would leak it to these broken people. He would tell them that the greatest heroes in the world would be there, that Ten-Zero had the power to save their daughters where the PRT had failed.

Let them beg. Let them plead. Let them throw themselves at the heroes' feet in front of the cameras.

Ten-Zero, with their white-knight complex and their obsession with public perception, wouldn't be able to refuse. They would see the weeping fathers and the stolen lives, and they would feel compelled to act. They would march straight into Canada to deal with Heartbreaker, removing a problem the PRT had ignored for years while simultaneously clearing the board in Brockton Bay for days or weeks, if he was lucky.

Coil allowed himself a thin, cold smile.

He hit send.

Let the desperate do his work for him. By the time Ten-Zero returned, Dinah Alcott would be his, and Brockton Bay would be well on its way to being his.

All he had to do was point the laser pointer at the right spot and watch the cats pounce.

On a whim, his thoughts drifted to Regent. The boy—Alec, or Jean-Paul Vasil as he was born—had been living in fear of his father’s reach for years. Taking Heartbreaker out of the picture entirely would not only remove a potential threat to his assets but would likely earn him a rare moment of genuine gratitude from the usually detached teenager, should Calvert ever choose to reveal his hand in the matter.

Calvert chuckled darkly to himself.

He really was too generous a boss.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 27

The adrenaline was a tide, and it was going out.

In its wake, it left Taylor a dead weight in Isaac’s arms. She was limp, her head lolling slightly against his shoulder, her breathing shallow and ragged. The fight had drained everything out of her—the rage, the fear, the vindication. All that was left was the shaking and the pain.

Isaac walked with a smooth, gliding gait that ate up the distance to the nurse’s office, quickly overtaking Ms. Knott. He didn't jostle Taylor, keeping his steps rhythmic and steady.

"I'm sorry," Taylor whispered.

The words were barely audible, muffled against his shirt.

Isaac didn't break stride. "For what?"

"For... starting trouble," Taylor murmured, her voice thick with regret. "For dragging Lookout into it. Nate's face... Brandon… Samantha. I got them all hurt. I made the Trio everyone's problem."

"It was already everyone's problem," Isaac said simply. "But why did you swing first? That wasn't like you."

Taylor hesitated. She felt the instinct to deflect, to hide the humiliation, but she pushed past it. She owed him the truth. He had been nice to her, defending her, and he gave her a place to belong.

Emma was nice too, an insidious thought whispered, but she crushed it.

"Emma..." Taylor started, then swallowed hard. "She made a joke. About my mom."

Isaac’s grip tightened fractionally, but he said nothing.

"She said I call my mommy when I get uncomfortable," Taylor whispered, the words tumbling out. "And then she said... 'We wouldn't want that, right? Her mom could be doing something important, like driving.'"

She flinched at her own words.

“My mom died in a car crash,” she confessed. “Texting while driving. Emma knew. She was my best friend back then. She even cried with me when I was told the news."

Isaac listened, his expression unreadable.

Inside his mind, the Operator was not so calm. Betrayal of that magnitude was terrible enough, but to mock a dead mother? It was beyond low. He remembered the hazy, static-filled memory of his own biological mother—a face he wouldn't even be able to recall if not for the Drifter. He remembered Margulis, the woman who had sacrificed her own eyes to save them, only to be executed by the very people she served. He remembered the Lotus, Natah, and the despair he felt when she fell into the void.

If someone had taken those memories, those women, and twisted them into a punchline for their sick amusement?

Well, he’d killed for far less.

"I understand," he said quietly.

Taylor looked up, surprised.

"I’m… familiar with loss," Isaac admitted, his voice soft but firm. "I know that some wounds don't close. They just scar over. That picking at them hurts just as much as the first cut."

Taylor gave him another look, though it was harder for Isaac to read her emotion given the swelling setting in.

“Just…” He adjusted her in his arms, shifting her weight. "Don't let her live in your head, Taylor. That's how she wins even when she loses. You have to accept the memory, acknowledge the pain, and move beyond its reach."

There was a moment of silence and understanding between the two as he walked.

"You sound just like him," she murmured, referring to Tenno, his alter ego.

"Him must be wise," Isaac said, a faint smirk touching his lips. "But seriously. Don't blame yourself for defending your dignity or your mother's. If I had been in your shoes, Emma would have to eat through a straw for her words."

Taylor blinked, startled by the bluntness, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Thanks, Isaac."

“You don’t need to thank me.” He sighed. "This is my fault anyways. I shouldn't have left you alone. I thought the group would be enough of a deterrent. I underestimated how far they would push. That's on me."

"No."

Taylor’s voice was stronger now, surprising herself. She shook her head, wincing at the movement. "Don't. Don't try to fix it by blaming yourself. You said you wouldn't always be there from the start. I knew that. We all did."

She looked at him, her eyes sharp behind the lenses of her glasses. "This was inevitable. The Trio... they weren't going to stop even if you were there. I know them."

Isaac looked at her for a long moment, then gave a short nod.

"Fair enough."

They reached the nurse’s office. Isaac pushed the door open with his hip. The room was already buzzing with low groans and the smell of antiseptic.

To the right of the room, separated by a flimsy blue curtain, he could hear the sharp, nasally whining of Emma. She was complaining about the pain, her voice muffled by the tissue pressed to her nose. Sophia was shooting dirty looks through the gap in the curtain.

Isaac ignored them.

The nurse, a frazzled woman named Mrs. Hernandez, looked up with wide eyes. "Oh my god! Put her on bed three, quickly!"

Isaac obeyed, gently lowering Taylor onto the cot. He stepped back, giving the nurse room to work, but he didn't leave.

"You good?" he asked Taylor.

She nodded, though she looked pale. "Yeah. Thanks again, Isaac."

"Goodness, child," Mrs. Hernandez murmured, pulling on a pair of gloves. "What happened out there?"

Taylor opened her mouth to speak, but Isaac cut in smoothly. "A fight in the hallway. She took the worst of it."

Mrs. Hernandez clicked her tongue disapprovingly, already pressing a cold pack to Taylor's jaw. "I'll need to call your parents, dear. And the principal will want statements."

"Principal's already on that," he informed her. “We’ve got more incoming, by the way.”

Ms. Knott arrived herding the rest of the wounded Lookout members into the cramped space. Nate limped in with Brandon and a few other boys. Samantha and the other girls followed.

The nurse's office suddenly felt very small.

"Alright, alright," Mrs. Hernandez said, waving her hands. "Give her some space. You girls, sit on the benches. You boys, find a corner. I'll get to everyone."

Isaac didn't retreat with the others. Instead, he moved to the supply cabinet.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

Mrs. Hernandez looked at him, surprised. "I appreciate the offer, but—"

"I have first aid training," Isaac explained. "I can handle the minor injuries while you focus on the bigger ones like Taylor, Nate, and Emma. Sophia should be fine though, she just had the wind knocked out of her."

If looks could kill, the Tenno would have burned through three revives from the death glare Emma's corner was giving him.

The nurse hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. There's gauze and antiseptic in the second drawer. Ice packs in the mini-fridge."

Isaac got to work.

He moved through the cramped office quietly. He cleaned the scrape on Brandon's cheek, pressing an alcohol pad to the wound with careful pressure. He wrapped Nate's knuckles where the skin had split during the fight. He helped Samantha ice the bruise forming on her forearm and even tended to the Trio's hangers-on.

He was just as gentle with them as he was with Lookout, though they very pointedly avoided his gaze when he was close.

Nate watched him with a furrowed brow. "Dude, where did you learn to do this?"

"My dad and I travel a lot," Isaac said smoothly. "So I figured first aid was a useful skill to pick up in case of an emergency."

Brandon winced as Isaac reapplied the cold pack to his cheek. "You really are full of surprises."

"What can I say? I'm a man of many talents."

Behind the blue curtain, Emma's whining continued unabated.

"It hurts," she complained nasally. "I can't breathe."

"Keep the ice on it," Mrs. Hernandez called back, her patience clearly wearing thin. "The paramedics will be here soon."

Isaac didn't look up from his work. He finished wrapping Samantha's arm and moved to check on Jess, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. Her nose wasn't broken, but it was red and tender.

"Hey, you did good today," Isaac told her quietly.

Jess looked up, startled. "I didn't do much. My contribution to the fight was just me and Madison pulling at each other's hair until some boy accidentally hit me in the nose."

"You didn't run," Isaac said with an amused smirk. "And that's good enough in my books."

He moved back to the center of the room, surveying the group. They were banged up, bruised, and probably facing suspension. But they had shown up for each other. Isaac would make sure to reward that bravery and loyalty.

Mrs. Hernandez finished her preliminary examination of Taylor and stepped back, pulling off her gloves. "No broken bones, but you're going to have quite a shiner tomorrow."

Taylor nodded, her good eye finding Isaac across the room.

The nurse turned to the rest of the group, clipboard in hand. "I need names. All of you. For the incident report."

One by one, they gave their names. Isaac watched as she wrote them down, the scratch of the pen loud in the sudden quiet.

When she finished, she looked at the group with a tired expression. "Since the principal is calling parents. Most of you should wait here until they arrive. But those of you with minor injuries or no injuries..." She looked specifically at Isaac. "You should head back to lunch or class."

Isaac nodded. He turned to the Lookout members.

"I have to go," he said. "But before I do..."

He looked at each of them in turn. Nate, with his swollen eye. Brandon, with his bruised cheek. Samantha, nursing her arm. Jess, tenderly touching her nose. The others who had rushed in when the text went out.

"Thank you," Isaac said quietly. "Not just for jumping in for Taylor. For helping each other. You guys make me proud."

Nate tried to grin, but it looked painful. "Sheesh, you sound like a dad."

"Seriously," Brandon added. "How about just getting us some pizza as repayment for our hard work?"

"Sure, I'll even do you guys one better when this mess blows over," he promised.

He turned to Taylor one last time. Her face was already discoloring, the bruises blooming dark against her pale skin. But her eye, the one not swollen shut, was clear.

"Rest up," he said. "I'll try and check on you later."

Taylor managed a small nod. ----------------

Isaac slipped out of the nurse’s office, the door clicking shut behind him.

The cafeteria was a low hum of anxious energy when Isaac walked in.

Word traveled fast in Winslow, but rumors traveled faster. By the time he grabbed a tray and slid into the seat at the Lookout table, the story had already mutated into something out of an action movie.

"I'm telling you, man, I heard he suplexed Sophia!" a freshman was saying excitedly to a girl next to him. "Just picked her up and bam! Body-slammed her into the floor!"

"No way," the girl argued. "But I heard Taylor went bonkers. Like, completely feral. She supposedly bit Emma."

Isaac set his tray down with a clatter, cutting through the chatter. The table fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

"I didn't suplex anyone," Isaac said, sitting down. "And Taylor didn't bite anyone from what I know."

More questions bombarded him but he mostly ignored them. He looked around the table, counting heads. It was about half the usual group. His gaze landed on Henry. The boy was picking at his food, looking unusually subdued.

"Henry," Isaac called out.

Henry flinched slightly, looking up. "Yeah?"

"You walked with us when we left class," Isaac said, tilting his head. "But I didn't see you in the hallway."

Henry shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, uh... about that."

He adjusted his glasses, avoiding eye contact. "I saw the Trio gathering their crew. So I knew something was gonna go down. And I figured if I stayed, I’d just be another body in the way. So I... dipped."

The table was silent. Some of the members looked at Henry with raised brows, others with disappointment. Running away when members had fought for each other wasn’t a good look.

"But," Henry added quickly, "I pulled out my phone the second I turned the corner. I messaged the group chat. I told everyone to get to B-Hall fast, and rallied the backup."

He looked down at his tray. "I know it’s not as cool as punching someone, but—"

Isaac reached out and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry jumped, his eyes snapping up.

"Good work," Isaac said genuinely.

Henry blinked, confused. "What?"

"We’re a support group, not a gang. I never expected all our members to be willing to fight." Isaac said, his voice firm as his eyes traveled to meet everyone at the table. "I’d even prefer everyone to use violence as a last resort. Besides, If you hadn't sent that text, things would have been a lot worse for Taylor and them. So, thank you."

Following Isaac’s example, the others also thanked and congratulated Henry.

Henry relaxed, a small, relieved smile touching his face. "Oh. Uh. Thanks."

Isaac turned his attention to Carlos, who looked guilty.

"Hey Big Bro," Carlos said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. My phone was in my locker. By the time I figured out something was going down, it was already over. I saw the teachers running down the hall and..."

"Don't sweat it," Isaac interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Everything was taken care of."

"Still," Carlos muttered. "Sucks I missed it."

Isaac leaned back. "Trust me, you didn't miss much. Just a lot of noise and bruised knuckles."

Carlos hesitated, then asked the question that seemed to be on everyone's mind. "Soo… did Taylor start it? I mean, I know Emma’s a bitch, but Taylor just doesn't seem the type to start something like that."

Isaac’s expression cooled. He picked up his milk carton, turning it over in his hands.

"She did" he said simply. "I won't say why. That’s Taylor’s business. But..." He looked Carlos dead in the eye. "If someone did to you what Emma did to her, just about anyone in those shoes would have done the same thing. So don't judge her too harshly, alright? She was pushed past the breaking point."

Carlos nodded immediately, his expression serious. "Of course, big bro. I wasn't judging. Just... surprised. I get it."

Isaac nodded back. "Good."

The tension at the table dissipated. The conversation shifted, turning into lighter banter and gossip as the group ate. Isaac chatted with them, laughing at jokes and offering input, but a part of his mind was already drifting toward the meeting with the PRT later that afternoon.

The rest of the lunch period passed without incident.

When the bell rang, Isaac stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"I'll catch you guys later," he said.

He headed to his next class with the members who shared it with him, sliding into his seat just as the second bell rang. But before the teacher could even open his mouth, the intercom crackled to life.

"Isaac Dax, please report to the Principal's office immediately," the secretary's voice announced. "Isaac Dax to the Principal's office."

Isaac didn't smile, though he wanted to. He stood up, ignoring the curious stares of his classmates, and walked out.

The walk to the office was familiar by now. He nodded to the receptionist, who gestured for him to go straight in.

When he opened the door, the scene was exactly as he expected.

Principal Blackwell was seated behind her desk, looking exhausted and sitting in the chair opposite her was Umbra.

The Warframe was dressed in his "dad disguise" again, this time in a crisp new red suit. The pair of dark sunglasses that hid his eyes remained the same. He sat with the rigid posture of a soldier at attention, hands folded in his lap. He looked like the most terrifying businessman on the planet.

"Ah, Isaac," Blackwell said, standing up. "Please, sit."

Isaac sat in the empty chair next to Umbra. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," Blackwell said. She smoothed her blazer in a way he was beginning to realize was a nervous tick. "I've explained the situation to your father. I wanted to assure him—and you—that Winslow takes this kind of violence very seriously."

She shot a nervous glance at Umbra, who hadn't moved a muscle.

"Given your family's... generous donation... and the circumstances of the altercation," she continued quickly, "we are prepared to be lenient. We understand that you intervened to protect a student who was being assaulted. While we cannot condone fighting, we recognize that you were trying to de-escalate a volatile situation that had already turned violent."

She cleared her throat. "I want to reassure your father that we will take great care to ensure such an altercation—where you are forced to put your hands on another student to help a friend—will not happen again."

Isaac glanced at Umbra. The Warframe didn't speak. He simply turned his head slightly toward him and made multiple small gestures with his fingers.

Isaac turned back to Blackwell. "My dad appreciates that, Principal Blackwell. He’s glad the school is taking steps to improve security." He paused, his expression becoming almost exaggeratedly disgruntled. "However, given the... intensity of today, and the fact that my father needs to discuss some... matters regarding my school conduct with me, he’s decided to pull me out early."

Blackwell blinked. "Pull you out? But classes aren't over for another two hours."

"I’m not the boss, so take it up with him," Isaac murmured softly, channeling a bit of teenage grump in his voice. "Apparently, we need to have an important discussion about school fights and responsibility."

Umbra gave a single, slow nod and grabbed Isaac by the arm.

Blackwell looked between the two of them, then shrugged, making the easy decision.

"I... see, well, if that’s what you feel is best. I’ll write you a dismissal note." She scribbled something on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to Isaac. "And Isaac? Please tell your friends that we expect better behavior moving forward."

"I will," Isaac said, taking the note.

Umbra stood up, Isaac rising with him.

"Have a good day, Principal Blackwell," Isaac said.

Blackwell nodded, her smile tight. "You too."

They walked out of the office. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Isaac let out a breath.

"Nice suit," he muttered under his breath.

Umbra didn't respond—he couldn't—but he reached up and tugged at the collar of the suit jacket with two fingers. A gesture of annoyance that revealed hints of Warframe armor underneath the clothes.

Isaac smirked.

"Come on, 'Dad'. Let's get home. Wouldn’t want to miss our meeting." ------------------------

The atmosphere in Principal Blackwell’s office was heavy, charged with a tension that set Danny Hebert’s teeth on edge.

He sat stiffly in the chair next to Taylor, his hands clenched into tight fists on his knees to hide the trembling. Every time he looked at his daughter—her split lip, the ugly bruising already blooming on her jaw, the way she hunched over protectively—a fresh wave of cold, impotent rage washed over him.

He had gotten the call at work from the secretary that he could hardly remember through the panic. All he knew was that it said Taylor was in a fight. Come immediately.

The drive over had been a blur of red lights and spiraling panic. He had prepared himself on the drive over. He had steeled himself to face the parents of whichever gang-affiliated thugs had finally cornered his girl. He had rehearsed what he would say to Blackwell.

But when he walked in, the scene hadn't matched the script in his head at all.

Across the room, Zoe Barnes sat with an arm around a sobbing Emma. The redhead held a bloody wad of gauze to her nose, her mascara running in dark rivers down her cheeks.

Emma.

Danny felt a deep, confusing sense of disorientation. Emma Barnes. The girl who had been Taylor’s best friend since they were in diapers. The girl who called him "Uncle Danny" and had spent countless nights in their living room.

She got into a fight with Emma?

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. He knew things had been strained between them lately—Taylor had been distant, quiet, speaking of her less and less—but he had attributed that to the usual teenage growing pains. He never imagined... this.

He looked back at Taylor. She stared at the floor, her jaw set, her eyes hidden behind her glasses. She looked hard, closed off.

I don't understand, Danny thought, his throat tight. Taylor doesn't fight. She doesn't hit people.

"Mr. Hebert," Blackwell began, but Danny held up a hand, his eyes on Emma.

"Emma," he said, his voice strained. "You and Taylor... you used to be like sisters. I know things have been distant lately, but... Taylor wouldn't just attack you."

Emma sniffled, pulling the gauze away just enough to show the swelling. Her voice was thick, nasal, and trembling.

"I thought so too, Mr. Hebert," she whimpered, tears tracking through her makeup. "I really did. But... she changed. She changed so much this year. She’s been acting out. Getting aggressive." Another tear fell from her eye.

"It’s those new friends, Mr. Hebert," Emma continued. "Especially that Isaac boy."

Danny stiffened. The name hit him like a lighting bolt.

Isaac.

"Isaac?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Taylor.

The same boy who had ‘stopped by’ for a history project this morning? The boy Taylor was willing to lie to him to hide?

"Yes," Emma said, nodding vigorously. "Isaac Dax. The new kid. He’s... he’s bad news. He started a huge riot on his very first day! He’s a thug. And ever since Taylor started hanging out with him and his gang, she’s been acting different. She broke my nose, Mr. Hebert! Out of nowhere! We didn't want to fight. We were just trying to be nice."

Danny’s face went pale, then red. The pieces were clicking together in his head.

“Taylor," Danny said, his voice low and dangerous. "The boy this morning, is he this thug Emma is talking about?"

Taylor flinched. "Dad, he’s not a thug. Yes, he got into a fight on his first day, but—"

That was all he needed to hear.

"I knew something was wrong!" Danny snapped, his voice rising. He stood up, unable to sit still. "I had a bad feeling about you sneaking out, about the secrets, and the changes! And now you’re getting into fights? Breaking your best friend's nose? That’s not you, Taylor! That’s him!"

"He didn't start it!" Taylor shouted back, her own temper flaring. "He wasn't even there when it started! I threw the punch!"

"Because he’s been filling your head with this... this gang garbage!" Danny gestured wildly. “Can't you see you’re hanging out with a delinquent, Taylor! You’re grounded. You are never seeing that boy again.

"He didn't do anything!" Taylor screamed.

The room fell silent. The force of her shout startled Danny, silencing the tirade on his tongue. It wasn't a shout of teenage rebellion; it was raw, agonized pain.

Taylor stood up. Her ribs screamed in protest, and her lip throbbed, but she ignored it. She looked past him, past Zoe Barnes, and locked eyes with Blackwell.

"My mother is dead."

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

Danny stopped, his breath catching in his throat. The anger drained out of him instantly, leaving him cold.

Annette.

Taylor didn't look at Emma. She stared straight at the Principal, her voice shaking but audible.

"She’s been dead for three years. And today... Emma decided to remind me that she died because she was texting while driving. She told the whole hallway that I cried for a week after the funeral just to humiliate me. She called my mother nothing."

Taylor turned slowly to face Danny. The betrayal in her eyes cut him deeper than any knife.

"She brought up Mom, Dad," Taylor said, her voice cracking. "She used her to make me look weak. That’s why I hit her. It wasn't Isaac. It wasn't a gang. It was because she spat on Mom’s grave."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Danny felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. He looked at Taylor—really looked at her—and saw the pain she had been carrying. He looked at Emma, the girl he had known since she was a toddler, the girl who had been like a second daughter to Annette.

She mocked Annette? She used her death... as a joke?

He couldn’t believe it.

"She's lying!" Emma cried out, her voice pitching up in panic. "I didn't say that! I would never say that about Aunt Annette! Taylor's just making it up to get out of trouble!"

"Danny, please," Zoe said, looking between the two girls, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "You know Emma. She wouldn't..."

"Mrs. Barnes," Principal Blackwell interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension. She adjusted her glasses, looking down at the file on her desk. "I have statements from over six students who were in the immediate vicinity. They corroborate Taylor’s account regarding the specific... nature of the teasing."

Blackwell read aloud, her tone flat and clinical. "'Emma Barnes stated, and I quote: "Her mom could be doing something important right now, like driving."' And “She cried for a whole week. Over nothing.”"

The room went dead silent.

Emma’s face twisted. The tearful mask she had been wearing slipped completely. She scowled at Blackwell, a flash of pure, unadulterated hatred in her eyes that stripped away every ounce of the innocent victim persona she had been crafting.

But it only lasted a second.

Emma seemed to realize where she was and who she was sitting next to. The scowl vanished, replaced by a look of wide-eyed panic when she saw her mother had caught the momentary breach in her mask.

The color had drained from Zoe’s face, she looked at her daughter like she was seeing a stranger.

"Emma?" Zoe whispered, horror coloring her tone. "You... you actually said that?“

"I... Mom, I..." Emma stammered. She tried to grab Zoe’s hand, but Zoe pulled away. “You don’t actually believe them right, mom?”

"Annette was my friend," Zoe said, her voice thick with emotion. "She was OUR friend. Christ, she practically raised you with me. And you... you used her death to mock Taylor?"

"She started it!" Emma yelled, tears—real ones this time—springing to her eyes. "She thinks she's so much better than me! She—"

"Stop," Zoe cut her off. Her voice was quiet, but it carried a sharp, disciplinary weight that made Emma flinch. "Just... stop."

Zoe stood up. She looked at Danny, her expression a mix of profound shame and pity.

"Danny... I... I don't know what to say," Zoe said, her voice cracking. "I am so sorry. I didn't know she was capable of... of this."

Danny couldn't speak. He felt sick. He looked at Taylor, who was staring at the floor, hugging her arms around herself. He had just yelled at his daughter—his daughter who had been mourning in silence—for defending the memory of her mother.

Zoe turned to Blackwell, her face pale but composed. "I’m taking Emma home. We will... we will handle this as a family. Please give whatever disciplinary measure you believe is necessary."

She grabbed Emma’s arm, her grip tight and unforgiving.

"Get up. Now," Zoe ordered.

Emma stumbled after her mother, throwing one last look at Taylor, but Taylor didn't look back.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the silence returned. It pressed down on Danny, heavy and accusing.

He turned to Taylor, reaching out a hand, but Taylor pulled away, flinching.

She flinched from me.

"Taylor," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Taylor didn't respond. She just sat back down, staring at the floor, exhausted.

Blackwell cleared her throat. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

"Mr. Hebert," Blackwell said, her voice clipped. "Given the circumstances... I think it’s best if you take Taylor home for the rest of the day. We will... discuss disciplinary actions for all parties involved later."

Danny nodded numbly. He stood up, his movements slow and heavy. He wanted to apologize again, to explain, but what could he say?

"Come on, kiddo," he spoke softly.

Taylor stood up, wincing as she grabbed her bag. She walked out of the office without a word, leaving Danny to follow in her wake, the weight of his mistake settling heavily on his shoulders.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 26

Rap. Tap. Tap.

The rhythmic tapping of a foot against linoleum filled the small bubble of silence around Isaac’s desk.

The Operator stared blankly at the whiteboard at the front of the classroom, his eyes unfocused. Around him, the mundane chaos of high school droned on—scratching pencils, shuffling papers, the hum of fluorescent lights—but his mind was lightyears away.

He was thinking about the Man in the Wall.

Al’s question gnawed at him, an itch he couldn't scratch. Why Taylor? The Tenno believed what the Drifter said about her future self, but the answer didn’t feel that simple. The Entity’s behavior was usually capricious, rarely specific without reason.

Was targeting her a form of reverse psychology? Why else would it loudly announce it wanted her dead when it knew they would refuse to do its bidding? Or did simply letting them know bring about the change in the timeline it desired?

The questions circled endlessly—a loop of futile speculation.

A sharp, whispered giggle cut through his concentration.

"...totally desperate. I mean, did you see her hair today? She's trying so hard."

Isaac’s eyes shifted, focusing on the periphery of his vision. At the table across the aisle, Madison Clements and her gaggle of sycophants were huddled together.

"That skank is totally sleeping with him," one of the girls whispered loudly. "She’s probably putting out for the whole group. Gross."

"Isaac’s definitely pimping her out," Madison murmured, her eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Why else would he suddenly start playing bodyguard?"

He glanced at the teacher, Mr. Gladly, who was animatedly explaining the formation of the Protectorate to a half-asleep room. Gladly was either dutifully ignoring the gossip or pretending not to hear it. Given the man's track record, Isaac suspected the latter was simply more convenient.

His irritation at having his thoughts interrupted by them flickered briefly before fading. If anything, their yapping gave him an excuse to abandon his spiral of thought about the Void entity. Trying to understand it was pointless.

He turned slightly.

Taylor sat beside him, eyes fixed on her textbook, but he could tell she wasn’t reading. The slight tilt of her head gave her away—she was listening to the girls.

He nudged her elbow, just a little harder than necessary.

She blinked, startled, irritation flashing across her face. “What?”

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine.” She rubbed her arm. “Just… a lot on my mind this morning.”

Before Isaac could respond, Brandon leaned over from his seat, a grin plastered on his face.

"Lot on her mind, huh?" Brandon waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I bet I can guess who 'a lot' actually is."

Taylor’s face flushed a dull red. She scowled at him. "Shut up, Brandon."

Nate, sitting beside Brandon, reached out and grabbed Brandon’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. It looked like a restraining gesture, but the smirk on Nate’s face betrayed him.

"Ease up, man," Nate said, though his tone was purely theatrical. "Don't embarrass her. She's not the only one thinking about Bruce Wayne here."

Isaac raised an unimpressed brow. "Really, guys? I thought you dropped that nickname."

"No way," Nate shook his head. "We're spreading it, and it's catching on. People are calling you the 'Dark Knight of Winslow.'"

Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me they aren't."

"It's because you've been stepping in to break up bullying all over the school for the past few days," Henry chimed in from his seat. He was a tall, lanky Black kid with a towering afro and glasses that made him look like a hipster professor. He was also one of the newer members that had joined Lookout. "It's very vigilante justice."

Brandon and Nate nodded as if their point had been proven.

"So it's an accurate comparison," Henry added, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger. “Even if it is vaguely racist."

"It’s inaccurate," Isaac said flatly. "I don't play dress-up and beat up criminals."

He wasn’t lying either. He didn’t so much wear Warframes as possess them, and judging by his record—captures versus kills… Well, let's just say if he was a typical hero like Batman, he would be very bad at his job.

"We have gangsters in school, so it still counts," Nate countered. "You're a hero without powers, man. Embrace it."

Isaac sighed, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth from how funny it was that they were all so wrong, yet right. He looked at Taylor, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of confusion and amusement. The flush had faded from her cheeks, replaced by the faintest hint of a smile. More importantly, her attention had shifted completely away from the whispering girls across the aisle.

"Bruce Wayne," she muttered, shaking her head. "I’m not into comic books, but if Isaac’s supposed to be Batman, who’s that make us?”

“I guess that makes us Alfred?" Henry looked at the others, a brow raised.

"Speak for yourself," Nate said, puffing out his chest. "I'm clearly Lucius Fox."

Isaac smirked, settling back in his chair. He let the friendly banter wash over them, drowning out the malicious whispers of Madison's clique.

“Operator.” Ordis’ voice echoed in his mind. “The PRT ENE have sent a request for a meeting. They are specifically requesting the presence of Khora and Umbra.”

Considering the recent intelligence Ordis had forwarded to them, it was almost certainly about the ABB. The Protectorate likely wanted to coordinate a sweep to finish the gang off before they could rally or attempt to break Lung out. It was a sensible strategic move to have Ten-Zero publicly participate in order to keep the other gangs docile and prevent outside powers from filling the vacuum too soon.

He had hoped to avoid a public partnership in Brockton Bay until he had trained Taylor up some more, but he wouldn’t waste an opportunity to build up more reputation with the PRT.

“Tell them we’ll be there at five,” Isaac projected back.

“Yes Operator!” Ordis chirped. “Shall I also prepare the Liset for transport?”

“Do it,” He confirmed. “And Ordis? Start the paperwork to register Taylor as an independent hero.”

“Oh! A fantastic initiative, Operator!” Ordis praised, the sound of digital clapping echoing faintly. “It is a necessary step if she hopes to work in any official capacity with the PRT. I will prepare the documents for her immediately.”

Isaac tuned the Cephalon out as Brandon nudged him again, pulling him back into the conversation about who would be the best Robin.

The minutes ticked by until the shrill ring of the bell cut through the air. The classroom erupted into movement, chairs scraping against the floor and bags being zipped up.

"Alright, meet you guys in the cafeteria," Isaac said, standing and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "I've got some business to take care of at the Principal's office."

"Trouble?" Nate asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nah, just need to check on a few things," Isaac replied vaguely.

He watched as Taylor gathered her things, moving to join Henry, Nate, and Brandon. As they filed out the door, Isaac's gaze swept the hallway.

Down the corridor, a familiar trio was assembling. Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements. Their eyes initially locked on Taylor, but as they drew closer, their attention shifted.

They looked at him.

Isaac met their gazes.

They had been quiet for the last few days, limiting themselves to cowardly whispering campaigns. But the look in their eyes—the frustration, the pent-up malice—told him they wanted to do more than talk.

He could intervene. He could change plans and walk with the group to lunch. He knew the Trio was only holding back their more aggressive bullying because he could fight anyone in the school they might convince to jump him. Not that anyone in Winslow—with the exception of the E88—was eager to test him after his first day. That reluctance had only been cemented by the aggressive rumors Lookout was spreading about his strength.

But playing guardian angel was never his true plan and he made that clear from the start.

If Lookout was going to work, it couldn't just be a cult of personality centered around Isaac. It had to be a proper support network. 

So he needed to know: if he left now and the Trio attacked, would the group crumble or rally?

Isaac suspected that most would rally, but the difference between hunches and facts was confirmation. So he needed to confirm that the current members truly intended to live up to the ideals of the group.

Besides, he was sure they’d be fine. Taylor was tough and the group gathering around her as they made their way towards the cafeteria should dissuade any notion of outright violence.

His mind made up, Isaac turned away from the hallway, leaving Taylor and the others to their own devices. He had his own businestraps to attend to, and they had theirs.

He navigated the stream of students flowing toward the cafeteria, cutting against the current toward the administrative wing. The trip was short, but the atmosphere shifted the moment he passed through the double doors. The chaotic buzz of the hallway faded, replaced by the hushed, sanitized quiet of the front office.

The receptionist—a weary-looking woman who usually spent her days ignoring complaints about broken lockers—looked up as he approached. Her eyes widened fractionally. The apathy she wore like armor melted away instantly.

"Mr. Dax," she said, her voice pitched a little higher than normal. "Go right in. Principal Blackwell is expecting you."

Isaac offered a polite nod and stepped past the waiting area entirely.

When he pushed open the door to the inner office, the first thing he noticed was the smell.

The stale, bitter scent of old coffee that had once defined the room was gone. In its place was the faint aroma of lemon polish and a newer, sharper smell—freshly printed paper and ink. The room looked better, too. The clutter on the shelves had been organized, the windows had been cleaned, and the worn rug had been replaced with something that didn't look like it had been salvaged from a dumpster.

Isaac sat in the same chair as before, but the posture was different—less slouched, more settled.

Principal Blackwell sat behind her desk, but this time she wasn’t red-faced or ranting. In fact, she looked almost… pleasant. She offered him a tight, professional smile, her hands folded neatly over a thin stack of documents.

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” she said, her tone smooth and respectful. “I wanted to give you an update personally before the end of the school day.”

Isaac nodded, his expression neutral. “I appreciate the initiative, Principal Blackwell. I trust the verification went smoothly?”

“It did,” she confirmed, a hint of relief in her voice. “The district verified the funds yesterday morning. I’ve never seen the board approve a designated improvement fund that quickly, but then again, they’ve never seen a donation of this magnitude.”

She tapped the stack of papers. “I’ve already submitted the preliminary spending outline to the district for approval. We’re prioritizing security updates and equipment replacement. The new computers are on the procurement list, and we’re looking at a tentative delivery window of three to four weeks.”

“Three to four weeks?” Isaac raised an eyebrow. “That seems a bit long for a delivery.”

“Bureaucracy, I’m afraid,” Blackwell sighed, taking off her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “The district has preferred vendors, and there are requisition forms that need to be processed in triplicate. But that is the fast track. The equipment is the easy part.”

She paused, looking a little more hesitant. “Staffing, however, is a different beast.”

“Please, elaborate.”

“We are actively looking to hire more hall monitors and support staff,” she explained. “But the process… it moves slowly. The job postings need to be reviewed by the district, then we have the interview process, background checks, and HR onboarding. We’re looking at months, potentially, before we see new faces in the halls. Sometimes longer depending on the candidate pool. Which, as you can guess, is slim considering the prevalence of gang activity in this city and its overall economic state.”

Isaac stared at her for a moment, processing this.

In his head, he could hear Ordis scoffing at the inefficiency.

Months, the Operator thought, barely suppressing a sigh. Months to hire a few hall monitors.

He found himself lamenting the sluggish pace of Earth-Bet’s institutions. It was a stark contrast to the Origin System. If this were a Corpus affair, a Board member like Nef Anyo or Frohd Bek would have simply flashed a stack of credits, and within the hour, a legion of debt-bound contractors or security MOAs would be patrolling the corridors.

“It is frustrating, I know,” Blackwell added, misinterpreting his silence as displeasure. “But I assure you, we are doing everything we can to expedite the process. We’ve already reached out to a few local security firms for temporary contracts to bridge the gap.”

Isaac leaned back, offering a small, magnanimous wave of his hand. “I understand. Bureaucracy is a beast. As long as the wheels are turning, I’m content.”

He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.

“Just keep me in the loop,” he said, heading for the door. “I’m looking forward to seeing the changes.”

“Of course,” Blackwell replied, standing as well. She seemed genuinely eager to please now. “Have a good rest of your day, Isaac.”

Isaac stepped out into the secretary area, the door clicking shut behind him.

“Three weeks for computers,” he muttered to no one. “Months for staff. You’d think with the state of this school, they’d be a little faster.”

Still, it was progress. Slow, agonizingly inefficient progress. But progress nonetheless.

Isaac stepped into the hallway from the office, adjusting his backpack strap. His mind was already turning toward the cafeteria.

He didn't make it two steps.

The door to the administrative wing burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding bang. Mr. Gladly stumbled through, looking more haggard than usual. His tie was askew, his hair disheveled, and there was a frantic edge to his movements that instantly pinged the Tenno’s instincts.

Isaac pivoted on his heel, stepping silently to the side of the doorframe, pressing his back against the wall just out of sight.

He listened.

"Principal Blackwell!" Gladly’s voice was breathless, panic cracking through his usual "cool teacher" facade.

There was a startled sound from inside the office, followed by the shuffle of papers. "Mr. Gladly? What on earth—"

"You're needed. Now," Gladly interrupted, gasping for air. "Another fight broke out. It’s bad."

There was a heavy sigh, followed by the distinct, harsh scrape of Blackwell’s chair pushing back against the floor.

"Who is it this time?" Blackwell demanded, her voice tight with exhaustion. "If it's the Empire kids again, I swear—"

"No, not them," Gladly cut in. "It's Hebert. Barnes. Clements. Hess. And a few others. A whole group."

Isaac’s eyes narrowed.

"They're in the hallway near the cafeteria," Gladly continued quickly. "It’s turning into a mob scene. I tried to intervene, but—"

"Get back there," Blackwell snapped. Footsteps hurried toward the door. "I’ll use the P.A. system to call for support."

Isaac didn't wait to hear the rest.

He pushed off the wall, his casual demeanor evaporating instantly. He moved fast, his sneakers silent on the linoleum as he sprinted down the corridor toward the cafeteria. -----------

The moment Isaac turned the corner, heading toward the front office, the atmosphere in the hallway shifted.

Taylor felt it instantly—a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, a heaviness in the air. She looked up and saw them. Down the corridor, leaning against the lockers like they owned the place, were Emma, Sophia, and Madison. And they weren’t alone. A loose semicircle of sycophants and hangers-on had formed around them, their eyes tracking the movement of Taylor’s group like wolves watching a herd.

Taylor stopped, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The easy atmosphere of the walk vanished, replaced by the stifling, familiar pressure of a trap closing.

"Guys," she said quickly, turning to the others. "You should go on ahead. I'll catch up."

Nate and Brandon, who had been joking about who would play Robin in Isaac’s theoretical Batcave, stopped. They looked at Taylor, then followed her gaze toward the Trio.

"Not a chance," Nate said, his playful demeanor hardening instantly.

"You're out of your mind if you think we're leaving you alone with those three," Brandon added, stepping up beside her.

A few of the girls from Lookout—Samantha, a tall, heavy-set girl with a fierce protective streak, and a couple of others who had fallen into step with them—moved closer. Samantha hooked her arm through Taylor’s, tugging gently.

"Yeah," Samantha chimed in. "We're a team, right? Lookout sticks together."

"We're just trying to get lunch," Jess added, nervous but stubborn. "They can't just stop us."

Taylor felt a swell of gratitude, but it was drowned out by a wave of anxiety. "Guys, really, you don't have to—"

Before she could finish, two boys from Emma's group—jocks Taylor vaguely recognized as regulars at Sophia's track practices—sidled up to Brandon and Nate. They threw heavy arms over the boys' shoulders, their grins too wide, their body language intentionally crowding.

"Yo, Nate! Brandon!" one of them said, his voice booming with fake camaraderie. "Haven't seen you guys since the game. What's the rush?"

Nate flinched, his face tightening. He tried to shrug the arm off. "Get off me, man."

The boy didn't budge. His grip tightened, his smile turning sharp. "We're just talking, man. Chill."

Taylor’s pocket buzzed. She didn't need to check it to know someone had just sent a text to the group chat.

They were surrounded.

Emma stepped forward, separating herself from the pack. She looked at Taylor with a smile that was all teeth, her green eyes glittering with that familiar, predatory malice.

"Taylor," Emma cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I see you’ve made some new friends. That's so cute. You finally found people desperate enough to hang out with you?"

"Leave us alone, Emma," Taylor said, her voice tight.

She wondered why she was like this. She had faced down Lung. She had been hunted through a forest by a giant murder cat just this morning. Yet in the face of Emma, she felt like none of that mattered. That no amount of training or shields could protect her from the girl who used to be her sister.

"Or what?" one of the girls behind Emma sneered. She was a sharp-featured blonde Taylor didn't know by name. "You'll sick your new little boyfriends on us?"

"Back off, pig," Samantha snapped from beside Taylor.

"Excuse me?" the blonde retorted, stepping forward aggressively. "Who are you calling a pig? Shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

"Everyone, quiet!" Emma clapped her hands together, playing the peacemaker with an acting performance worthy of an Oscar. She stepped between the groups, hands raised. "God, you guys are so loud. We're making a scene and Taylor hates scenes."

Taylor stayed silent, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Emma leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that everyone could hear. "She gets so uncomfortable when things get loud. It makes her... emotional. And when she gets that way, she calls for her mommy. We wouldn't want that right? I mean, her mom could be doing something important right now, like driving."

The words hit Taylor like a physical blow.

The noise of the hallway seemed to drop out, replaced by a sudden, ringing silence.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Her throat tightened as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and humiliating. She couldn't stop them and soon fragments of memory came to mind without her asking. She could remember overhearing her dad berating her mom's body in the morgue, his voice cracking as he raged about how she’d been texting while driving, that she was the only one to blame for leaving them.

Emma laughed, tilting her head. "Oh my god. Are you really crying? Right now?"

Samantha, standing next to Taylor, exploded.

"You bitch!" Samantha lunged forward, arm drawn back for a slap.

She didn't make it.

Sophia stepped between them and shoved Samantha backward hard. The larger girl stumbled, nearly falling into Jess.

"Watch it," Sophia warned, her voice low and dangerous. She wasn't smiling. She looked bored, like she was dealing with an annoying insect.

Emma didn't even glance at the scuffle. Her eyes were fixed on Taylor.

"Don't get so worked up," Emma said casually, waving a hand. "Taylor cries all the time. It's practically her superpower. Did you know she once cried for a whole week? Over nothing?"

It was easy to recall what Emma was referencing.

The moment of weakness where Taylor had admitted to her best friend on a playground a month after the funeral that she wasn’t as strong as she looked. She could remember the admission clearly. “I’m not resilient. I can hold it together during the day, but I’ve cried myself to sleep for a straight week.”

And now Emma was throwing it in her face. Along with the memory of her dead mother.

The woman who had looked at Emma like a daughter.

The woman Emma was now saying was nothing.

Something inside Taylor snapped.

The fear, the anxiety, the hesitation to commit to violence—all of it vanished.

Taylor didn't think. She didn't use her power. She didn't strategize.

She swung with the same form that had once broken her nose.

The punch landed poorly—clumsy, driven by adrenaline and fury—but it connected. Her knuckles clipped Emma’s cheekbone and slammed into the side of her nose.

Emma shrieked, stumbling back, blood already spilling between her fingers.

Taylor didn’t stop. She pressed forward, throwing another punch, then another—wild, unrefined, and relentless.

The hallway erupted as Taylor followed up the first punch with more of them. But Emma, despite the blood, didn't cower. She launched herself forward, tackling Taylor around the waist.

They hit the floor hard, the wind knocking out of Taylor as they crashed onto the linoleum. Emma was smaller, but she was scratching and clawing like a feral animal, her nails raking across Taylor’s cheek.

"You psycho!" Emma screamed, straddling Taylor and grabbing a fistful of her hair, slamming her head against the floor. "You broke my nose!"

Taylor gasped, the taste of copper filling her mouth, but the pain only fueled the fire. She didn't try to defend herself; she attacked. She grabbed Emma’s blazer, pulling her down while simultaneously snapping her forehead up.

Crack.

Headbutting Emma’s already broken nose.

Emma howled, reeling back, and Taylor used the opening to flip her over. They rolled across the floor, a tangle of limbs and violence. Taylor threw a wild punch that caught Emma’s jaw, but Emma retaliated, raking her nails down Taylor’s neck, leaving burning trails of fire.

"You're dead!" Emma screeched, spitting blood. "You are so dead!"

To her left, Taylor dimly registered Nate tackling the jock who had been crowding him, the two of them crashing into the lockers with a metallic bang. Brandon was holding his own against another boy, blocking a wild swing and shoving him back.

"Taylor move!" Samantha roared, grabbing Taylor by the back of her shirt and hauling her off Emma just as Sophia lunged for her.

But Taylor didn't stop. She couldn't.

Not until she fought back with everything she had. So she swung on Sophia too.

Her punch was a wild, reckless haymaker—the kind Tenno had spent days training out of her. Sophia didn't even flinch. She ducked under the swing with ease, stepping inside the taller girl's guard.

Fast, Taylor’s mind registered, just before a fist buried itself in her stomach.

The air left her lungs in a painful rush. She doubled over, gasping, but the assault didn't stop. A hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head down just as a knee rocketed upward.

It connected with her jaw. Stars exploded in her vision, and she tasted copper.

Taylor stumbled back, disoriented, her legs threatening to give out. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Madison shrieking, "Sophia! Stop! I just saw Gladly! Teachers are gonna be here any minute."

But Sophia didn't stop. She bounced on the balls of her feet, eyes bright with a predatory gleam.

"Then we got time. Come on, Hebert," she taunted, circling. "Fight back. I thought you were tough now."

Taylor forced herself upright, wiping blood from her lip. It was a mistake to treat this like a brawl with Emma. Emma was a bully, a sadist, but she wasn't a fighter. She used words to hurt others. Sophia was different. Her movements reminded her of Tenno, so she definitely had some training. Or at least more than her.

The best way to catch a more skilled opponent off guard is to fall into a pattern and then break it when they least expect it.

His lesson echoed in her memory, and it seemed like now was the right time to apply that advice. Taylor raised her fists—a sloppy mimicry of a boxing stance she’d been taught—and lunged into a punch.

Sophia deflected the blow effortlessly, but this time, Taylor didn't just fall. She used the momentum, stumbling but managing to stay on her feet. She threw another punch, then another. Sophia dodged, weaved, and blocked with casual disdain, toying with her.

But Taylor kept coming.

She may have been outmatched and outclassed, but even when Sophia started throwing in her own punches, she never went down. Pain was just noise to her when the swarm could take away any emotion that would get in the way of beating Sophia's ass.

So when Sophia threw a jab that snapped Taylor’s head back, splitting her lip further, Taylor staggered, exaggerating the effect of the hit. Then she purposely threw another wild haymaker that Sophia dodged easily, but this time, she followed up with a quick backfist that landed squarely on the other girl's cheek.

Sophia stumbled back from the blow, eyes narrowed and smirk gone. The game was losing its fun.

It made Taylor smirk, proud to have landed a hit instead of just being a glorified punching bag.

Sophia growled like some kind of wild animal, feinted left, then drove a brutal hook into Taylor’s ribs.

Taylor cried out, her knees buckling as her legs refused to support her body weight. She hit the floor hard.

"Stay down, Hebert," Sophia hissed, standing over her.

Taylor ignored Sophia and her screaming body as she tried to push herself up, but her arms shook. The world swam in and out of focus.

Get up, she screamed at herself. GET UP.

The squeak of sneakers on tile echoed from the hallway behind them.

"What the hell is going on?!"

Taylor recognized the voice. It was one of the members of Lookout—a freshman who sat near the back of the cafeteria with them yesterday.

Then came more voices.

"Shit, they're fighting!"

"Don’t just fucking stand there, break them up before the teachers get here!"

Within seconds, a tide of bodies surged around the corner. At least ten members of Lookout, drawn by the text, rushed the hallway and plowed into the fray.

Two boys tackled the jock Brandon was fighting. Samantha, who had been scuffling with the blonde a moment ago, grabbed Madison by the collar and hurled her backward into the lockers. Others swarmed the hangers-on, pulling them off Nate and the girls.

It was even more chaotic than before.

BZZZZT.

The crackle of the PA system cut through the noise like a knife.

"ATTENTION," Blackwell’s voice announced. "James, Rogers, and Knott, please report to the B-Hall corridor immediately. Students involved in the disturbance, stop what you are doing this instant or detention will be the least of the punishments."

Sophia looked up from Taylor, her head snapping toward the approaching reinforcement of students, then back to the hallway where the teachers would be coming from.

Taylor used the distraction. She pushed herself up to her knees, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor.

But before she could rise, Sophia moved and kicked her square in the chest.

Taylor crashed into the lockers with a metallic bang. She slid down to the floor, gasping, her vision blurring.

Sophia raised her foot for another stomp—

A hand shot out, catching the leg mid-motion.

Sophia froze. She looked up, her eyes widening.

Isaac stood there, his grip like a vice around her leg. He wasn't sporting that usual borderline cocky smirk. He didn’t even look mad. His face was blank, his eyes cold and hard.

He shoved the leg away, making Sophia stumble back. The bully barely caught her balance, her expression shifting from surprise to a sharp, angry glare.

“That's enough of that,” he shouted, projecting his voice over the chaos.

As if he had some sort of Master ability, half the fight in the hallway died. The moment the other students recognized Isaac, most of the sycophants and hangers-on scrambled back. They melted into the crowd that’d grown around the brawl, suddenly finding elsewhere to be. The ones who didn’t hear or refused to stop were held down by the numerical superiority of Lookout.

Only Sophia remained.

She stood her ground, eyes locked on Isaac with a sneer. She looked like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

“Come to save your little girlfriend?” She mocked, her voice dripping with contempt. “Good. I’ve been waiting to put you on your ass, you arrogant prick.”

Isaac didn't say a word. He simply stepped further away from Taylor and lowered himself into a casual fighting stance, hands open, knees bent.

"Come on then," he challenged, his voice low and flat. "I'll even let you get the first shot."

Sophia didn't hesitate.

She exploded forward, faster than she had been in her fight with Taylor, and threw a brutal right hook aimed directly at Isaac’s jaw.

“Amateur,” he scoffed, tilting his head just enough for the punch to miss by a fraction of an inch.

Before Sophia could even process the miss, Isaac’s open palm clenched into a fist. He drove it forward before she could react.

It buried itself deep into her solar plexus.

The impact was a sickeningly loud, heavy thud that echoed in the sudden silence.

Sophia’s eyes bulged. Her mouth opened in a silent, gasping scream. All the air in her lungs was violently expelled as she collapsed to the floor.

She hit the ground in a heap, clawing at her chest, her face twisted in agony as she struggled to draw a single breath. -----------

"Sophia!" Emma, cradling her broken nose and covered in blood, scrambled toward her friend. Madison, looking relatively unharmed despite the fighting, followed close behind.

Isaac ignored the wheezing girl on the floor. He turned his back on Sophia as if she didn't exist.

He walked over to Taylor, who was still slumped against the lockers. He spotted her glasses on the floor a few feet away. He picked them up, inspecting them for a second to ensure they weren't cracked, then crouched in front of her.

He gently slid the glasses onto her face, adjusting the frames so they sat straight.

"Good work," he said quietly. "Rest up."

He patted her shoulder—a brief, reassuring gesture—then stood and turned toward the rest of Lookout.

He found Nate and Brandon leaning against the lockers. Nate looked rough—a split lip, a rapidly bruising eye, and a torn shirt. Brandon was better off, sporting a swelling cheek and a few scratches, but he was standing upright.

"You guys good?" Isaac asked.

Nate spit a wad of blood onto the floor and grinned, despite the swelling. "Peachy."

"I've had worse," Brandon admitted, touching his cheek.

Isaac nodded. He looked over at Samantha and the girls, who were huddled near the other boys, looking like they had just gone ten rounds with an alley cat.

"Check on Taylor," he instructed them. "Help her up."

Samantha moved to do just that, but Brandon looked at Isaac like he’d grown a second head.

Brandon sighed, wiping a smear of blood from his chin. He put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, stopping him from turning away.

"Dude, stop playing the stoic leader for one second," Brandon said, his voice becoming serious. "We're a group, yeah, but you guys have been tighter than most. No offense to the girls…"

“None taken,” Jess drawled from the side, pressing a tissue to her nose.

“But I'm sure Taylor would appreciate seeing you more,” Brandon continued. “So stop being dense and go help her yourself.”

Isaac paused, glancing back at Taylor. She was being hauled to her feet by Samantha, but her eyes—behind the slightly crooked glasses—were staring directly at him.

The sound of heavy footsteps thundered from the adjoining hallway, cutting the moment short.

Mr. Gladly, Mrs. Knott, and two other teachers rounded the corner, Principal Blackwell bringing up the rear, her face purple with fury.

"STOP THIS IMMEDIATELY!" Blackwell roared, her voice cracking.

Isaac stepped forward, placing himself between the approaching adults and his friends. He crossed his arms, looking calm and collected. Blackwell turned to Isaac, her expression shifting. The fury dimmed, replaced by a strained, professional tightness. She smoothed the front of her blazer, reverting to the respectful tone she’d used in her office, though the authoritarian edge remained.

"Mister Dax," she said, her voice clipped. "What happened here?"

Isaac jerked his thumb toward the group behind him. “I heard some of my friends were involved in a disturbance, so I came to check it out. I arrived just in time to see Sophia Hess kicking Taylor while she was down. I intervened. That is where the fighting ends. If you want the rest of the story, you’ll have to ask everyone else.”

Before Blackwell could answer, Emma Barnes shoved herself forward, one hand pressed to her bloodied nose, the other shaking as she pointed at Taylor with theatrical outrage.

“Lies!” Emma cried, voice thick and nasal through the pain. “We were just talking! Taylor just went crazy and punched me for no reason! Sophia was trying to protect me!”

Madison, hovering at Emma’s elbow with a look of wide-eyed innocence, nodded vigorously. "It's true! Taylor attacked her! We didn't do anything wrong!"

Isaac narrowed his eyes. He didn't buy it. He hadn't known Taylor long, but he knew her well enough. She was cautious, defensive, and deeply averse to starting trouble. She wasn't the type to initiate a physical altercation without severe provocation.

"Bullshit!" Samantha shouted. "That bitch made her cry!"

"Yeah! They cornered us!"

“Emma started it!”

The chorus of voices overlapped, the girls from Lookout talking over one another in their defense of Taylor.

Blackwell held up a hand, silencing them with a sharp glare.

"Quiet!" she barked. "All of you. I will sort this story out once all your parents have been informed about this altercation." She gestured toward the back of the hallway. "And you boys—let them go. Now. I want you all separated, back to the walls."

She was addressing the Lookout members who were still pinning the few sycophants who had refused to stop fighting. The boys released their holds, stepping back as the other students scrambled to their feet, looking chastened.

Near the lockers where Madison and Emma had managed to drag Sophia, she had finally managed to sit up, though she was still hunched over, one arm wrapped around her stomach as she sucked in ragged, whistling breaths. Emma and Madison immediately rushed to her side, helping her stand, though Sophia's glare promised violence the moment the teachers weren't looking.

“Mr. Gladly,” Blackwell said briskly, “take Miss Barnes and Miss Hess to the nurse’s office. Miss Knott, you will take Taylor and the most visibly hurt. I and the others will begin taking names and calling parents.”

She pulled a notepad and pen from her pocket, already writing down the names of the faces she knew as Knott and Gladly began ushering off the two groups.

He looked at Taylor. She was in rough shape. Her lip was split, she was sporting scratch marks, her jaw was already bruising, and she was holding her ribs. Out of everyone involved, she had clearly taken the worst of it.

Brandon's advice echoed in his head. Stop being dense.

In a weird way, it almost lined up with Drifter’s pestering. But unlike the agenda Drifter was trying to push on him, his friend just wanted him to show more care for their most vulnerable member.

So Isaac decided to respond to this critique of his leadership with action.

“Principal Blackwell,” he started, keeping his tone deferential to not appear as if he was trying to assert control over her. “Since you already have my statement, would you mind if I escorted my friends to the nurse?”

The principal looked at him consideringly, before giving a simple nod of the head. “Stay with the group. Understood?”

“Of course and thank you,” Isaac said and turned away from the administrative bustle and walked over to Taylor.

“Hey Samantha, I'll take it from here.” He stepped in as Samantha stepped back, slid one arm under Taylor's knees and the other around her back, and lifted her up in a princess carry.

Taylor stiffened for a second, her breath hitching, but she didn't protest. She looped her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely, burying her face in his shoulder. She was quiet, but her grip was tight, as if she was afraid he might drop her.

Isaac looked at the rest of the small group of injured. "Anyone else need a lift to the nurse?"

Samantha waved him off. "These boys have legs. Just get her out of here."

"Yeah, move it along, loverboy," Brandon smirked as he held Nate up. "We're fine."

Isaac nearly rolled his eyes as he adjusted his grip on Taylor, holding her securely against his chest, and began the slow walk toward the nurse's office behind Miss Knott. 

Never mind. 

Maybe they were just like Drifter.

[winhumanman]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 100 likes!

[winhumanman]

PRT DEPARTMENT OF THREAT ASSESSMENT

DOCUMENT CLASSIFICATION: SECRET // TEN-ZERO EYES ONLY

SUBJECT: Equipment Threat Profile - "Warframe" Armored Systems

AUTHOR: Watchdog Analysis Division / Think Tank Liaison

DISTRIBUTION: PRT Directors, Protectorate Team Leaders, Field Commanders

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

This brief details the baseline capabilities of the "Warframe" powered exoskeletons utilized by the independent faction designated "Ten-Zero." PRT intelligence assesses that Ten-Zero operatives are baseline humans or low-tier parahumans whose threat profiles are artificially inflated by proprietary Tinkertech armor.

Field personnel must discard standard assumptions regarding Tinkertech power armor. Warframe systems operate beyond established Tinkertech paradigms. The armor functions as an extreme parahuman multiplier; any Ten-Zero operative in a Warframe must be engaged as a Class-A threat, regardless of the wearer's known baseline capabilities.

[Note: Significant variation exists between individual Warframe models. The following ratings represent a composite baseline. On-scene commander judgment supersedes this briefing.]

BASELINE THREAT RATINGS (ARMOR SYSTEM ONLY)

Brute — 8

The exoskeleton provides unparalleled kinetic amplification and structural resilience.

Structural Integrity: The armor's composition is entirely impervious to conventional small arms, heavy ordnance, and standard Brute-class testing equipment. Documented instances include surviving atmospheric re-entry impacts with zero structural degradation.

Kinetic Output: The suit's actuators allow the wearer to lift and throw mass far exceeding the exoskeleton's estimated weight, and to deform reinforced steel and hardened alloys through blunt force alone.

Conclusion: Even if the operative inside the suit possesses no native Brute abilities, the armor itself qualifies them as a frontline shock unit.

Mover — 5

Warframe systems grossly violate human biomechanical limits and standard physics regarding momentum.

Agility & Adhesion: The suit possesses an undocumented mechanism allowing it to adhere to sheer surfaces, including ceilings, without loss of mobility.

Kinetic Management: Operatives routinely demonstrate inhuman acrobatics, instantaneous directional changes at high speeds, and mid-air momentum conservation (violating conservation of inertia).

Speed: Sustained ground speeds consistently outpace standard PRT transport vehicles. Short-term hovering and controlled aerial descent are standard.

Conclusion: Engagement planning must account for full three-dimensional maneuverability. Attempts to corner or pin a Warframe are statistically unlikely to succeed.

Thinker — 7

The armor features a deeply integrated neural-interface suite that artificially boosts the wearer's perception and processing speed.

Sensory Filtering: The helmet's optics allow the wearer to casually track and physically deflect automatic gunfire. In testing, a Warframe operative successfully tracked Protectorate Hero Velocity at maximum safe speed.

Spatial Awareness: The suite provides a localized, through-wall sensory feed, allowing the wearer to track hostile, allied, and civilian signatures in their immediate vicinity.

Conclusion: The armor's processing speed completely compensates for the wearer's baseline reaction times. Do not assume human limits when anticipating a Warframe's draw speed or evasion.

Tinker — 11 (Black Box)

Warframe technology is wholly irreproducible by PRT-affiliated Tinkers and operates beyond known Earth Bet scientific paradigms.

Auto-Trauma Suite: The suit emits an unknown restorative particulate/aerosol from the wrist mounts. Upon contact with biological tissue or the armor itself, it initiates near-instantaneous cellular regeneration and structural repair.

Wrist-Mounted Intrusion Device ("Parazon"): A retractable blade that doubles as a universal hardware interface. It has demonstrated the ability to bypass, hijack, or brute-force override both conventional electronics and Tinkertech systems in seconds.

Energy Shielding: Most observed models project a localized energy barrier capable of mitigating high-caliber impacts.

Power Source: None detected. Thermal, electromagnetic, and radiation scans show zero emissions. The power source is considered a total Black Box.

Shaker — 5

Triggered by catastrophic trauma to the operative.

Revival Discharge: The armor's auto-trauma suite possesses a function capable of resuscitating the wearer from clinical death and restoring them to full combat readiness.

Hazard: This revival process is preceded by an omnidirectional energy discharge centered on the armor. This shockwave is lethal to unprotected personnel at close range and capable of incapacitating low-tier Brutes.

Conclusion: A downed Warframe is an active area-denial hazard. The operative inside is likely still alive. Do not approach to confirm a kill.

Trump — 6

The armor's construction and neural integration provide a high degree of resistance to external parahuman interference.

Master/Stranger Resistance: Attempts to mentally influence, emotionally manipulate, or directly control Ten-Zero operatives have an exceptionally high failure rate. It is theorized the armor either shields the wearer's neurology or auto-corrects foreign impulses.

Thinker Blindness: Precognitive and predictive Thinker powers frequently fail to accurately model or predict Warframe movements. The armor's internal processing or power source may create a localized blind spot in probability-based abilities.

Conclusion: Standard Master/Stranger containment protocols are unreliable. Reliance on Thinker foreknowledge to counter Warframe tactics is actively discouraged.

UNRATED BUT NOTED CAPABILITIES

Environmental Sealing: Operates flawlessly in vacuum, high radiation, and extreme thermal environments without observable life-support equipment.

Stamina Nullification: No fatigue indicators have been observed in operatives during extended engagements.

Networked Coordination: Multiple Warframes demonstrate seamless, silent tactical coordination, suggesting a closed-loop communication network immune to standard PRT interception.

OPERATIONAL GUIDANCE & RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

1. Force Preservation over Engagement: Standard PRT ground forces and low-to-mid-tier parahumans are non-viable combat assets against Warframe armor. Do not attempt to neutralize a Warframe with conventional munitions. Direct all squad-level efforts toward civilian evacuation, establishing hard perimeters, and delaying actions until Triumvirate-equivalent capes arrive.

2. The "Dead Man" Hazard: If a Warframe is visibly destroyed or the operative appears killed, immediately establish a 30-foot perimeter and hold. Do not approach to confirm a kill. Expect a lethal omnidirectional shockwave followed by the immediate return to full combat readiness.

3. Strict Proximity Denial: Under no circumstances should PRT personnel attempt close-quarters restraint or melee engagement. The armor's kinetic output will instantly kill baseline humans, and the wrist-mounted Parazon device poses an unquantified but assumed lethal threat at point-blank range.

4. Thinker/Master Deficiency: Do not allocate Master-class capes for control attempts, and do not rely on Thinker precognition for tactical planning. These abilities consistently fail against the armor's systems and serve only to waste valuable strategic assets.

5. The Unknown Variable: This brief covers baseline armor parameters only. Treat every Ten-Zero operative as if they possess an undocumented, highly lethal parahuman ability on top of the baseline profile. Engagements must be handled with the assumption of S-Class scaling until the operative's specific capabilities are empirically confirmed.

[h3]CLOSING ASSESSMENT[/h3]

When PRT analysts isolate observational data from joint operations and sanctioned spars with Ten-Zero operatives, a deeply unsettling statistical anomaly emerges: there is zero operational variance. Across dozens of recorded engagements, different Ten-Zero operatives—presumably individuals with varying backgrounds, physiques, and baseline skill levels—demonstrate identical, mathematically perfect combat efficiency. No flinching, no micro-hesitations, no degraded reaction times under sustained fatigue. Even with a lifetime of elite military training and the most aggressive Stranger-conditioning available, human beings do not move with this level of flawless, machine-like uniformity.

This is precisely why Threat Assessment maintains that we are not facing parahumans wearing advanced technology. We are facing advanced technology wearing parahumans. A conventional Tinkertech suit requires a skilled pilot; its performance degrades when the human inside hesitates, panics, or falters. Warframes do not. The armor does not just augment the person inside—it subsumes them. It artificially injects combat cognition, filters out Master influences, and forcibly drags the operator back from clinical death if killed. The suit is the primary combatant. The operator is merely the biological component required to activate it.

Against this baseline, standard PRT response doctrine collapses. Ground forces and low-to-mid-tier parahumans lack the damage output to degrade the armor, the speed to evade it, and the resistances to survive its countermeasures. Committing standard response teams would result in rapid attrition with no measurable gain. To be clear, the Protectorate's heaviest assets remain effective against a baseline Warframe—Legend's sustained energy projection, Alexandria's brute force, and Eidolon's dynamic power selection would all present credible counters. But the armor is the floor, not the ceiling. When operatives layer their unique ability suites and specialized weaponry on top of this baseline, threat scaling becomes exponential. Intelligence suggests several Ten-Zero members possess capabilities that could independently meet S-Class criteria.

This contingency brief exists because Ten-Zero claims a roster of over sixty such operatives. If relations deteriorate, we are not looking at a containment operation. We are looking at a protracted conflict capable of grinding down continental Protectorate operations and fracturing the United States. Command would be well-advised to treat Ten-Zero diplomacy with the same gravity afforded to any emerging S-Class threat. Because functionally, that is exactly what they are. ​_________________________________

A/N: Had this up on my Patreon  for a while and after all the discussion on here today, thought I'd share it with my wider audience here to see what you all think.

Special thanks to my Patreon members: 1NC1N3R4T0R, Kosmic, headcrabfever, Иван Грозный, and Prince Wavebreak for the continued support and feedback. I appreciate you all.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 25

Taylor woke with a sharp gasp, her body jerking upright before her mind had fully caught up. She blinked in the dim light of her room, her chest heaving, but there was no pain. No discomfort. In fact, she felt oddly rested, the deep, bone-weary exhaustion from the earlier training entirely gone.

The memories surfaced slowly. The forest. The cold river. The swarm. The feeling of forcing insects down someone's throat.

The image of the Tenno suffocating on the ground flashed in her mind, and it brought up a complex tangle of emotions. On one hand, she recognized the validity of his lesson. In a real fight, holding back against a lethal enemy was suicide. She couldn't afford to be soft.

But on the other hand… ruthlessly drowning a boy—or at least a man who looked like one—wasn’t the type of hero she wanted to be. It felt horrible. Like something a villain would do. The clinical detachment she had felt in that moment, the lack of hesitation before she nearly killed him, scared her more than the training itself.

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away, and slipped out of bed. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were intact. The rips, the mud, the water damage—it was all gone. She frowned, wondering how for a split second before the obvious answer clicked.

Tenno.

She just barely remembered he had done something to her clothes before making her jog back home. From the forest.

Now she was wondering what he couldn't do?

He had Healing, slow aging, teleportation, building powerful suits of drone armor, advanced weaponry, and now, apparently, instant laundry and repair. The longer she stayed around him, the less it felt like he had simply won the power lottery, and the more it seemed like he’d found a power slot machine that only paid out jackpots and just kept pulling the lever until he got bored.

She moved through her morning routine on autopilot. As she brushed her teeth, she picked up her glasses from the counter and slid them on. The world blurred slightly as the lenses slid into place. Tenno had fixed her eyesight perfectly, but to keep up the pretense at home and at school, she had to keep wearing them. Ordis had been kind enough to replace the lenses in her old frames with non-magnifying glass, preserving the illusion without hurting her corrected vision. The last thing she needed was her dad asking why she suddenly didn't need her glasses.

She hopped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering phantom sensation of river water and bug shells. When she got out, wrapping a towel around herself, she heard the familiar clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. Her dad was awake. The sound brought a pang of guilt; she had been so consumed by the training and the aftermath that she hadn't spent much time with him. Not that they had been close before but it was only getting worse with new things entering her life.

She retreated to her room to change, trying to get her guilt out of mind. She dressed quickly, then moved her hand lower on her dresser to a particular drawer. Hidden beneath a stack of old clothes and the notebook where she kept her documentation of the bullying, she pulled out a sleek, black smartphone with a stylized white flower on the back.

It was a gift from Tenno, given to her yesterday before the training began. He had explained it was a custom device, hard-linked for secure contact with him and Ten-Zero, but fully capable of functioning as a regular phone. He’d told her she could use it for her personal life if she wanted, but to be careful about discussing “business” in public. If she needed a specific feature or app, she just had to ask Ordis.

She had been hesitant to use it for leisure—it felt wrong just owning one after moms death—but having a computer with internet access in her pocket at all times was too useful to pass up. Plus…

A soft vibration echoed in the quiet room.

She unlocked the screen and tapped the notification. It was the Lookout group chat.

Nate: Morning guys. Watch your backs today. Jace told me the Empire knows we’re forming a group around Isaac.

Nate: Lookout members shouldn’t be too worried about being attacked directly, but next week that might change. Most of the Empire kids at school get off suspension then.

Taylor frowned at the screen. Of course. Blackwell had only given them a week of suspension despite the fact that they had openly committed a hate crime in front of the entire school. It was disgusting, but expected.

More messages began to trickle in.

Samantha: Let them try. We’ll fuck ‘em up if they mess with us.

Tim: Bet they won’t though, they're cowards at heart.

Carlos: Also, heads up. Watch out for the ABB. They don't seem to know about us yet, but they’ve been antsy with Lung gone.

Taylor typed out a quick acknowledgement, promising to be careful while her mind drifted to the logistics of keeping the group safe. Using insects on her schoolmates was against her personal rules, even if they were bullies or gangers. But leaving her new group without help that she could offer felt wrong. So maybe it was time to bend the rules just a bit.

It had only been two days, but she liked Lookout enough to do it. It was awkward trying to talk to new people, but some of the more extroverted girls—and Isaac—had managed to coax her out of her shell despite her fears of them turning out like Emma.

It was strange, having friends again. Real ones, who shared a common cause.

There were a few Greg-like nerds in the group, but they had formed their own little sub-group, geeking out about games or tech in a separate chain, so they hardly bothered anyone who wasn't interested. In fact, there was talk among the programmer kids about building a dedicated app or website for Lookout. A group chat was fine, but a real platform would build solidarity and make chats easier to organize. Isaac had apparently thought it was a great idea, so they were already working on it.

Taylor wanted to contribute to that. Her coding skills may not be as polished as some of the more talented members of that sub-group but she could still be useful in speeding the creation process up. However, between the grueling training sessions with Tenno and her regular schoolwork, she was always busy.

Taylor stared at the phone for a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. She had resources now. Ordis, specifically. If she framed her request in a particular way, the man could probably create the app for them in days, maybe even minutes. He was scarily competent like that.

But after no more than a few seconds of contemplation, Taylor shook her head. She doubted Ordis would appreciate her taking up his time for something as trivial as a high school clique’s group project, and the last thing she wanted was to piss off her tech support.

She would just have to figure out how to balance her responsibilities better.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp raps on her bedroom door made her jump.

Taylor shoved the phone under her pillow. "Coming, Dad!"

She crossed the room in two quick strides and pulled the door open, ready to apologize for taking so long.

But it wasn't her dad.

Tenno stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, looking for all the world like he belonged there. He offered a tentative, slightly awkward smile.

"Hi."

Taylor froze. Her brain stuttered to a halt, caught between the absurdity of the situation and the sheer panic of her boss standing in her hallway.

From downstairs, her dad’s voice drifted up. "Taylor? What was that?"

Heavy footsteps began to ascend the stairs.

Panic surged. Taylor didn't think. She reached out, grabbed Tenno by the arm, and yanked him into her room.

She spun around to face the hallway just as her dad came into view. He looked at her, then at her hand still gripping the doorknob.

"Sorry!" she blurted out, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "I was just… talking to myself. Out loud. Sorry."

Danny frowned, looking past her shoulder into the room. Taylor stepped into his line of sight, blocking the view of Tenno who she hoped had the common sense to hide.

"Alright," Danny said slowly, though his eyes lingered on her for a moment. "Breakfast is almost ready. Don't take too long."

"I won't! I'll be right down. Just… need to finish getting ready."

He nodded and turned back toward the stairs. Taylor watched him go, her heart hammering against her ribs, before stepping back and closing the door.

She pushed it shut a little too hard. Slam.

She winced at the sound. Taking a steadying breath, she turned around to confront her boss and home invader.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered harshly.

Tenno wasn't looking at her. He was slowly rotating in place, his glowing eyes scanning the room. He took in the bookshelf crammed with old paperbacks, the slightly faded curtains, and the desk cluttered with schoolwork.

"Nice room," he said, his voice normal volume, which terrified her. "It's very… homey."

To Taylor, this house hadn't felt "homey" since her father's long depression had turned it into a mausoleum of unspoken grief. But she kept that to herself. But before she could respond, he dissolved and reappeared instantly on her bed. He bounced slightly on the mattress, testing the springs.

"Thanks," she said flatly. "And again—what are you doing in my house? I know you're eccentric, but breaking into my bedroom is a bit much, isn't it?"

Tenno stopped bouncing. His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a seriousness that made the air in the room feel heavier.

"I needed to check something important," he said.

"And you couldn't have called?" she hissed, gesturing to her pillow where the phone was hidden. "Or texted?"

"I could have," he admitted. "But I felt this was something I needed to confirm in person."

He hopped off the bed, landing silently. He looked her dead in the eyes.

"Have you seen anything weird lately? And I mean weirder than average. Nightmares? Family acting out of character? Maybe… a person who looks exactly like you, but with pure black eyes?"

Taylor stared at him, confused. The shift in topic was jarring. "What?"

"Please," he said, his voice dropping. "Just answer the question."

She searched his face for any sign of a joke. There wasn't one. He looked genuinely tense.

"No," she said slowly. "I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary. And the only nightmares I've had were about… well, training."

He hummed, looking unsatisfied. He began to mutter incoherently to himself, his gaze drifting to the window. He looked… edgy. It was a strange look on him when he usually has a devil may care attitude.

"Okay," he said finally, snapping back to attention. "Thanks. Keep a lookout for anything that might seem odd. And if anyone—anyone—creepy offers you a deal, reject it. Immediately. Then tell me asap."

A cold prickle of fear ran down her spine. The way he said it sounded less like advice and more like a warning of impending doom.

"What is this about?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Is my identity compromised?"

"No," he said immediately. "Your identity is fine. For the most part, you shouldn't worry. I just… had a bit of a premonition. Better safe than sorry."

Taylor blinked. "A premonition? Are you a Thinker?"

"With certain Warframe armors, yes," he said casually.

Taylor felt a familiar, petty twist of envy in her gut. Of course he was. Super strength, healing, teleportation, armies of robots, and now precognition. It seemed there was no box he didn't have a checkmark in.

He must have noticed her expression, because he offered a wry smile. "Don't worry. It's not as useful as it sounds. The future is hardly ever set in stone."

He walked toward the window, stepping past her. "Eat your breakfast. I'll see you after school."

"Wait—"

But before she could finish, he vanished.

Taylor stood alone in her room, staring at the empty space where he had stood. She wanted to ask what the premonition was. What about it made him so worried that he had come to her house without so much as a warning to question her. Not knowing made her uneasy.

A doppelganger with black eyes. Was that a Stranger ability?

She shuddered, then grabbed her backpack and phone. She had to get to school. But she made a mental note to keep a few more wasps in her immediate vicinity than usual. Just in case.

She lingered at the top of the stairs when she finally stepped out, listening to the sounds of her father moving around in the kitchen. She took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her shirt and checking the hallway to ensure the Tenno had truly vanished.

Satisfied she was alone, she descended.

Danny was standing at the stove when she entered, flipping bacon with a focused, slightly hunched posture. He was a tall, thin man, his dark hair thinning on top, his large, green eyes magnified slightly behind his glasses. He looked tired, as he always did these days, but there was a sharpness to his movements this morning that put Taylor on edge.

"About time," he said without turning around. "I thought you fell back asleep."

"No, just… looking for my bag," Taylor lied smoothly, moving past him to the cabinet.

She grabbed a plate, loading it with toast and a few strips of bacon. As she reached for the honey to stir into her tea, she felt her dad’s gaze on her back. It was a heavy, evaluating look.

"You were talking pretty loudly up there," he commented casually, though the tone was forced. "Sounded like a conversation."

Taylor stiffened, her hand pausing over the honey jar. "Just talking to myself, Dad. Running lines for a… history project."

"Hmmm." Danny turned back to the stove, but his shoulders remained tense. "Pretty spirited rehearsal for history."

"I'm very passionate about the Industrial Revolution," Taylor deadpanned.

She sat down at the kitchen table, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. The radio on the counter was droning on, the morning news anchor’s voice a low hum of background noise.

"…in other news, Trinity has officially taken the spot of the world's premier parahuman healer. With confirmed restorative capabilities surpassing even those of our great Panacea in Brockton Bay, the PRT has released a statement…"

Taylor tuned it out, focusing on her tea. She took a sip, letting the warmth settle her stomach. She looked up to find Danny sitting across from her, his own plate ignored. He was holding his newspaper, but he wasn't reading it. He was staring at her over the rim of his glasses, his expression awkward and uncertain.

"You look… different lately, Taylor," he said finally.

Taylor paused, her mug halfway to the table. "Different?"

"You've been… glowing," he said, gesturing vaguely at her face with a hand. "I mean, not literally. But you look healthier. Your skin is clearer. You just… you look good."

Taylor resisted the urge to touch her face. She knew he was right. Tenno’s healing during training wasn't just patching up injuries; it was keeping her in peak physical condition. Her acne had completely vanished, her hair had more luster, and the dark circles under her eyes were gone.

"I've been taking better care of myself," Taylor said, shrugging. "Plus running every morning and sleeping better helps."

"Running and sleeping," Danny repeated. "Right."

He folded the newspaper slowly, setting it down on the table. He looked at his hands, then back up at her. "What spurred this on? I know why you're running but the other changes…"

Taylor shrugged again, picking at a piece of bacon. "I don't know. Just wanted a change. Felt like I was stagnating."

It was a safe answer. Vague enough to be believable, specific enough to satisfy, and true enough she didn’t feel so guilty about lying.

But Danny didn't look satisfied. He frowned, his brow furrowing. Taylor wondered why he was pressing so hard. He had never been the type to pry into her personal life; for years, they had existed in a state of polite, painful distance, communicating mostly through silence and the occasional awkward dinner.

"Dad, is something wrong?" she asked.

Danny sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked pained. "No, it's just… Your mother was better at this."

"Better at what?"

"This," he waved a hand between them. "The talking. The noticing. I… I feel like I'm missing things, Taylor. Important things."

He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a physical blow. He met her eyes, his expression earnest and deeply uncomfortable.

"Taylor, have you… been sexually active?"

Taylor choked.

The tea she had just sipped sprayed across the table in a fine mist, splattering the front of Danny’s newspaper and a few droplets landing on his shirt. She hacked and coughed, her face instantly burning hot.

"What?" she wheezed, her voice cracking.

Danny recoiled, grabbing a napkin to wipe his shirt. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—I just—you've been sneaking out at night—"

Taylor’s heart seized. He knows.

"—and now this morning, sneaking a boy into the house—"

He knows!

"—and I know I haven't been the best dad, but if something’s going on with this boy I want you to know you can talk to me, and if you are… if you're going to be… active, I just want to make sure you're being safe. Using protection."

Taylor stopped coughing. The terror in her chest was replaced by a wave of mortification so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust.

"Dad!" she hissed, her face feeling like it was on fire. "Oh my god. No! I'm not—we're not—it's not like that!"

"You mean he's not your boyfriend?" Danny asked, looking relieved but still anxious.

"He's a friend! Just a friend! And I wasn't sneaking him in, he just… stopped by. Unexpectedly. For a project."

"A project," Danny repeated slowly.

"Yes! A school project. The history one I told you about. We're partners."

Danny looked at her, then at the tea-stained newspaper, then back at her. He looked like he wanted to believe her but was struggling to reconcile what he thought was the truth with what she was saying.

"So… The sneaking out?" he asked weakly.

"I went for a run," Taylor insisted, clinging to the lie with desperate strength. "At night. Because I couldn't sleep. I didn't realize I woke you. And Isaac—his name is Isaac—he just came by to drop off some notes. That's it."

She hoped to everything that is and would be that she wouldn’t come to regret throwing out his name. She couldn’t exactly say Tenno was in her room. It made no sense and tied her to some sort of hero work.

Danny held her gaze for a long moment. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He let out a long, ragged breath, picking up his ruined newspaper.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. I… I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions, kiddo. I just worry."

"I know, Dad," Taylor mumbled, staring resolutely at her plate. "It's fine."

"And the… protection talk…"

"We are never speaking of this again," Taylor cut in fiercely.

"Agreed," Danny said quickly, picking up his fork. "Agreed."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the air thick with lingering embarrassment. Taylor focused on her food, her heart still racing from the near-miss. She had to be more careful. Much more careful.

"Soo…When do I meet him?" Danny asked after a while, his voice carefully neutral.

Taylor groaned. "Dad."

"Right. Sorry." ------------------------------

Lisa Wilbourne stepped into her personal apartment inside the loft, shutting the door firmly behind her. The click of the latch was a familiar sound, usually a signal for her to relax, to let the mask slip and the constant, low-grade hum of her power dial back from a roar to a manageable whisper.

Today, it didn’t work.

She leaned back against the cheap wood, exhaling slowly through her teeth. Her head throbbed—a sharp, stabbing pain right behind her eyes that had been building steadily since dawn. She had spent the last three days combing every corner of the building, the surrounding blocks, and even the digital local network for any sign of surveillance.

Nothing conclusive. No electronic bugs, no strange vans parked on the corner, no capes loitering on rooftops.

Except for the claw marks.

She’d seen them on the side of a brick building across the street, gouged deep into the mortar about fifteen feet up. At first glance, they looked like the work of Bitch’s dogs. But her power had rejected that immediately, feeding her a stream of data that contradicted the visual evidence.

Too high. Spacing inconsistent with canine gait. Too clean. Not made by biological claws. Metal. Hardened alloy. Recent. Made by something heavy moving very fast.

She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the ache. They were being watched. She knew it with the same certainty she knew gravity would hold her to the floor. But by what, she didn't know.

She pushed off the door and walked to her desk, pulling out her phone. The screen lit up, glaring in the dim light of the room.

Coil: Heist is green-lit for Thursday.

She stared at the message, her lip curling into a snarl. The sight of it nearly made her blood boil. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was ignoring her.

Information not received. Or received and discarded. Interference likely.

She suspected this already. That something was actively filtering her intelligence. Whether it was some kind of Ten-Zero jamming technology, a cyber-attack on Coil’s servers, or that oily PR manager from the Tenno group she half-suspected was an AI, her warnings were hitting a wall.

She had tried burner phones, coded messages, even physical dead drops—none of it had worked.

She tossed the phone onto the bed without responding, watching it bounce.

Normally, she wouldn’t lift a finger to help the snake if he didn’t threaten her. Coil had recruited her at gunpoint and was a monster who played with people’s lives like chess pieces, and she was one of his knights. If Ten-Zero really wanted him dead, she’d happily step aside, pour herself a drink, and watch the show.

But they likely didn’t and that wasn’t how she wanted to win against him. She wanted to outsmart him. She wanted to be the one who walked away with the keys to the kingdom while he burned.

And more importantly… no one really escaped Ten-Zero.

Not unless you were a joke villain everyone already treated as harmless—a rogue in all but name. So even if she turned on Coil and sold him out to Ten-Zero, it wouldn’t spare her or the Undersiders from being arrested for association to him or revenge-killed by the snake when the revolving door of the PRT let him out.

Not that Brian or the rest could be convinced to turn on Coil. He needed the money, the reputation, and the stability to get custody of his sister. Alec was too lazy to rock the boat, and Rachel simply didn’t care about the strategic nuance—she’d fight anyone who came for her dogs, even if it meant death.

It didn’t help that her team was convinced they’d simply outplayed Ten-Zero, that their escape from them was a testament to their skill rather than a calculated mercy or luck.

Lisa wasn’t nearly as optimistic. Those robotic bastards were probably still out there, watching and waiting. Waiting for the Undersiders to put on the mask, to step out of the unwritten rules of civilian life, so they had a reason to strike.

She paced the small room, her socks scuffing against the hardwood floor.

The question was simple, even if the answer wasn’t: What could she leverage?

How did you fight an enemy that you couldn't see, that seemed to know your moves before you made them, and that had enough firepower to make a show of taking out an S-Class threat?

Lisa thought long and hard about the answers to such impossible questions until she gave up.

“Dammit, this is impossible.” She cursed in frustration as she pulled at her hair. “Why the hell are they even here in the first place? Don't they have an Endbringer to punch out or something?”

That was the question that had been nagging at her since day one. Ten-Zero dealt with A or S-Class threats, natural disasters, and public relations. They hardly stuck their nose in mundane crime unless it was right in front of them because big players knew better than to act with them around. Brockton Bay was a dying port city with a parahuman crime problem. In the grand scheme of things, they were small fish.

So why were heavy hitters like Umbra and the Super Dominatrix swimming in their pool?

It didn't make sense. It was like sending a nuclear missile to kill a fly.

And as if a lightbulb went off in her head, Lisa realized something interesting about the night of Lung's capture.

Bug Girl.

She remembered the moment clearly. The Undersiders had been perched on a rooftop, ready to intervene—to help the Bug Girl.

Then the drone appeared. It had materialized out of thin air, decloaking right in the middle of the street to engage Lung.

Her power had latched onto it immediately.

Advanced. Autonomous. Built for stealth. Resembles other Ten-Zero drone units.

But the crucial detail wasn’t the drone. It was the girl’s reaction.

Surprise. Confusion. Relief.

The Bug Girl hadn’t known the drone was there. She hadn’t called it in. She had been just as shocked to see it as Lisa had been.

Then Umbra showed up. The face of Ten-Zero and one of its core members. He didn’t just appear; he arrived with purpose.

Unconcerned about Lung. Not his primary objective. Here to help the girl.

The drone had treated him like the owner, like a subordinate awaiting orders. But the girl… the girl’s body language had been telling. Wide-eyed behind her mask.

Surprised he was there. Relieved. Grateful. Familiar with him. He is familiar with her.

Why send a high-value asset like a stealth combat drone to shadow a random independent hero? Why send Umbra—one of the heavy hitters—to secure her personally?

Resource allocation disproportionate to target value. Unless target value is higher than estimated.

Lisa stopped pacing. She sat down on the edge of her bed, her eyes wide. She was getting close to something, she could feel it.

Judging by the speed of Umbra’s arrival, he had been close. Very close. Or he had arrived via the Liset. Either way, the response time suggested an immediate protective detail.

Possible emotional investment. Likely related in civilian lives.

Lisa’s lips twitched into a smile, despite the headache. It didn’t matter exactly what the relationship was. All that mattered was that she now knew the girl was leverage.

Ten-Zero had shown their hand. They had a soft spot. A chink in their seemingly impenetrable armor.

And with them watching the Undersiders, waiting for a slip-up, then the Undersiders needed insurance.

And the Bug Girl was holding the policy.

Lisa picked her phone back up. She still didn’t text Coil back. Instead, she opened a new note, hesitated, then threw it to grab a pen and notebook, her mind already spinning a web.

She needed to find out who the Bug Girl was. She needed to know her civilian identity. If Ten-Zero was protecting her that fiercely on the field, they were likely protecting her identity just as fiercely.

But if Lisa could find her… if she could get close…

She could use that. Whether to bargain or to threaten.

The game wasn’t over. She could still win. --------------

A/N: Yes bro, the danny scene is 100% necessary for the plot, trust.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 24

Taylor pulled herself away from the riverbank, her boots squelching in the mud. Staying near the water was a death sentence. Venari was still lurking on the bank, and getting knocked into the current again might not end with her just crawling out.

She needed distance. She needed cover. And she desperately needed to warm up.

She stumbled toward the tree line, shivering. The cold wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was a nagging weight that slowed her reflexes and dulled her focus. She couldn't afford that in a test filled with opponents faster than her eye could track.

She stopped at the edge of the woods and closed her eyes, reaching out.

Her bugs converged.

They crawled over her from head to toe, a writhing suit of living armor. Spiders, beetles, moths—thousands of them. She lost the sight of her own eyes almost immediately, but she didn't need them. Her swarm sense expanded outward, painting a three-dimensional picture of the forest in her mind. The darkness behind her eyelids didn't matter. She could feel the world.

She recalled a honeybee documentary she’d watched back when she first started researching her powers—how they vibrated their wing muscles to generate heat in the hive during winter. She didn't have enough bees for a hive, but she had moths, flies, and beetles.

She ordered them to vibrate.

A low, buzzing hum surrounded her as the insects worked. The friction of thousands of tiny wing muscles generated a surprising amount of warmth. The biting chill faded, replaced by a dull, rhythmic heat. It was uncomfortable, having bugs crawl all over her skin, but it was better than freezing.

As she walked, she became hyper-aware of the bugs covering her body. She could feel the specific dimensions of her own frame—the curve of her shoulders, the length of her arms, the bend of her knees—mapped out perfectly by the insects clinging to her.

A thought struck her.

If she could feel her own dimensions through them… could she project them?

She stopped and concentrated. From the mass of insects covering her, she pulled away a cluster, leaving a thin layer for warmth. She reshaped the extracted mass in the air, molding it.

She formed a column of bugs roughly her height and width.

She opened her eyes, letting her swarm sense overlap with her vision.

It was… sloppy. The legs were too thick, the torso lumpy. But the silhouette was undeniably human.

I made it, she thought with slight disbelief. It’s a clone.

She directed the construct to walk. It moved jerkily, the insects struggling to maintain cohesion while mimicking a gait, but it moved.

Taylor felt a spark of excitement. She closed her eyes again, severing her visual connection and relying entirely on her swarm as she added more bugs to her body to match the clone’s density.

She began to churn out more. One. Two. Five. Ten.

She spread them out in a loose perimeter around her, hiding her real body among the fakes. She stationed them near game trails and open clearings—bait for any pursuer watching from a distance.

She walked for a few minutes, her breathing steady, her body warm. But she noticed the forest around her was quiet.

Too quiet.

Her suspicion grew. Had she actually lost them? Or were they waiting for her to make a mistake?

Then, a voice.

It came from her left. It sounded amused.

"Clones, huh? Very impressive."

Taylor spun, her heart leaping into her throat as the bugs on her face parted to let her see.

The Tenno stood there, leaning casually against a tree trunk not twenty feet away. He hadn't been there a second ago. She hadn't sensed him arrive.

He tilted his head, his glowing eyes piercing through the gloom and locking onto the clone standing next to her.

"I wonder, though," he mused, tapping his chin. "Which one's real?"

Before Taylor could react, he vanished.

A split second later, she felt a disturbance in her swarm.

One of her clones—fifty feet to her right—simply ceased to exist. A shockwave of displaced air tore through the insects, scattering them to the winds. A fraction of a second after that, a massive crash echoed through the forest.

A tree toppled over with a thunderous groan, crashing to the ground right where another clone had been standing.

Taylor didn't stay to watch. She ran.

She sprinted into the thickest part of the forest, filling the air around her with a chaotic storm of insects. She churned the swarm into a frenzy, trying to create a smokescreen that would blind even him. Her clones broke off in different directions, a desperate attempt to confuse him further.

She idly wondered if she should drop the insect disguise before he blasted her, but decided against it. This was a test. Like Venari, he wouldn’t leave damage he couldn't heal.

Thinking about it more, she realized she wasn’t as safe as she thought. Tenno had once joked about bringing her back from the dead if she died during training. She hadn't laughed then. She wasn't laughing now.

She felt him reappear directly above her.

The displacement of air from his arrival killed bugs in the canopy. He was gone before she could even look up. He materialized ten feet to her left. Another clone died as he passed through it.

He vanished again, repeating the process. To the right. Behind. Left. He was everywhere and nowhere.

To her, this was worse than dealing with super speed. At least then she knew where they were coming from.

But it wasn’t all bad.

As long as he was content playing whack-a-mole with her clones, she was fine. Every second he wasted dismantling a decoy was a second she bought for herself. She just had to keep the numbers up, keep the confusion high, and stay hidden within the noise.

She veered around a thick oak, preparing to spawn another cluster of duplicates—

And then he was there.

No warning. No displacement of air. Just a sudden, overwhelming weight slamming into her gut.

Taylor hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs for the second time that morning. Before she could even process the impact, he was on top of her. He straddled her waist, pinning her hips to the dirt with terrifying ease.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and sing-songed, "Found you."

Panic spiked at the sight of his glowing eyes, but she strangled it immediately.

She forced the fear away, leaving her mind clear.

Tenno leaned back, shifting his weight. One hand pinning her left wrist to the earth, he reached toward her face with the other, fingers splayed wide.

Taylor directed the bees and wasps to sting him. But when they flew too close to his open palm, they simply... ceased to be. One moment they were there, the next they were dust.

She couldn't let that hand touch her.

She threw a punch with her free right hand, aiming for his jaw.

He caught it effortlessly. His grip was like iron, locking her fist in place mid-swing. A wide, boyish grin of glee stretched across his face, as if he was having the time of his life.

"Good attempt," he noted casually.

He began to push her captured fist back toward her own face, bringing his other hand—the disintegration hand—closer to her nose. The air near his fingertips seemed to warp and shimmer.

Taylor strained against him, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain. He was playing with her.

Fight like your life depends on it.

The memory of his instruction echoed in her mind.

Like she had done with Venari, every insect nearby converged on the Operator's face.

They poured into his nose. They crammed into his mouth. They swarmed over his eyes and ears in a suffocating blanket of chitin and stingers.

The reaction was instantaneous.

He let out a muffled, choking shout. He released her hands and reeled back, clawing at his face as he fell off her, thrashing on the forest floor.

"Gah! MMMPH!"

She watched him impassively, not bothered by the sight of a kid her own age struggling for air.

It was the same clinical detachment a person might feel stomping an ant.

It was also that detachment that let her realize what she was doing was very wrong, and what the cause of it was.

Fear—cold, rational fear—flooded back in. Not fear of him, but fear of what she had done.

"Stop! Stop!" she yelled, waving her arms.

The swarm dissipated instantly. The insects retreated from his face, scattering into the canopy.

Taylor crawled toward him, her heart hammering. "Are you okay? I didn't—I thought—"

The Operator sat up, coughing and spitting out a half-drowned beetle. He wiped his sleeve across his face, clearing away the residue of bug parts and dust. He looked up at her.

He wasn't angry. He didn't even look hurt.

He looked disappointed.

"Taylor," he said plainly. "Why did you stop?"

She blinked, her mouth opening and closing. "I... you were choking. I thought I hurt you."

"You were winning," he said flatly. "You had me on the defensive. You compromised my breathing and my vision. And then you stopped to ask if I was okay."

He stood up, brushing dirt from his pants. He looked down at her with a critical eye.

"In a real fight, the moment you show mercy to an enemy stronger than you, you die."

Taylor looked away, shame warring with confusion. "I... I know. I just..."

She trailed off. The ground beneath her looked strange. The light had shifted.

She looked up.

A tall, black silhouette stood over her, blocking out the sun.

Umbra.

He hadn't been there a moment ago. He hadn't made a sound. He was simply there, looming like a statue of death, his sword resting against his shoulder.

Taylor froze.

The Operator’s voice came calm and instructive from behind her.

"Lesson two, Taylor. The battlefield doesn't pause when you hesitate."

Before she could move, before she could even breathe, Umbra’s hand shot out.

Rough, armored palms clamped onto her face.

Darkness followed instantly.

The stone cavern was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic dripping of false water from the moss-covered roots above. The Operator stood in the center of the raised circular platform, his posture relaxed but his gaze distant, watching the memory of Taylor's test replay in his mind’s eye.

Around him, the cave was far from empty.

Dozens of figures lounged against the uneven stone walls, floated cross-legged a few feet off the ground, or simply sat on the cool rock. Brothers and sisters, their faces lit by the soft blue glow of the projected memory, watched the replay of Taylor’s training exercise with varying degrees of amusement and scrutiny.

"And then," the Operator narrated, his tone dry, "Umbra slammed her face into the dirt, knocking her out cold. That ended the exercise."

The scene played out exactly as he described, sending a ripple of snickers through the crowd.

It wasn't malicious laughter—though he was sure Taylor herself wouldn't have appreciated it—this was the raucous, affectionate amusement of a family watching a younger sibling face-plant during training.

"She groaned and whined a lot after that," the Operator admitted. "But she still didn't quit. I think she has potential. A lot of it."

The chuckles died down to appreciative nods. They knew grit when they saw it, and they respected Taylor for putting her life on the line for kids she didn’t know. Though, showing them the memories of that night had earned him a fair bit of grief. Many of his siblings were on his case about not only getting rusty enough that a low-level threat like Lung landed a decent blow on him, but also his decision regarding Riley’s treatment—it reminded them too much of the Narmer veil. However, they understood why he had chosen this path for her and offered advice on how to help her.

He would have preferred to ask the Lotus, but she was busy with something about a "Dark Refractory."

Al, his boy genius brother, looked at the Operator and nodded. "I agree, she’s probably a genius too. You taught her a focusing technique in, what? Two days? And she used it to calm herself in the middle of a combat scenario? That usually takes a while to master."

The Operator shook his head, a faint smirk touching his lips. "That wasn't the focus technique."

The chatter in the room died instantly. Al stopped swinging his legs. Even the Drifter straightened up, raising an eyebrow.

"Explain," Al demanded, leaning forward with great interest.

"It was similar," the Operator admitted. "But from what I gathered ealier, Taylor didn't compartmentalize like I taught her. She took the concept I gave her and adapted it to her own power. Essentially, she created her own focus technique that allows her to dump all her emotions directly into her swarm to achieve a sort of zen state."

The Drifter stepped forward, the amused interest from earlier gone, replaced by a sharp, uncharacteristic seriousness. "You're letting her do that?"

The Operator blinked, surprised by the shift in tone. He knew the dangers of emotional suppression—everyone in this room did—but he hadn't expected the Drifter to be the one to lecture him on it. Then again, looking at his older counterpart's grim expression, he realized he should have. If anyone understood the consequences of numbing oneself to survive, it was the man who had lived through the endless loops of Duviri.

"She did it herself," the Operator responded defensively. "Plus, I didn't even know the extent she could do that until she tried to drown me.”

His older counterpart paused, then sighed.

"You're right," the Drifter said, tempering his own emotions, his voice low. "It's just... letting her abuse that... It's dangerous. You of all people should know what happens when you start treating your emotions like something to be offloaded."

The Operator nodded slowly. "I'll monitor it," he promised. "I'll make sure she processes it properly during debriefs."

The Drifter held his gaze for a moment, then nodded, the tension leaving his shoulders. The serious atmosphere evaporated as quickly as it had come, replaced by a familiar, wolfish grin. He slung a heavy arm around the Operator’s shoulders, pulling him close in a grip that was equal parts brotherly affection and trap.

"Sooo," the Drifter drawled, his voice echoing slightly too loud in the quiet cave. "Little me. What do you think about Taylor?"

The Operator raised an eyebrow. Around the room, the silence became very pointed. He noticed several sisters pretending to inspect their nails, while others suddenly found the moss on the ceiling fascinating or were giving him side-eyes from the corners of their vision.

They were all listening.

For what reason, the Operator didn’t know. "We’re connected on an existential level, and you’ve heard my reports. You know what I think of her. She's determined, creative, stubborn as hell..."

The Drifter groaned, shaking his head. "No, no. I mean, what do you think about her?"

"I think she needs to work on self-confidence," the Operator said honestly. "It's a very noticeable problem."

"This idiot," one of the sisters muttered, not even bothering to lower her voice.

"Shush!" the Drifter hissed over his shoulder before turning back to the Operator with a grin that was all teeth. "Let me clarify. Do you think she's... cute?"

The Operator paused, actually considering the question.

"Well," the Operator began, tilting his head thoughtfully. "She is... endearing. In a way. She reminds me of my first Kubrow. You know, before he grew into his armor and could rip a Grineer Elite’s head off."

The Drifter’s face fell. He stared at the Operator with the exhausted disappointment of a man realizing he was talking to a brick wall. "A puppy. You think she's cute... like a puppy."

"She has big, expressive eyes," the Operator reasoned, smiling as if he were finally understanding what the Drifter was implying. "And she makes this face when she's confused—"

The collective look of pity from his siblings made him falter mid-sentence.

"Stop," the Drifter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just... stop. Kid. I mean, do you think she is attractive? In the way that I think Aoi is attractive?"

The Operator froze.

Oh.

The Drifter’s smirk widened insufferably as he saw the realization click. Around them, the Tenno sisters were practically vibrating with anticipation, their attempts at casual eavesdropping abandoned entirely.

The Operator stared at the Drifter, processing the comparison. He thought of the way the Drifter looked at Aoi—the softness in his eyes, the way his voice changed when he spoke to her, the constant need to be near her even during downtime.

His cheeks heated up as the associated memories of his counterpart filtered into his head. It wasn't a blush, not really—Tenno had better control than that—but it was close.

"I... hadn't really considered it," the Operator mumbled, trying to regain his composure. "And I honestly don't see her that way."

"Uh-huh," the Drifter said, his grin turning knowingly smug. "You do realize I share your head, right? There’s something there. You just haven’t figured it out yet."

"Like what?" the Operator shot back. "That she has a symmetrical face?"

A wave of laughter rippled through the room from some of his brothers.

"Besides, even if I did like her, you're forgetting that I'm old enough to be her ancestor," the Operator added quickly, straightening up and trying to sound like the responsible adult he technically wasn't. "And she's my recruit. It would be unprofessional."

"She's fifteen," the Drifter piped up from his shoulder, looking far too amused for the Operator's liking. "You're biologically around sixteen. That's a one-year gap."

"Plus, if you look at it temporally, she’s technically the ancestor," Al added with a grin.

"Al!" the Operator snapped, but the boy had already vanished from sight, his laughter echoing through the cave. "Not helping!"

The Drifter laughed, squeezing the Operator’s shoulder. "Relax. I'm just messing with you. Mostly." He leaned in conspiratorially. "But seriously, it doesn't have to be Taylor. Just try and give romance a chance. And remember, outside our little big family, the immortal dating pool is very small, and it gets even smaller when you’re looking for anyone over a thousand years old who doesn't look like a Grineer Queen. So don’t be picky."

"I’ll keep that in mind," the Operator said, his voice as dry as the sands of Mars.

Suddenly, Al popped back into existence right in front of them.

"If you're worrying about mortality," Al started, his tone shifting to that of a lecturer. "We have fixes for that. We could hook her up with Transference and put her real body in stasis. Kuva can revitalize the body and transfer her mind into a new one. We could even use an Orokin rejuvenation treatment if she wanted. And if you're feeling really adventurous, there's always Sentient hybrid—"

The Operator didn't let him finish.

With a silent snarl, he launched himself off the platform. Al yelped, barely managing to blink out of existence before the Operator’s hands could close around his throat. He reappeared ten feet away, hiding behind the legs of a brother, sticking his tongue out.

"Too slow, old man!"

The chase was on after that.

The Operator dashed, a blur of Void energy, weaving between stalactites and pillars. Al was fast—unnaturally so even for a Tenno—but the Operator was driven by the pure, unadulterated need to strangle his little brother. He used Void Dashes to close the distance in the blink of an eye, but Al always seemed to have an escape route, phasing through rock or utilizing a burst of speed that left afterimages.

"Fifty platinum on Al!" one of the sisters shouted.

"Hundred on the Blockhead! He’s got the reach!" a younger brother countered.

"Place your bets! Place your bets!" The Drifter’s voice rang out above the noise, suddenly holding a holographic ledger. "No refunds! We don't actually have the Plat, but honor system applies!"

The siblings roared their approval as Al and the Operator appeared in the center and engaged hand-to-hand, their eyes glowing brighter as they fed energy into the spectacle.

Al broke from the exchange and jumped forward, flipping over the Operator’s head and kicking his arm away when he reached to grab him. "Is that all you got, old man? And here I thought you were the 'savior of the system'! You move like a heavy Grineer unit!"

He landed lightly, Void dashing back to gain distance before dusting off his shoulder. "Honestly, with skills like this, I can't believe they chose you for the Tenno Council over me!"

The Operator didn't dignify that with a response. He simply dove deeper into his connection to the Drifter, connecting himself with this place before snapping his fingers.

Time hiccupped.

Al’s mocking expression froze. The world rewound. The echo of his own voice played backward in the air. He found himself yanked backward through space, his body resetting to a position he’d been in three seconds ago—right in front of the Operator, mid-monologue, arms wide open.

"Wait, what—"

Before Al could react, the Operator was on him. He slammed into the boy, driving him into the ground with a heavy thud. The Operator pinned Al’s arms to the floor, grinning down at him.

"Gotcha."

"YOU CHEATED!" Al shrieked, struggling vainly against the grip. "You used the rewind! Temporal manipulation is a breach of the Sibling Combat Accords!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Operator said smugly, leaning his weight on Al’s chest. "I simply anticipated your trajectory. Maybe you're just getting slow, little brother. Also, I distinctly remember the accords only applying to the Conclave."

"I am not slow and this counts as a Conclave match! So you’re still a cheater! Drifter! Drifter, tell everyone he used the rewind on a training spar!"

Al craned his neck, looking toward the edge of the platform where the Drifter was standing. The older man was currently hustling a group of their sisters.

"Pay up! That's three hundred for me," the Drifter said cheerfully, clicking his tongue at the ledger.

"You bet against me?!" Al screeched, seemingly more offended by that than his brother cheating.

"You were too cocky," the Drifter shrugged, not looking up. "And the odds were too good to pass up."

"You cheating cheaters! I’m telling—"

Al’s outrage was cut short.

The cavern went cold.

A presence—vast, chaotic, and overwhelmingly familiar—washed over them.

The air in the center of the platform distorted, folding in on itself. The shadows lengthened, and from the nothingness, a figure stepped forward.

It was the Lotus.

She stood tall, her helmet obscuring her face, her posture perfect. But the resemblance stopped there. The aura wasn't maternal or guiding. The smile was too wide and inhuman.

Every single Tenno in the room stopped.

Reflexes honed by centuries of war kicked in. Dozens of hands snapped up, glowing with Void energy. Eyes flared brilliant, blinding colors. The Operator released Al and stepped back, power crackling in his palm, ready to blast the fake.

For a heartbeat, the cavern was a powder keg waiting for a spark. Anyone who knew anything about Tenno power knew there was enough of it in this cave to scar a planet.

Yet, the figure didn’t even twitch. It just smiled as it tilted the Lotus's helmet to the side, the movement exaggerated and wrong.

"Hey kiddos," the figure rasped with her voice, the sound coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The tension broke instantly.

The Operator let out a long, weary sigh and lowered his hand. The glowing in his eyes dimmed. Al clicked his teeth. And around him, his siblings did much the same. The Void energy dissipated, leaving the cavern in a state of collective, profound annoyance.

"Oh," one of the little sisters muttered, dropping her tiny hand. "It's just him."

"Just him?" Al huffed, scrambling to his feet and brushing dirt off his pants. "Scared the crap out of me."

The figure—the Man in the Wall, wearing the Lotus like a cheap suit—gave a wide shrug. "Tough crowd. Usually, I get at least a little scream."

The Operator stared at the entity, his expression flat. He just crossed his arms.

"I was wondering when you’d show up. What do you want?" the Operator asked, annoyed.

The Man in the Wall laughed.

It was a jagged, broken sound—The Lotus's voice twisted into something discordant. It bounced off the stone walls, echoing with a mocking glee that made the Operators’ skin crawl. Around the cavern, faces soured. None of them wanted to hear her laugh coming from him.

He began to walk. It was a leisurely stroll, hands clasped behind his back, moving with an unsettling fluidity. He circled the gathered Tenno like a predator surveying a zoo exhibit, his gaze lingering on each of them before he finally spoke.

"Haven't you guessed?"

The Operator watched him pass, his arms still crossed. "I stopped trying to understand you a long time ago."

The entity snickered, the sound bubbling up from nowhere. "Oh, I think you know me better than that. In fact..." His posture shifted, the playfulness evaporating into something predatory. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a guttural, vibrating growl. "You know exactly what I want."

The air in the cavern grew heavy. Around the room, eyes flared brighter as the Tenno tensed, hands twitching, the powder keg reignited.

The Operator didn’t flinch. He didn't have to think hard. He knew exactly what the entity was after.

"Your finger," the Operator said flatly.

The Man in the Wall’s smile stretched impossibly wide, the whites of the Lotus teeth clear for all to see.

"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!" He mimicked the sound of a game show buzzer, hopping back with a giddy bounce. "That is correct! Give my favorite murder tyke a prize!"

He spun on his heel, facing the crowd.

"But," he continued, holding up a finger, "I already know you kids won't just give it back. You're too… attached."

He paused, letting the silence fester. He looked at the Operator, his expression turning uncomfortably serious.

"So, let's make a deal."

The room went dead silent, all knowing how the last deal went.

"Kill the girl," the Entity said, his voice smooth and reasonable. "Kill Taylor Hebert. Do that, and I’ll send you home. No strings attached. No tricks like what I pulled with the old Drifter here."

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade as the Drifter flipped him off.

Around the cavern, the siblings looked at one another. The glow in their eyes flickered. No words were spoken, but the air hummed with the silent, rapid-fire exchange of a hundred connected minds. A collective decision was being made in the span of a heartbeat.

The Operator glanced to his side. Al met his gaze. The boy genius didn’t speak. He simply nodded once, sharp and firm.

The Operator turned back to the Man in the Wall. He looked the entity in the eye, his face a mask of stone.

"No."

The refusal was simple, yet absolute.

The Man in the Wall stared at him for a long moment.

Then, he sighed, his shoulders slumping in a theatrical pantomime of disappointment.

"Pity," he rasped.

But then the grin returned, stretching even wider with glee. His voice swelled, echoing from the stone walls, the dripping water, and the very air in their lungs.

"But this... this is way more fun."

The pressure in the cavern snapped. The entity dissolved, vanishing as if he had never been there at all.

Before the Operator could even lower his guard, a hand gripped his shoulder, spinning him around.

"Go," the Drifter said, his voice urgent. "Get back to Taylor. Now."

The Operator blinked, his mind still processing the entity's offer and what it could mean. "You think he'll act soon?"

"I think he doesn't make threats he doesn't intend to make good on," the Drifter replied grimly. "If he wants her dead, it's because her death serves him. And if he’s willing to bargain, it means he wants it bad."

Al stepped forward, brow furrowed. "It doesn't make sense. What does a bug girl's death get him? I’d understand either of you two or one of us, but she’s just a parahuman, and a weak one at that? Is he just messing with us again?"

"The future," the Drifter said simply.

Al frowned. "What?"

The Drifter turned to him, his expression hard. "He can see and travel through time, Al. He doesn't care about who she is now. He cares about who she becomes. Whatever makes her a threat to his goals... it happens in the future."

The Operator figured as much. It would be too much to hope for a being as old as the stars to play the short game. No, the bastard was trying to prune the timeline.

The Drifter turned back to the Operator, his grip tightening. "Whatever future he's afraid of, we have to make sure it happens. Protect her. Train her. Don't let him win."

The Operator nodded sharply and turned to his siblings. They nodded back. Goodbyes done, he closed his eyes, centering himself. The stone cavern dissolved into darkness. The faces of his family blurred into streaks of light. The sanctuary grew distant, fading into the recesses of his mind, traveling through the Void, back to Earth-Bet.

Back to Taylor.

[winhumanman]

Chapter 23

Morning light filtered through the canopy in long, pale shafts, cutting across the forest floor in stripes of gold and shadow. Dew clung heavily to the leaves and grass, the air cool and damp with that quiet stillness that only existed just after sunrise. Birds had only just begun their morning calls, tentative chirps and trills echoing faintly through the woods. Somewhere nearby, water rippled over stone in a narrow stream, its steady murmur blending with the soft rustling of branches shifting in the breeze.

The forest smelled of damp earth and pine.

The Operator sat comfortably on his brand-new human chair.

Below him, Taylor Hebert strained through another push-up.

Her arms trembled as she pushed herself up from the ground again, muscles quivering violently from exhaustion. Dirt clung to the sweat gathering along her foreheads and gloves, and her breathing had long since shifted from controlled to ragged. Each inhale came sharp and fast through clenched teeth, each exhale a shaky release of effort.

“Ten,” Ordis announced pleasantly from somewhere above them.

The Cephalon’s voice came from a small drone hovering lazily in the air nearby. It bobbed gently, as if enjoying the peaceful morning scenery while simultaneously overseeing the exercise.

“Ten push-ups completed,” Ordis continued. “Only forty more to reach the current objective. Ordis believes Miss Hebert is performing admirably given her… biological limitations.”

The Operator rested his chin in one hand, leaning forward slightly to watch her form.

Two days.

It had only been two days since Taylor had joined Ten-Zero, and he had not been taking it easy on her. He had warned her the training would be harsh. She had said she was ready, and he had taken that statement very seriously.

Early mornings. Late nights. Hours at a time. Running, climbing, drills, combat practice, endurance training, swarm control exercises. Every day had been packed.

And she had shown up for every single one of them.

No excuses, and no complaints that lasted longer than a few seconds.

He had to give her credit for that.

And a nice cash bonus by the end of the week.

Right now, she was shaking beneath him, sweat dripping from her forehead to the dirt below. The Operator could feel the tremors in her muscles through his legs as she forced herself upward again.

Quietly, he channeled the Vazarin Way.

Warm, restorative Void energy flowed from him into her body, threading through strained muscle fibers and soothing the worst of the fatigue. It didn’t erase the strain of effort—she still had to do the work—but it kept her from tearing something important while pushing beyond what her body was used to.

Aside from bio-sculpting or cybernetic augmentation—technology he wasn't willing to expose her to yet—this was the most efficient way to build her body up as quickly as possible.

He leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift across the forest while she continued the exercise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Umbra.

The former Dax sat on a nearby boulder, perfectly still. His legs were crossed in meditation, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The Warframe looked like a statue, unmoving as he waited patiently for the warm-up to finish.

Normally, the Operator wouldn’t be pushing a recruit this hard this early. Training like this would usually come after a solid foundation of physical conditioning had been built—a gradual process. But Brockton Bay was not a permanent stop for him. This stay was temporary.

A vacation of sorts from the much larger objectives waiting for him elsewhere.

And vacations didn’t last forever.

He was here for a few months at best. Just enough time to say he made good on his promise to the Drifter. After that, he would move on. Other cities. Other potential recruits. Other problems that required his attention.

And Taylor would remain here, taking on relatively low-risk assignments until she was ready for missions beyond what Brockton Bay could offer.

His gaze drifted toward Ordis’ hovering Sentinel body.

Or at least, that was the plan.

His Cephalon had reported unusual movement from the ABB yesterday. They were buying weapons. Recruiting new members. Stockpiling equipment.

Most likely, they intended to break Lung out of holding.

With Lung gone, the remaining leadership of the ABB consisted primarily of a serial suicide-bombing psychopath and a domestic terrorist armed with tinkertech explosives. That combination alone was reason enough to stop whatever they were planning before it began.

Which was why Ordis had already passed the information to the PRT.

It didn’t sit entirely right with the Operator to leave things to someone else. But there was no need to step on the Protectorate’s toes unnecessarily. Based on the experience and skill sets of the local heroes, the weakened ABB would be much easier for them to handle now that Lung was no longer in the picture.

Still, the information meant something else.

Things in Brockton Bay were shifting.

The Empire and Coil would not sit idly by while the ABB weakened. A power vacuum like that invited expansion. If those factions began pushing into each other’s territory, the PRT would inevitably step in.

And if the PRT stepped in…

A four-way conflict could erupt across the city.

Which meant Taylor might end up learning in the field whether she was ready or not.

Below him, her push-ups slowed.

“Speed it up,” the Tenno ordered lazily.

Taylor grunted under his weight. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing push-ups with a person sitting on your back.”

“The tiredness is all in your head,” he replied calmly.

And it was mostly true. The fatigue she felt was largely a combination of heat, soreness, phantom pain, and the brain’s natural assumption that the body should be exhausted by now.

“The tiredness might be in my head,” she panted between breaths, “but your weight isn’t.”

The Tenno laughed, and when he spoke next, there was a mischievous smile on his face.

“Well, if you’ve got enough energy to give your boss lip, then I assume you’ll be perfectly fine with some full-contact sparring afterward.”

That got her moving again immediately.

“Thirty-eight!” Ordis declared brightly. “Thirty-nine! Forty!”

Sheesh.

He had broken her nose one time during sparring. An accident. Mostly. And he had healed it immediately afterward too. But ever since then, she had shown a strong preference for sparring with Umbra instead.

Which the Operator found endlessly amusing.

Because Umbra was a Warframe.

The Operator’s casual punch might break her nose, but Umbra’s could remove her head.

“Forty-eight,” Ordis said.

Taylor’s arms trembled violently as she pushed herself upward again

“Forty-nine.”

She collapsed halfway down.

Then forced herself back up through pure stubbornness.

“Fifty!”

The Operator hopped lightly off her back.

“That’ll do,” he said.

Taylor nearly attempted another push-up before gravity won. She collapsed face-first into the dirt with a heavy thud.

For several seconds, she simply lay there, breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as sweat soaked into the ground beneath her.

“Take five,” the Operator said.

She rolled onto her back and stared up through the trees at the pale morning sky, breathing like she had just finished running a marathon.

Which she had.

But that was before the push-ups, so completely unrelated.

“Twenty,” she begged weakly.

“No,” he immediately responded.

“Ten,” she fished.

“No,” he repeated with an amused smirk.

“Five minutes feels short when you’re dying.”

“You wouldn’t feel that bad if you ditched the baggy sweats,” the Operator commented mildly.

Like always, she had no response to that. So like always, he let it go. It wasn’t like he was enforcing a dress code during training. As long as her clothing didn’t interfere with movement, she could wear whatever she wanted. Her desire to be hyper-modest was not his concern.

“But you’re rapidly improving,” he added after a moment. “So good work.”

Above them, Ordis’ drone drifted slightly closer.

“The Operator speaks the truth, Miss Hebert,” he began, projecting a hologram of her biological data for them to see. “You demonstrated a remarkable eight percent physical increase across all monitored categories. Your dramatic exaggerations regarding death and dying are statistically inaccurate.”

Taylor sighed tiredly.

“Thanks, guys,” she mumbled.

The Operator chuckled but remained silent after that, giving her the remainder of her break uninterrupted.

Five minutes later, he clapped his hands once.

“Alright, break’s over,” he declared.

Taylor groaned but rolled to her feet anyway. Umbra rose from the boulder at the same time. The Warframe stepped down from the rock with quiet, fluid motion, landing silently on the forest floor.

“Ordis,” the Operator said. “Mind doing the honors?”

Ordis bobbed happily.

A holographic map flickered to life in the air between them. A three-dimensional projection of the surrounding forest appeared. Terrain lines, tree clusters, elevation markers, and water features all rendered in glowing blue detail.

Taylor leaned forward slightly, focusing.

“This, Taylor, will be your training exercise today,” the Operator said. “Please try to remember the map. You’ll need it.”

She nodded, squinting slightly as she studied the projection.

The Tenno pointed to a small glowing point.

“We are here.” A second point lit up several miles north. “There’s a lake in this forest a couple of miles away.” The point pulsed softly in the hologram. “That’s your destination.”

Taylor squinted at the projection, her expression intense. She wasn't having trouble seeing it—he had fixed her eyesight during the medical exam—but she was trying to commit the terrain to memory.

“And is there any objective I need to complete on the way there?” she questioned.

“No.” He shook his head. “Your only objective is to reach it.”

Taylor glanced between him, Umbra, and the hovering sentinel, suspicion plain on her face.

“There’s a catch,” she stated.

The Tenno’s smirk widened, becoming more mischievous.

“Of course. You’ll have to complete the objective without being captured or disabled by me… Umbra… Ordis…” He paused slightly, letting the moment stretch to instill unease. “…or Venari.”

Taylor blinked at the unfamiliar name.

“Who’s Venari?”

The Operator waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it.”

His smirk made it very clear she should, in fact, be very worried.

“Can I get a h—”

“Make it to the lake by any means necessary,” he interrupted. “If you encounter anything that threatens that objective, fight it like your life depends on it.”

Taylor’s gaze suddenly flicked toward the trees in that now familiar, unnatural way that said she sensed something through her bugs.

Right then, as if knowing the jig was up, something moved through the fresh autumn undergrowth. Audible, but unseen. Branches rustled. Twigs snapped. Taylor's posture stiffened.

The Operator watched the anxiety build on her face before the subtle signs of panic shifted into focus. Her breathing sharpened. Her shoulders squared as she stood her ground.

“To make it fair,” he continued, “you have a six-minute head start. Oh, and your test begins now.”

For half a second, nothing happened. Taylor just stared at him.

Then, the air around them exploded into motion.

A black cloud erupted outward from the surrounding trees as Taylor’s swarm surged in from every direction. Beetles, flies, moths, ants, gnats—thousands upon thousands of insects flooded the clearing in a dense, living storm.

Within seconds, the swarm thickened until it became a churning wall of wings and bodies.

Vision dropped to almost nothing. The drone lights blurred. The holographic map vanished. Even Umbra’s silhouette became difficult to make out.

Taylor didn’t run.

Instead, she backed away slowly while facing them, her movements hidden within the swirling insects. Her shape dissolved into the moving cloud as the swarm blanketed the entire area.

The Operator’s grin slowly widened.

Smart girl.

 She wasn’t giving away her direction of choice by sprinting blindly. She was breaking line-of-sight first.

The insects swirled thicker, forming a near-solid curtain between them.

Then, just as suddenly as it had formed, the swarm dispersed.

The insects scattered outward into the forest.

The clearing returned to quiet.

Taylor was gone.

The Operator’s grin stretched wider.

“Oh,” he said excitedly. “That’s a good start.” ---------------------------------------------

Taylor dashed through the forest, her boots pounding against the soft earth in a steady, rhythmic thud. Goosebumps prickled along her arms—not from the cold, but from the lingering memory of those glowing eyes piercing through the cloud of insects she had left behind.

She checked her internal clock as she gathered the swarm. Spiders, beetles, flies, ants, mosquitoes, bees—they all crawled along the earth or through the canopy. She knew concentrating them would give away her position if her pursuers got close, but spreading them too thin would leave her vulnerable if a confrontation broke out suddenly. It was a balancing act she was still learning to master.

She was especially wary of the thing she had barely sensed in the underbrush.

Three minutes after what she suspected was the end of her grace period, a blip appeared on the edge of her range.

It was moving fast. Incredibly fast.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Umbra, she thought immediately. It had to be.

She tried to triangulate the trajectory, pulling bugs toward the approaching signature to slow it down, but the distance closed in the span of a heartbeat.

One second, it was at the edge of her range. The next, it was a blur of motion in the trees to her left.

Taylor didn't even have time to turn her head.

Something massive, metal, and feline slammed into her side.

The impact knocked the air clean out of her lungs. She hit the ground hard, rolling across the forest floor, leaves and twigs tearing at her clothes. She cried out as she tumbled, her vision spinning. She scrambled to get her feet under her, but a heavy weight pinned her down. Claws—or what felt like claws—scraped against her sweatshirt, tearing the fabric.

Panic surged. She lashed out with her power, directing every insect in a fifty-foot radius to swarm the attacker. Bees, beetles, wasps—they descended in a screaming cloud, biting and stinging.

But the creature beneath the swarm didn't flinch. She felt the insects' mandibles scraping against something impossibly hard. Stingers bent or bounced off harmlessly.

She redirected the swarm to the head. *Looking for the eyes. That was always a weak point.*

The insects crawled over the face, searching for soft tissue, but found only the same unyielding surface. It was like trying to bite a tank.

Does it have no eyes? What the hell is this thing?

The creature clamped its jaws around her shoulder and growled as it swung her around. It tossed her with a flick of its neck. She flew back, slamming into the trunk of a pine tree with a sickening thud. The breath left her again, and she slid down to the roots, gasping.

Through the haze of pain and the swirling cloud of her own swarm, she finally got a look at her attacker.

It stood on four legs, sleek and predatory. It looked like a great cat, but was covered in gold and black armor, plating shifting smoothly over rippling muscle. The beast lowered its head, letting out a low, vibrating growl that she felt in her chest more than heard.

Taylor didn't wait for it to move.

She screamed, pouring every ounce of her will into a concentrated flood of insects. Not to hurt it—she knew that was useless now—but to blind it. A solid wall of bodies slammed into Venari, choking the air, clogging every joint and seam in its armor.

The beast thrashed, shaking the insects off with casual, terrifying strength, but it bought her precious seconds.

Taylor scrambled to her feet and ran.

She didn't look back. She sprinted, her lungs burning, her sides aching where the creature had pinned her. She could feel Venari thrashing in her range, breaking free of the insect mass, and then—

It was gone. A blur of motion dashing out of her range, leaving her alone in the forest.

She kept running for another full minute before the adrenaline began to ebb. Her steps faltered. She slowed, leaning against a tree, her chest heaving.

She knew she should probably keep running, but she was gassed and needed to check how badly she was hurt. She patted herself down frantically. Her sweatshirt was shredded, hanging off her shoulders in tatters. Her undershirt was still intact, though, and so was her bra—small mercies—but her sweatpants were torn at the knee.

She could feel bruises blooming on her ribs, shoulders, and back, but she wasn't bleeding. No deep gashes or puncture wounds either. The claws had torn her clothes, but barely scratched the skin.

How is that…

A low, mechanical whir broke the silence.

Taylor stiffened, spinning around.

Ordis’ drone hovered innocently between the trees, its single red eye glowing softly.

"Target acquired!" Ordis chirped happily, his voice echoing through the forest. "Operator! Umbra! I have found Ms. Hebert!"

Taylor stared at the drone, her mouth dry but her body sagging in relief at the familiar voice. "Ordis! You—did you see that thing? Some cat thing nearly killed me!"

Ordis tilted in the air, the gesture almost childishly dismissive. "Venari is a good kitty. She was only playing. Playing rough, perhaps, but playing nonetheless! She would never maim a friend of the Operator."

"That wasn't playing!" Taylor snapped, frustration warring with exhaustion. "I got chewed up and—"

She didn't get to finish.

The drone shot forward, slamming into her shoulder with a solid thunk.

"Tag!" Ordis declared. "You are it! Ordis is the best hunter!"

Taylor stumbled back, clutching her shoulder. "You—"

She bit down on her anger.

Right, this is a test. She shouldn’t be arguing with a hunter. The fact that she had escaped the beast with only superficial wounds should have been proof enough that Venari was holding back.

Without waiting for another warning, she turned and started running again, her pace slower now, her body protesting every step.

Ordis followed.

He didn't attack constantly. He hovered just behind her, occasionally darting forward to bash into her back or side, each time announcing his presence cheerfully and loudly. She was surprised that Tenno and Umbra hadn’t appeared yet. Maybe Venari and Ordis were the only ones allowed to play.

"Please stop running so Ordis can secure the capture!"

Taylor ground her teeth. She couldn't outrun a drone. And she couldn't fight a drone made of advanced technology with bugs.

But she could trap it.

She veered toward the river.

Taylor hadn’t been running blindly; this entire time she had been setting up a trap—a simple one. She had directed spiders to spin thick bands of silk between the trees near the water where the ground was soft, layering the strands until they were almost invisible but incredibly strong.

Once she heard Ordis revving behind her, preparing for another charge, she dropped low, throwing herself to the side.

The drone shot forward, expecting to hit her back—

—and flew straight into the thick, sticky web of spider silk she had woven between two trunks.

The web wasn't enough to hold Tenno, who could teleport, or Umbra, who was wearing a Warframe, but Ordis wasn't either of them. He thrashed, spinning in the air, but the more he moved, the deeper the silk tangled into his chassis.

"Ordis is... stuck!" the Cephalon announced, sounding genuinely surprised. "This material is remarkably durable! Well played, Miss Hebert! Well played!"

Taylor didn’t even allow herself a small, tired smile.

She didn't stop. She turned and kept running, following the riverbank. She had ants constantly recreating the map and her approximate points on it, so she knew this should lead to the lake.

But before she could take more than a dozen steps, she felt it again.

That blip on the edge of her range. Something fast and low to the ground.

Venari. The beast was back. Had Ordis’s shouting attracted it?

It didn't matter.

Taylor blanketed the air with bugs, spreading them out in a wide net, trying to track the creature's movements and cover it in insects.

The initial lunge came from above.

She threw herself to the ground. A dark shape sailed over her head, landing silently on the riverbank.

Taylor scrambled up, backing away as she tried to collapse her swarm on top of it like last time.

Venari didn't stay still.

The beast moved like lightning, bouncing from the riverbank to tree to tree, and even into the air, circling her. Taylor spun, trying to keep track, but it was impossible. The creature was a blur of motion, appearing in one spot, then another, then another, never staying long enough for her to pin down.

Her swarm buzzed in agitation, mirroring her own panic.

She tried to predict the attack. She watched the trees, listened for the snap of branches—

A blur from the left.

She turned, but too late.

Venari hit her like a freight train.

The tackle sent her flying. She hit the water with a deafening splash, the cold shocking her system.

The current caught her immediately, pulling her downstream. She thrashed, gasping, trying to find her footing, but the river was deeper than she expected.

Through the churning water, she saw Venari standing on the bank. The beast watched her as its tail flicked lazily. It made no move to chase. It simply observed, calm and unconcerned, as the river carried her away.

Taylor coughed, swallowing water, flailing against the current.

The world spun—cold, wet, and helpless for minutes until finally, she managed to grab a root jutting from the bank. She hauled herself up, crawling onto the muddy shore, hacking up water.

She lay there for a long moment, shivering. Her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin.

Her body ached but she pushed herself up onto her knees, mud smearing her face.

I hate this, she thought bitterly. I hate this so much.

This chase hadn’t even been fifteen minutes and she was already mauled, bashed, and nearly drowned. Taylor was genuinely beginning to believe that Tenno breaking her nose was his attempt at being nice.

Because right now, she wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to quit.

But she didn't. She had asked for this.

And If this were real and it was the Empire chasing her, would she give up?

No. Giving up meant death.

So as she knelt in the mud, the river water dripping from her hair, and she closed her eyes and breathed.

The Tenno had taught her this. He called it post-excersize de-stressing, a technique to manage the mental strain of combat. Something he only decided to teach her after she freaked out at her broken nose.

Find the emotion. Acknowledge it. Push it outward.

She felt the fear. The anger. The frustration. The bone-deep exhaustion.

She didn't fight them. She let them rise, acknowledged them, and then she imagined pushing them out. Around her, the insects buzzed louder, agitated.

But inside?

Inside, she felt calm settle over her in a way she hardly ever knew before learning this technique.

Her heart rate slowed. Her breathing steadied.

Taylor Hebert opened her eyes. She stood up, water squelching in her shoes, and started walking toward the lake.

She was a hero, after all. This much shouldn’t take her down.