Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The corridors of the Orokin Tower were lit with eerie, golden radiance, their ornate surfaces of ivory and radiant gold—once the embodiment of Orokin supremacy and hubris— were now fractured, soot-stained, and etched with the scars of a recent battle. Smoke curled lazily through the air like flying serpents, and the once-immaculate marble floors were littered with broken bodies, shattered drones, and pools of still-warm blood.

The grand halls, once echoing with hymns extolling the divine grace of the golden lords, now rang with screams, gunfire, and death as a tenno in the form of Excalibur Umbra, carved a path through the defenders of the tower, the Corrupted.

They were an amalgamation of different members of the Origin Systems many factions who had foolishly ventured into these halls without proper protection and had their minds and bodies twisted into slaves by the Orokin Neural Sentry.

Blazing through corridor after corridor with inhuman grace and speed, Umbra struck down all who found themselves in his path. Whether Corpus or Grineer, Infested or machine, no enemy was spared. 

Each encounter was swift and brutal. Some enemies barely turned before the warframes blade and gun silenced them. Others were more aware, reacting in time to fight back, some even wounded him—only to be annihilated moments later by the torrent of fire from its Ignis Wraith. But their stealth elimination of the enemie did not last long, the Sentry was onto them.

The Neural Sentry's alert blared across the tower, informing everyone of its pawns of the location of the intruder. A rush of Corrupted soldiers poured into the grand hall, their movements controlled and fluid, the will of the Sentry demanding unity and uniformity in all things as they scrambled up sweeping golden staircases, stepping over charred remains of fallen comrades without care to reach the high balcony overlooking the warzone. 

The Corpus elite, equipped with precision energy weapons and exo-suits, took position there, aiming their weapons down at the warframe below. 

Meanwhile, from a different entrance, a wave of Corrupted soldiers charged into the chamber. They consisted mostly of Grineer but had an Infested healer paired with a corpus shield drone. They moved in a reckless charge towards the warframe as the Corpus took their shots at Umbra. 
Dodging the lasers and plasma with a roll, Umbra turned to the Grineer and leveled his Ignis Wraith to begin immolating them with a roaring torrent of black fire. The weapons heat caused the bodies of the Grineer to writhe in agony before bursting into ash.

More plasma bolts rained down from above, targeting the warframe during the pause. But Umbra's left arm moved in a blur—his Nikana flashed into his hand. Gold and obsidian steel met energy fire with sharp clangs. Deflected shots redirected into the surviving Grineer, slicing through what the flames had missed.

One round punched through a shielding drone, cracking its casing. The machine burst apart in a flash of white, just as the Ancient Healer pulsed with green light. A wave of energy washed over its forces, healing their burned, broken bodies. Scorched flesh peeled away for fresh skin. Burned off limbs regrew. Armor reformed. Some still burned, but the healing dulled the pain enough to let them continue fighting.

Umbra idly deflected more fire from the Corpus on the balcony, sending a few shots back. Most hit shields or cover. But they’re annoying cover fire wasn't his focus.

The healed Corrupted were. 

In a flash, the warframe summoned his exalted blade and dashed forward, weaving between corrupted like a whirlwind of death as his energy blade carved through flesh and gold gilded armor alike. 

When he had gotten close to the Ancient Healer, he parried its sloppy swing and in retaliation, bisected it from hip to shoulder. It let out a gurgling shriek as its body collapsed to the floor. It was still not dead, so before it could regenerate, Umbra leapt into the air with a bullet jump and drew his Ignis.
Black flame surged as the Ancient screamed again before being disintegrated into cinders.

Shots followed from the balcony, catching Umbra in mid-air. His shields flared blue under the impact, absorbing the damage without breaking. He turned his head and saw them reloading.

Still hovering, he swept the Ignis toward them. Screams echoed as fire consumed the balcony, leaving nothing but ashes of the Corpus on it. 
Landing on the ground in a crouch among the bodies of the fallen, Umbra stood up tall and unbowed by the meager forces of the tower. .

“Well that's this sector cleared out.” The operator within spoke as he surveyed the charred and broken remains surrounding them. The warframe did not show any outward signs of a conversation happening, but in the mindscape of transference a feeling of agreement came.  “All that's left is to find some more argon crystals.”

Ordis’ voice crackled through the comms, laced with static. "Operator! My scanners have picked up signs of a Void storm forming nearby and it's -FUCKING HUGE- quite powerful!"

The Operator nearly dismissed it to continue the extermination mission. This orokin tower was in pristine condition according to the Tenno network, the Void shields would hold through the storm and the Orbiter should be more than capable of riding out the storm or leaving it range entirely until he needed extraction.

 But then, another voice spoke. Calm, yet urgent and filled with motherly love and worry in equal measure. The Lotus. “My child, you must evacuate the tower immediately. I sense Him. I hear the knocking on the wall."

A shiver ran through both Warframe and operator at the warning. They both knew what that meant, The Man in the Wall was coming. That thing had been silent after Drifter disrupted its machinations in Höllvania. What was it here for now? Them?

The tower shook and if not for a warframes unique ability to stand steady on nearly any surface, Umbra might have stumbled.

“Operator, you need to hurry. The shock nearly knocked out the tower's void shields and it's only getting stronger!” Ordis shouted into the communications. 

“We’re on our way Ordis. Thanks for the warning Lotus,” The tenno replied. That was easier said than done though. Even if the storm was the bigger problem, this place was crawling with corrupted and they couldn't exactly stealth their way out and move at max speed at the same time. 

The operator prepared to simply make a wild dash for the exit when through their bond, Umbra reminded them of a tactic they had used only a handful of times before. The Dax turned frame would stay behind and draw attention of the corrupted to him while the Operator made for extraction alone. There was no argument after the plan was given, no second thoughts or discussions of what if’s, only understanding.

With a shimmer of void energy, the Operator dashed out of Umbra’s body, becoming an invisible and intangible specter. The momentary disconnection did nothing to slow Umbra, who let out a guttural, inhuman howl as corrupted began pouring into the room. Electricity arced of his form as the ability blinded and stunned the new wave of enemies, allowing Umbra to begin the massacre at an advantage.

The Operator did not look back, they warped through the tower from one place to another, void-dashing past Corrupted, weaving between and through collapsing walls, shattered bridges and automatic doors that either did not sense the Tenno was there because of void mode or were too damaged to open.  

Far behind them, Umbra was a force of nature, drawing every eye to him as he massacred the tower's inhabitants. When the Operator reached the extraction point, they reached through the transference link connecting them to Umbra. The connection flared, and in an instant, Umbra vanished from the battlefield on the other side of the tower and materialized on them.

The Operator had already transferred back into him so it was a simple matter for Umbra to magnetize to the belly of the waiting Liset Landing Craft. The second they were aboard, the ship broke off and the tower shuddered again, broke apart, and collapsed into nothingness.

“Ordis, punch it!” The operator ordered in slight panic. If that happened to the tower with its powerful void shields, it was a miracle the landing craft was intact. 
I

n response, the Liset flew fast and away from the eye of the ever growing void storm. Waiting for them at the edge of the storm was the Orbiter. It’s bulk still as a mountain despite the storm raging near it, allowing for a rapid docking sequence. With everyone on board, Ordis wasted no time pouring power into the engine and taking off at near light speed to the nearest Solar Rail.

Abroad, the operator breathed a sigh of relief, everything was going to be fine. Even though the storm kept growing in range and intensity, gaining on them until it was shaking the Orbiter like a boat in a sea storm, they maintained a constant high speed away from it. The operator even helped Ordis out by using transference on the ship and pouring his own power into the void shields to stave off any damage.

Then, like the Lotus had foretold, It came.

This time, not as the eerily grinning doppelgänger but as something far more disturbing. In the storm’s heart, the unknowable appeared, a mysterious, indifferent entity tied to the Void.

Humanoid, eyeless, with four arms and legs embedded in a white wall. Its head was a half missing thing that resembled a human man. But what made it so unnerving and inhuman to the Operator was the smile. An expression that should have been used to put people at ease was somehow twisted into a wide, creepy, malevolent thing that made fear shiver down their spine. Atop its head, the familiar doppelgänger perched, laughing. The sound pierced through the Void storm to reach their ears.

It moved, no, the void shifted.

Distance became nothing. Time became nothing. All of the universe's laws as mere mortals understood them ceased to exist as the void entity manipulated its domain to suit its desire. 

One moment it was behind them and the next they were flying into its grinning black maw.

Ordis tried to evade, to stop, but the Void surged and they were plunged into the abyss.

The Operator tumbled from the Transference Pod, landing hard on the cold deck of the Orbiter. The jarring disconnection left their senses reeling—vision blurred, limbs momentarily numb, the distinct ache of a transference stream overload burning behind their eyes.

A shadow moved toward them.

Umbra.

The last memory they had with him placed him near the Navigation console—how much time had passed?

Now, he knelt beside them, offering a steadying hand. The Operator reached up, gripping Umbra’s thick, armored wrist. The transference stream flared briefly, then settled, their pain dulling as Umbra instinctively shared the burden through the link.

The Operator gritted their teeth. “ Thanks Umbra. Ordis… report.”

There was static, a glitching burst of sound, before the Cephalon’s voice resolved into coherence.

“Operator, Ordis is so glad you're okay! We are still within the Void. However, I’ve lost contact with the Lotus. I am unable to reach any Tenno relays, Cy, Syndicates, or even external data nodes. The only thing i'm detecting is… an anomaly. A breach within the Void wall.”

“A tear?” the Operator asked, steadying themselves as they rose to one knee.

“Correct. A small rupture, large enough to admit a Landing Craft, but not the Orbiter. Ordis would strongly advise against approaching it, given our recent—TRAUMA—experience.”

The Operator exhaled through their nose. “Scan it Ordis, maybe it's our way out of here.”

There was a brief pause. One second. Two. Five.

Far too long for Ordis. The Cephalon could scan and render an entire planetary biosignature in a blink. The hesitation wasn’t due to malfunction—it was shock.
Finally, Ordis spoke, quieter now.

“Im detecting signals Operator… ancient signals. Far older than even the early Orokin. And this may sound unbelievable but on the other side of the breach is a planetary body that predates terraforming—it appears to be… Lua. Pre-construction. Uncolonized.”

The Operator’s stomach dropped. “So it’s not the Origin System?”

“I do not believe so,” Ordis replied. “Or at least, not our Origin System.”

The Operator clenched their jaw. ‘Dammit.’

It would be a lie to say they were surprised, not after everything they’ve been through and The Man in the Wall’s personal hand in transporting them here. But why now? Why this place? Did he need them out of the way to do something? 

All good questions but none of which they could answer. Besides, now wasn’t the time to dwell. With all lines of communication to the origin system severed, one possibility remained: Drifter. 

The link between them still existed, the Operator could feel it and unless a far more substantial amount of time had passed since they were sent here, Drifter should still be in Höllvania and so could contact the Lotus.

So if anyone could reestablish contact with the origin system for them—it was him.

The Operator moved to the center of the chamber and sank into a meditative position. Fingers to the deck, head bowed, they reached inward—through the bond and into that intangible corridor that linked their split selves across timelines and experiences.

The connection latched and the Operators consciousness surged through the Void—through time, space, and memory.

Through the Drifter’s eyes, they saw…

Aoi? Her eyes closed. Lips puckered. Leaning in.

The Operator recoiled violently, tearing themselves from the link. Their stomach turned with instinctual disgust. “NOPE. Not dealing with that today.”
Umbra stirred behind them. Though he did not speak, the amusement was unmistakable through transference—warm, teasing.
The Operator groaned, rubbing their face. “Not a word.”

The Warframe’s mirth only deepened.

So with no way to contact anyone in the Origin System that didn’t involve witnessing their other timeline self getting busy, the Operator turned their attention to the anomaly. Despite the excuse used, it wasn’t just the awkward glimpse of Aoi that pushed them into action. 

They realized if the Lotus could track them wherever they ended up, she would have sent his siblings with Cephalon Cy to their location immediately after losing contact. And considering the railjacks FTL  void travel capabilities, it should have been here within minutes of their disappearance. All this combined meant that even if they contacted Drifter and he informed the Lotus of his status, actually finding their way home would mostly have to rely on himself.

And currently, the anomaly was their only lead. Not just to return to the Origin System, but to understand why the Man in the Wall had sent them here, and what it wanted. The tear in the Void wasn’t a natural phenomenon, no break in the wall of Lohk was. 

So it was likely bait put here by it, waiting for the Operator to nudge the snare, and he would, but he wouldn’t go recklessly. Not without a plan and not with Umbra. The thought of taking him into the unknown twisted a knot of unease in the Operator’s gut. Umbra wasn’t like most Warframes. He wasn’t just a biological machine, having maintained a sense of self after his transformation into a warframe. Even if rebuilding him was possible because of his Oro they didn't want to risk stranding him on the other side if the tear closed suddenly.

Umbra, having sensed his thoughts, made his disagreement known immediately through their link. He loomed at their side, posture rigid with defiance. But he didn’t argue. He understood, even if he didn’t like it, that the Operators mind was made up and he would not be coming with him.They shared a final glance. Then the Operator turned toward the transference pod.

“Ordis,” they called, voice sharpening with command. “I’m going out there. Open the Arsenal.”

“Operator,” Ordis fretted, “Are you certain this is the wisest course of action? We should wait for contact! Or at least further analysis. Entering a dimensional rupture made by THAT THING. It could be dangerous!”

“Noted. But there is nothing else to do even if we reestablish contact right now. We’re lost in an unknown section of the Void and our only way out is a portal to the past. They can't exactly send a tow ship out here.” The Operator explained. “It’s better to go out and investigate the other side so when we do establish contact we have useful intel about our situation.”

A few more protests, a handful of glitched syllables, and Ordis finally relented when the words “please” left their mouth. The cephalon adored its operator too much not to give in after that. 

The transference pod flickered to life, bathing the chamber in pale light as the Operator stepped back into it. The neural link flared. Awareness folded inward, into that familiar stream of transference—mind reaching out into the ship’s systems, the Arsenal interface blooming into view before them.

Loki Prime was their choice—stealthy, agile, deadly. No weapons loaded yet. The plan was to transfer Umbra’s loadout over to Loki. 

They initiated the transfer…

And found themselves in Atlas Prime.

“…This is not Loki,” the Operator muttered while moving the new, yet familiar body.  “Ordis?”

The Cephalon's response was riddled with static. “Ordis could have sworn… Apologies, Operator. Trying again.”

Another transfer. Ivara Prime.

 Another. Excalibur Prime.

Only these three would appear no matter which frame he tried to use unless he selected them specifically.
Frustration bubbled. The Arsenal was glitched—no, compromised. Only certain Warframes and weapons would manifest, as if the Man in the Wall were playing curator.

Thankfully, mods, gears, and companions were still fully available to choose from.

The Operator growled under their breath, cursing the presence they knew was responsible. “Bastard.”

Eventually, they settled on Ivara Prime. Stealth would be their ally in exploring the unknown, and they ensured they were adequately armed: Burston Prime (Incarnon), a Lex Prime pistol, and Hate, the Stalkers signature scythe. He also brought along his Helios Sentinel for scanning and analysis. Not exactly an ideal line up for a stealth mission, but it would suffice.

Fully equipped, they walked to the entrance to the Landing Craft. Umbra accompanied them before stopping at the entrance.. The Operator knew he would return to the Transference Pod once they departed—a habit he adopted after the second Stalker intrusion.

A faint smirk touched the Operator's features, their voice carrying the expression. "Hold down the ship for me."

Umbra offered a silent nod, a gesture of trust and understanding. With that, Ivara ascended the ramp to Navigation, the hatch sealing shut behind them. The internal systems of the Landing Craft engaged but only Navigation was working. Alone now, in the hush of the pilot chamber, the Operator let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.
They stared into the anomaly, now visible through the window of the liset. Through this rift, the Operator could see a celestial body bathed in pale light—a moon, unscarred and whole. Unlike the fragmented Lua they knew, this version bore no signs of Orokin terraforming or the ravages of the Old War. 

Seeing it in person confirmed that whatever lay beyond, was not the Origin System. But diving into the unknown, the eldritch, and the dangerous was not something alien to a Tenno.

And so, they launched.

Chapter Text

The Void shimmered behind them, an unseen wound in reality, as the Landing Craft slowly emerged into orbit beyond the moon. Silence reigned but for the soft hum of systems adjusting to realspace. The Operator sat still and ready for anything in the body of Ivara Prime, the frame's senses expanding as their gaze fell upon the gray face of Lua, or just the moon as it was not the Orokin capital yet.

"Ordis, scan the surface of the moon. Anything unusual?" The Operator commanded. He figured scans would yield more promising results now that they were outside the Void.

The Cephalon's voice responded immediately, all traces of glitching gone. "Operator, detecting an irregular structure on the far side of the moon. Temperature residuals suggest long-term abandonment. Structure is incomplete. There are significant structural breaches—exposed segments to vacuum. Material composition is not consistent with suspected construction capabilities for this civilization's current technological era. Additionally, trace evidence suggests this was intended to be a self-contained biosphere. Strange."

"Thanks Ordis. Looks like we have our first clue. Bring us there." The Tenno responded, but internally their mind thought more on the subject, the questions piling on. 'What is humanity doing with such advanced alloys and a moon biosphere this far in the past and why is it abandoned?'

A biosphere, even in the Origin System, was not something to scoff at price wise. Not to say it was some long lost Orokin technology you could only hope to recover with the help of the void trader himself, but it was expensive to own one. Only the rich like the corpus elite and the Orokin could afford it. So for one this far in the past to just be abandoned spoke only ill omens to the Tenno.

Cloaking the ship, they maneuvered around the moon's curve, bringing the derelict facility into view within a minute. What greeted them was interesting: half-built domes and modular corridors scattered across the regolith like ribs. Wide gouges marked the surface, but no heat scarring, no impact craters, no known weapon signatures.

"Interesting, no obvious signs of a battle. So why was it abandoned?" the Operator murmured to himself. "Bring us in Ordis, I want to investigate further."

Ordis complied, slowing to a hover near a section of the ruined installation.

"Operator, the facility itself appears entirely without life support. Estimated operational time before recall required: twenty minutes."

"Understood. Keep the ship cloaked. I'll be in and out in quick."

After going through the Tenno's standard ejection, Ivara Prime dropped from the underbelly of the Landing Craft, diving silently down in zero gravity with the grace of a swan before righting herself at the last moment. The frame's feet touched the lunar dust without a sound. The Operator moved fast toward an opening in the derelict, not even bothering to cloak, as Helios twisted and turned at their side to analyze everything.

Inside the destroyed facility, crates were half-open, tools left mid-use. Advanced drones, seemingly used to help construct the base, sat dead beside support beams. Cables trailed into nowhere. There were hydroponic trays scattered in an organized grid, now filled only with frozen gray dust. Transparent wall sections meant to simulate sunlight lay shattered, broken from exposure to the elements and time.

But there were no bodies, no defensive turrets, not even a sign of a broadcast attempt to whoever owned this place about their intrusion. Just silence and lunar dust.

So the Operator kept exploring until Ivara Prime's optics caught sight of a terminal, long dead, buried in dust but seemingly intact enough due to being made of the same advanced alloy as the base. He approached, pulling out the Parazon and jacking it into the computer. Power surged, computer lights buzzing weakly to life as the Operator fed it with the warframe's own energy. The screen didn't work but that wasn't necessary when they could just extract the raw data.

"Ordis, I found a terminal, pulling data now."

The Parazon easily bypassed any security like it wasnt there, found, and accessed the data. Most of it was too corrupted to make any sense of, except for a single entry dating back a little over a decade:

Automated tracking system online. External anomaly detected. Gravitational distortion registering off the far side. Source unknown. Possibly a meteoroid—adjusting orbital sensors.

Then nothing. Cut off mid-entry before the computer could identify it.

"That's it?" the Operator muttered. "No alert protocols, no warnings, no confirmation on what appeared."

"Operator, the system terminated just minutes after this entry, and all other previous entries are too corrupted for even Ordis to recover."

"Not even emergency evacuation records?"

"Negative. Ordis doubts human crew members were ever used directly in the construction of the facility. I can detect no staff quarters or other signs of previous human habitation."

The Operator's gaze wandered upward, through the cracked dome. Stars stared back, twinkling like ayatans as his mind put together what might have happened here bit by bit.

Years ago, somewhere beyond that curve of the moon, something had appeared. What it was is currently unknown but given that no one had continued construction of the base after its appearance, it was safe to assume it was not a meteoroid. The alloy used in construction of the base should have been more than enough to stop any meteor that wouldn't outright destroy the place wholesale. Since the structural damage seemed to come from a combination of a lack of maintenance on the facility, exposure to the elements, and the occasional meteorite that might have hit it. Whatever appeared, hadn't attacked the place, just scared the people who constructed it away, for some also unknown reason.

"I don't like this," the Operator said, running a hand across the dust-laced surface of the console. "The mysteries keep piling on."

"I concur Operator," The Cephalong chimed in, voice low and slightly nervous. "Ordis has a bad feeling about what we will find when we reach earth."

The mention of Earth made Ivara look around the chamber again, optics taking in every detail once more. Even in ruin, and without being the greatest student of the history of the Earth of the Origin System, the Tenno could tell the architecture was made with design philosophies that didn't align with what he and Ordis suspected any current Earth-bound faction would or could use.

If not for the lack of gold and white, the Operator would have suspected it was early Orokin. Maybe precursor technology to them, but that was impossible.The suspected time period was nowhere close to the Lith Era. So what was going on in this timeline as to why technology had advanced so rapidly? Visitors from the Origin System maybe? Aliens? Or could this possibly be one of the many machinations of the Man In the Wall?

A dull pulse from their HUD reminded them of the time. Life support readouts blinking yellow. "Life support is approaching critical levels. Ordis recommends immediate extraction."

The Operator gave the empty room one last look before bullet-jumping up and through the hole in the roof, Helios floating close beside them. The moon's low gravity ensured they were carried further up and toward the cloaked ship they knew was hovering above them.

As they magnetized to the bottom of the Liset and reentered the ship, the Operator felt the faint pull of urgency deep in their bones. Not fear—never fear—but instinct sharpened to a fine edge after centuries of battles.

For a moonbase this far in the past to remain abandoned and incomplete after all these years must mean that whatever was responsible for its abandonment was still out there. But regardless of what it was, if it came after them, it would not find a Tenno wanting.

"Ordis," the Operator said, slipping back into the lotus position at navigation. "Set course for Earth. This place is a bust. Whatever's here won't answer our questions on how to get home."

Following his command, Ordis rotated the Liset on silent thrusters, angling smoothly downward toward the curve of Earth. A moment of stillness passed as the engines powered up to the max. Igniting, the craft disappeared into deep space in a burst of speed.

Chapter Text

The space between Lua and the Earth was quiet—an open corridor of cosmic silence divided by the distance and time. The Liset flew through it like a ghost, its systems humming softly as Ordis brought the ship to a slow halt. The Operator sat still at navigation, legs folded under them in a loose lotus, gaze fixed on the swelling blue planet ahead.

"We are nearing optimal observation range," Ordis chirped, voice carrying a lightness as he looked upon the blue planet, no longer feeling the eerie nervousness after some time away from the moonbase. "Earth. No Grineer Galleons polluting the sky. No Narmer. Just... the planet as it once was." A soft, wistful pause. "Their ugly ships always ruined the view before."

The Operator chuckled in agreement with his ship Cephalon. "You're right. It's almost... peaceful here."

They drifted closer and halted just outside of geostationary orbit. Earth spun slowly beneath them, its oceans calm, clouds winding in slow spirals over jagged continents. Helios hovered nearby, already humming with anticipation at the many scans it would be able to catalog.

Out of all the times the Tenno had seen earth from its orbit, this would be his favorite simply from the fact that earth looked so…free.

Free of the Grineer and their poisoning of the land, free of the ravages of the Orokin in their unending pursuit of power, free of the Technocytes taint, and free of Narmer, the annoying reminder that he had failed to stop Ballas sooner.

Sure, this Earth probably had troubles of its own given what had sent him here and the discoveries made on the moon, but a Tenno could dream.

"Begin planetary scan," the Operator ordered Ordis after a while. "I want a rough picture of the state of this world."

"Of course Operator! Initiating full-sphere scan. Running deep-surface sweeps, low-frequency communications mapping, and satellite piggybacking. This will take a moment."

The ship’s displays lit up, multiple data layers unfolding as Ordis built a composite of Earth’s current condition. The globe pulsed with flickering signals—hotspots of strange energy, erratic broadcasts, and concentrated human infrastructure. Dozens of photos began compiling alongside each region of data—cities, remote outposts, scarred wastelands, and pristine stretches of untouched land.

"Parsing results… and done," Ordis said after a pause. "Operator, it is as I thought, this Earth appears to be in the ancient twenty-first century. Current date, February twenty five of the year two thousand and eleven.”

Information regarding the calendar of this time popped up briefly, showing it wasn’t all that different from what the people of Cetus used.

“Unlike the Earth of the Origin system, this one is densely populated and highly active. Technologically, it is primitive compared to Orokin standards. Yet, there are isolated pockets of advanced technology far beyond what their baseline science should produce."

As Ordis spoke, relevant information was displayed and shuffled on the screen.

"Local breakthroughs or…gifted knowledge?" The Operator asked as Ivara Prime’s head twisted and turned, taking in all the information on display. They were trying to find any link between this world and the origin system.

"Hard to be certain but Ordis does not think that is the case.” The cephalon replied while skimming through more data. “Their advanced pockets of technology barely match any known Origin System designs and most advancements are the result of Parahuman technology or reverse engineering it."

"The Parahumans." The Tenno had spotted the term in a few documents and feeds on the display. “They're humans with unnatural abilities, right?”

"Correct. Over six hundred and fifty thousand known individuals exhibit anomalous traits—most gained them suddenly and under extreme duress from what Ordis can observe. Powers range widely: physical augmentation, elemental control, energy manipulation, and even time-space disruptions. A category labeled as Tinkers possesses the individuals responsible for the technology gap."

The Operator's eyes widened as he focused on the information regarding how these people gained power. The way these Parahumans gained abilities sounded faintly similar to how the children of the Zariman had gained theirs. Were these Parahumans some form of Tenno? Had someone, just like him, been desperate enough to make a deal with the Man In the Wall, and as a result, brung about the rise of Parahumans?

”Ordis, scan for Void influence."

"I already have Operator, I even checked for Tau energy. There is none. Whatever empowers them, it is not the Void or any known source of power. It's most likely an independent force native to this world."

"That's… good," the Operator said, his voice low, touched with an emotion even he couldn’t quite name. There was something uncomfortable in the realization that he was the only Tenno in this universe.

That for the first time in his life, he was truly alone. A different universe, a different even if similar system. No siblings and no Lotus. Was this what the Drifter had felt, wandering the Zariman alone for years? Was this how Rell had felt, long before Red Veil took him in?

Ordis, sensing his Operator's mood taking a turn for the worse, refocused him by bringing up another section of data.

"Operator look, I've discovered that several organizations exist to either support or exploit parahumans. The most prominent is the Protectorate, a government-backed team of powered law enforcement who operate alongside another government agency called the Parahuman Response Team. Together, they act as a peacekeeping force across North America and occasionally elsewhere. There are similar groups like the Guild that cooperate with them, but not all actors are aligned. Vigilantes, rogues, criminals—many operate outside the system. It’s a chaotic, unstable ecosystem.”

The Operator’s eyes narrowed slightly as a question popped up into his mind, which he voiced. “How is this world still standing? Its countries are divided and there are hundreds of thousands of enhanced trauma survivors running around either setting fires or trying to put them out.” He let out a breathy sound that would have been a whistle if the warframe had lips. “It’s honestly impressive civilization hasn’t collapsed yet.”

There was no sarcasm in his tone, just the kind of respect only someone who’d seen and done worse could give.

“There are regions around the world that have already collapsed into lawless ruin. But yes, Operator. It is impressive—given the odds.” Ordis replied in his own somewhat impressed tone.

There was a slight pause before Ordis continued speaking, slightly changing the subject to something he viewed as important. “Operator, out of all the parahumans I have glimpsed there is one individual of particularly high interest. A figure called Scion. Also referred to as, the Golden Man.”

A new video flickered to life—a golden figure, radiant, descending from the sky in a blur. He intercepted a collapsing bridge, raised a sunken ship, vaporized debris with focused energy. A montage of his activity compiled itself beside his profile.

"Scion is the first recorded parahuman. Active worldwide. He responds to disasters without fail, without visible rest, without communication. His abilities include flight, gravitational manipulation, energy discharge, and matter restoration."

The Operator leaned in, brow furrowed in the transference pod as they viewed more info on the golden man. His list of abilities was impressive, even to a Tenno, and powerful enough to match one if the known feats were anything to go by. Could he be the help they need to get home?

“Any known contacts?" The operator asked. The golden man seemed to like his solitude so finding someone to indirectly contact him in case he needed to speak to him would be more respectful than chasing him down with the Liset.

"No known communication after his initial appearance. And no affiliations. He operates alone." Ordis replied, which disappointed the Tenno.

The Operator watched a freeze-frame of Scion hovering over the ocean, gold light radiating off his form in a way that sparked unpleasant half remembered memories of the Orokin. An unfair comparison but there was something off about Scion. Something that rubbed the Operator the wrong way.

"He's too…inhuman.” The Operator finally said after some deliberation. ”I’d even say alien if he wasn't more similar to a corpus drone than any living being I've encountered."

Scion looked human but the fact was he didnt act it. Even the Tenno, void touched as they were, acted more human than him. They had interests that went beyond their duty to the origin system. Family, friends, pets, fashion frame, FLOOFS! Yet this Scion didn't do anything but save people and didn't have anyone but himself.

"I concur, Operator. The people revere him, but he is... unnatural even among parahumans to the point I am unsure if he is even human."

A silence stretched between them as the new information was taken in. Then Ordis brought up another data stream.

"The next subject of interest are the Endbringers. Entities far beyond parahuman levels, with the exception of Scion, who they actively flee from. They do not live among the people—they emerge only to destroy around once every three months. Each being takes turns to attack, usually in the order they appeared."

Three icons blinked across the hologram, glowing red and displaying information and images on the Endbringers. As Ordis kept talking the operator went back to wondering how this world still had civilization left in it.

"Behemoth is a subterranean one-eyed radioactive humanoid monster. Currently dormant near the Earth’s core. His presence disturbs tectonic fields even in rest. Leviathan is a bi-pedal lizard-like hydrokinetic monster currently located in an ocean trench, latitude and longitude mapped. Simurgh: a most elusive winged humanoid capable of mind control, mimicking parahuman technology and… precognition? Last known appearance in Canberra, Australia. Eighteen hours ago she attacked the city but was driven off. Since then it has had no sightings."

The Operator frowned. "And no indication where she went?"

“Well she is known to station herself in earth's…” Ordis paused as he immediately sent out a quick scan of earth's orbit that came back near instantly. "It’s… near."

The Operator leaned forward, searching the globe for the third Endbringer indicator. "Near? Where?"

"Orbit. A geostationary position. Directly across from us. Adjusting angle." The Liset turned, drifting in a slow arc. The stars shifted and There she was.

A fifteen feet tall, waif-thin, alabaster-skinned woman with cold silver eyes and hair like trailing silk. Her form was humanlike but unnaturally flawless, too beautiful one could say. If not for the fact she was wrapped in great, asymmetrical wings that shifted like silent curtains around her nude body, one could be forgiven for thinking she was just an immaculate statue. But she was not, the Simurgh was alive and looking at them. Not directly but with an eerie exactness.

"She sees us," the Operator whispered unnecessarily due to the tense atmosphere. They weren't even conversing out loud with Ordis.

"Impossible. Cloaking is intact." Ordis replied, his voice steady and sure.

The Operator’s Ivara stared back at the false angel and the Simurgh didn't move. No motion. No aggression. Just… watching. They wanted to believe Ordis but couldn't. There was nothing interesting around this sector of space until they stationed the Liset here. And unless both the Tenno and Ordis somehow missed the giant naked woman looking at them the entire time, the operator was sure the monster came here because of them.

"Move us," the Operator ordered. They were sure that in some capacity the endbringer could see them, but Ordis could also be right and that warranted testing. "Slowly. I want to see if she tracks."

Ordis obeyed. The Liset crept sideways in vacuum. A meter. Two.

That was as far as they went before a telekinetic wave slammed into the ship’s side. Alarms blared. The Liset spiraled, gyroscopic stabilizers whirring wildly.

"Stabilizing!" Ordis announced as he did just that. “Apologies Operator, it appears you were right!”

The Operator stood up, inertial dampeners and artificial gravity allowing them to move easily despite the spinning. He took Burston Prime in hand out of habit from missions. "That’s not important right now. Let's retreat, I don't want to fight this world's version of an Eidolon in an Ivara frame."

"Affirmative, adjusting trajectory and getting us out of here!" The ship righted itself from its spin, turning towards earth.

"No. Not toward the planet Ordis. If she follows we could be endangering innocent lives. Take us outward. Deep space."

"Understood Operator," The Liset turned once more and began flying away from Earth’s silhouette, but before Ordis could accelerate to full speed and lose her easily, another invisible attack clipped one of the main rear thrusters.

"Port engine compromised!" Ordis informed in slight panic as he barely kept the ship from spinning out of control again.

"New plan then," the Operator said, gripping the gun tighter. "Stay close to Earth while we try to lose her. We might need a crash vector if things go bad.”

They didn’t want to bring any trouble to the inhabitants of this world, at least more trouble than necessary, but they also couldn't let the landing craft be lost to deep space if it was damaged or destroyed in this chase. If it floated too far before it could be recovered then it would be a major loss of resources the operator couldn't afford when cut off from the origin system.

As the damaged Liset flew away from their pursuer at a reduced speed, the Simurgh followed. Graceful yet relentless despite being too slow to close the distance meaningfully. That didn't stop her from sending more telekinetic blasts as the chase stretched into minutes.

Some missed completely, as if she was aiming at where she thought they’d be instead of where they actually were. Others got close enough to jolt or hit the ship but Ordis was ready for it and so always adjusted before the ship would lose control.

Then unexpectedly, Helios pinged the coms.

"Operator, Helios has used the ship's sensors to analyze her energy.” Ordis informed with glee. “I can see her attacks now!"

Ordis wasn't truly seeing them, it was more like detecting them as if they were missiles on radar but the difference hardly mattered when the results were the same.

The ship cephalon began dodging more effectively, weaving through telekinetic blasts like a needle through cloth despite the Lisets damaged truster. The Simurgh kept chasing and attacking but it seemed she finally realized her attacks weren’t even landing anymore, and that at this rate she would lose them.

Suddenly, pieces of nearby technology started flying apart. Derelict satellites, the remnants of Cold War technology, and modern communication arrays— all rose around her in synchrony. Pieces came apart. Frames unwound. Circuits aligned. The Simurgh was building something mid-chase, pulling parts together in a halo of debris that was rapidly assembling into something different and more advanced than the individual parts could possibly hope to achieve normally.

"She's making something Ordis," the Operator said as he tracked Helio’s scans closely. "Parahuman technology I think. Helios is barely making heads or tales of whatever she’s building."

"We need to stop her!" Ordis declared in a panic. "Parahuman technology is widely varied, generally destructive, and unstable. There's no telling what she could do to the Liset if she completes it."

A beat of silence passed as the Tenno thought and the Liset twisted and turned, dodging more of her attacks and satellites in their path that began floating towards the Simurgh.

After a mere moment of thinking they decided their next course of action. "Get the Archwing ready Ordis."

"Operator, if you go out there, you’ll be blind to her attacks and if she hits you even once, you could lose your warframe.”

He was right, the Tenno realized. The archwing was their first thought due to its familiarity in these kinds of situations but trying to fight that thing with it would be foolish, especially since his current Archwing was built recently and not modded to fight something like this.

The Operator needed a more creative solution and he had just the idea. "Lower the ramp then. I'm going to shoot from here."

Ordis obeyed without question this time, despite his misgivings about this course of action as well. The hatch hissed open as air rushed out the Liset. The Operator walked forward and stood at the edge, magnetized boots anchoring them to the floor and allowing them to ignore the vacuum beyond while the Helios used its own methods to stay by its master's side.

Facing their pursuer, who seemed to be near to completing the tinker tech device, the Tenno wasted no time, putting away their Burston Prime and summoning the Artemis Bow. The exalted weapon shimmered into existence within Ivara Prime’s grasp: sleek, ornate, and lined with golden accents that did little to hide its lethal nature. A hum of power seemed to emanate from the string as warframe energy poured into it.

"Helios, keep analyzing her device. Ordis, try and hold us steady."

There were silent confirmations of their orders as the Tenno raised their bow and drew on the string. Arrows manifested, swirling with fire, cold, electricity, and toxic elemental charge as Ivara’s instincts and the Operator’s skills synced together to determine the most effective angle to deliver their payload.

Once loose, the arrows zipped out in blinding, colorful arcs and then multiplied. Six arrows became dozens as the multishot mod installed on the bow performed its function. The first wave of arrows slammed into the Simurgh and the machine she was constructing. Explosions bloomed like warheads, not just from the arrows but from damage to her constructs.

The Simurgh recoiled, not in pain, but from being forced back. Her expression was placid and calm despite alabaster skin from her face to her hip being almost completely gone. Even as her wings slowly disintegrated from corrosive damage and the rest of her body was either frosted over, on fire, or seeping blood like a river, she never stopped.

"Amazing Operator, you nailed her!" Ordis cheered with glee.

"Wait, I can damage her," the Operator murmured in slight surprise as he began drawing the bow again. He had expected her to be mostly immune to conventional forms of damage like the Eidolons of Cetus but it seemed that comparison was less accurate than he had thought.

More arrows were fired and this time the winged woman tried blasting the arrows with her telekinetic waves before they could reach her, some of them detonating early while others slipped past her guard. Ivara’s ability to control her arrows like they were her own fingers allowed them to move in different and irregular patterns to avoid her defense and land on the parahuman technology she was attempting to build.

This song and dance continued for a short while, more explosions blooming in the sky as they raced across the planet.

In the beginning, It seemed the Simurgh didn't care about the damage to her own body, blocking only as needed to defend her work. But as the battle continued and the elemental effects kept piling on, she started taking getting hit more seriously. She grew more cautious, more deliberate. She even started dodging, altering her flight path, and sacrificing fragments of her tinker tech to shield herself and more vital parts of the construction.

All of this was a positive sign to the Tenno but his situation wasn’t improving much either.

Ivara’s energy reserves were dwindling fast, and soon she wouldn’t have enough to power the Artemis Bow at all. Meanwhile, the Simurgh—despite being reduced to a half-melted, skeletal thing—was still attacking and building in equal measure. The damage to her, while visually devastating, had done little to hinder her mobility or her ability to construct and repair her tinkertech.

Still, the Operator had noticed that despite her endurance, her body HAD reacted to the elemental effects and she had decided it was best to avoid most of his attacks rather than let her body tank the damage. And that display of weakness gave him an idea.

Right as he was about to test it, the Simurgh reached—grabbing hold of a cluster of shattered satellites drifting ahead of the Liset.

The Operator didn’t even see what she was reaching for but tried to warn Ordis regardless. "Ordis, she's—"

"I see it!” Ordis interrupted. “Brace!"

The Endbringer hurled the mass toward them.

Ordis veered hard, thrusters howling as the Liset twisted violently to avoid the oncoming wreckage. The largest chunk of twisted metal missed by meters, but smaller debris scraped along the hull with a deep, groaning rattle. The jolt was enough to throw Ivara clear of the ship and into open space.

But there was no panic. The Operator had been through too many similar and worse situations to feel such an emotion right now.

So even as the stars and earth spun around him, he acted calmly and with finesse. Ivara’s bow came up, steady in zero-G, and fired a zipline arrow, golden line spooling out behind it as the arrow few and slammed into the Liset's hull just as the Warframe began to drift.

And before the line snapped tight, Ivara’s gauntlet caught it cleanly. Whipping her into a hard arc as momentum dragged her back toward the ship.

Helios, who had followed the warframe out, shimmered and vanished into the warframes subspace before it could be left behind..

Now the Warframe dangled from the Liset with the line, one hand wrapped in the zipline as the Artemis Bow dissolved into energy in the other. With the second hand now free, the Warframe grabbed the line again and began pulling itself back in with full strength, all while Ordis gently swerved and twisted to dodge more incoming telekinetic waves.

"Operator?! Are you alright? Should I slow down?!"

He was already beginning to but his Tenno stopped him.

"No! Keep going! The slower you are, the easier you are to hit!"

The speed and swinging made it harder to climb, but pull in they did. Once enough slack was drawn in, the Operator hooked one boot around the zipline to stabilize themselves. Immediately, the operator realized he couldn’t shoot like this. Letting go meant drifting into space or worse, into her reach, and he didn’t want to find out what the Endbringer would do to his Warframe if caught.

So the Operator held tight and watched—out of the fight, but not useless yet. They considered deploying the Archwing again, but rejected the idea. Ivara had one last ability that might work before they had to risk fighting her directly.

The Simurgh, realizing there was no more immediate retaliation after her recent attacks, resumed her work with increased speed. Broken parts and scrap from the satellites—both pieces blasted away earlier by the Tenno and fresh fragments—floated to her like fish on a line. The machine reformed piece by piece. Plates locked together. Wiring wrapped in coils. Some pieces hovered beside her, waiting to be installed.

It took mere seconds of unmolested assembling for her to finish her tinkertech.  A large black ring device. Barely wider than the Simurgh herself—but the design was unmistakably advanced: a smooth toroid of scorched plating, weathered solar panels, and reworked satellite hulls lashed together with invisible force rather than weld or bolt. It was an ugly thing in detail, but at a distance, there was something graceful about how it all fit.

The device wasn’t stable, it sparked, clanked, and whirled in a way that didn't need an engineer to tell you that something was wrong, but it worked. A low, constant shimmer pulsed through the ring’s core, the beam itself invisible until it activated.

“Ordis, Get ready…” The Operator began nervously, hoping his decision to hold off on using the archwing wasn’t going to get both the Liset and his warframe destroyed.

When the device finally activated, the space inside seemed to snap inward like water rushing into a drain.The device pulsed, a wide blue beam shone from its center like a cone and covered them, significantly slowing the Liset but not stopping it completely due to its anti-gravity system.

“Operator, she caught us in an artificial gravity well. What do we do now?” Ordis queried with panic as he tried to fly the ship out the range of the device.

However, the beam was wide and the simurgh was tracking their general positions to keep them trapped. And with the Liset slowed down so much, on top of being down an engine, the Endbringer was now gaining on them. Thankfully, it had stopped sending telekinetic waves and was instead focusing on closing the distance between itself and the ship with the ring floating at her side.

Despite the situation, the Operator was not too worried, in fact, he was more relaxed than before. The tinkertech was not some destructive weapon like they had feared and the Endbringer wasn't trying to pummel the ship anymore but capture them for some reason. A mistake, and one the Tenno would capitalize on once he solved the problem of his precarious position being made even worse by the gravity well trying to rip them off the zipline.

“Don’t worry Ordis, just keep flying.” The operator commanded as they surged their warframes power system, temporarily supercharging it and giving Ivara the strength to resist the pull of the gravity beam and further rope her body around the zipline.

When fully secured, the operator once again summoned the exalted bow and aimed unsteadily at the winged humanoid instead of the beam. A single trick arrow materialized in the bow. He only had energy for one more shot after surging their system and they were going to make it count.

“Ordis, when I shoot, move the Liset in the opposite direction of the arrow,” the Operator ordered.

“Understood,” Ordis replied without hesitation. All traces of fear gone now that he knew his Operator had a plan.

Aiming far off to the side of the Simurgh, the Tenno loosed the arrow with no hesitation.

The trick arrow sailed wide, and at the same moment, the Liset pulled hard in the opposite direction. The gravity beam, still locked onto the ship, followed the Liset’s movement—dragging its reach away from the arrow’s flight path. What had looked like a miss suddenly curved back around as the arrow slipped free of the beam’s edge and bent sharply toward its real target.

The Simurgh didn’t move or react. Probably because that "precognition" Ordis mentioned wasn’t as impressive as it sounded, allowing the arrow to strike right between where her eyes had been before the Operator blew her face off.

The effects were immediate and sudden, the ringed tinkertech device that was holding back there speed suddenly began sparking, the tractor beam flickering and dying as its unity began to unravel. Parts held together solely by the Simurghs' telekinesis began breaking apart and falling away.

And without the beam, the pressure lifted, allowing the Liset to surge forward once more. The zipline slacked a bit before pulling taut with a violent jerk that almost dislodged the Operator again, but they held.

Held and watched as the Simurgh began to fall.

She wasn’t flying or moving anymore. Just drifting on raw momentum, spiraling slowly in the void of space like she had drowned. Practically a corpse in motion.

Ordis whooped, voice practically crackling with relief and joy. "A magnificent shot as always Operator!"

Without waiting for orders, the Cephalon snapped the Liset into a sharp turn, thrusters flaring as the ship peeled away from the Simurgh’s drifting trajectory. No more weaving and dodging—this was a full-speed retreat, straight in the opposite direction.

The Operator, still clinging to the zipline with legs twisted and arms braced, let out a breathless huff. Tension bled off their frame as they stared at the now-limp Endbringer shrinking in the distance, chunks of tinkertech still peeling off the device she had so painstakingly tried to build.

He gave a sharp snort. Then, with a distinctly childish, wholly satisfied motion, the Operator let go of the bow, the exalted weapon dissolving again as they raised one hand and flipped her the bird.

“Enjoy your nap, you discount Eidolon freak,” He shouted with external speakers, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

The Tenno knew the sleep arrows' effects wouldn’t last long. Ordis knew it too. Whatever void-dammed madness kept the Simurgh moving would likely reawaken her soon. But by the time she did, they would be long gone.

The Operator didn't even ask to come back aboard so that Ordis wouldn’t have to slow down. They just held on, wrapped tight to the zipline like a stubborn barnacle, letting Ordis haul ass across the planet and towards deep space until he gave new orders.

“Ordis, dive for the planet, we’re not leaving here empty handed.”

Chapter Text

The Operator lay flat against the floor of the Liset, arms sprawled loosely at their sides, the faint hum of the engines a comforting buzz beneath their Warframe. The viewport stretched in front of them like a wide canvas, the clouds below lazily drifting past as Earth's atmosphere slipped beneath their orbit. They weren't tired—technically, they couldn't be—but today had been a DAY even by Tenno standards and it was just the beginning. So they took a moment to appreciate the quiet.

Ordis said nothing, allowing them the silence.Minutes passed in this tranquil lull, the tension bleeding out of the Operator's limbs every second that passed until he finally spoke, voice soft and distant.

"Hey Ordis… I think we found the culprit for that moon biosphere's abandonment."

There was a pause before Ordis answered. "Yes, Operator. I would say that's a very safe assumption."

"She's not following us, right? She should've woken up by now."

Another pause. Then Ordis's voice returned, calm and clear. "Scans confirm she has returned to dormancy in orbit. Her movement has ceased entirely."

A genuine, weary breath of relief escaped the Operator. The Operator had figured she wouldn't follow after her leaving her stomping grounds but confirmation was needed for this sort of thing.

"Good," they murmured, then added, "You did some damn good flying Ordis. I think we might've just been the first Tenno and ship Cephalon to dogfight out of a landing craft. Cy might be jealous when he finds out."

If Ordis could smile, he would have. "Thank you, Operator. Your compliment is greatly appreciated. And I must admit, fighting alongside you like that was exhilarating. Even more so than when we fought Hunhow in the weave to save Cephalon Suda."

The Operator chuckled softly, closing their eyes for just a moment to remember that day clearly "Yeah. Let's not make it a habit, though."

Ordis also chuckled, a sound that somehow carried the tone of an old man waving off excitement he secretly enjoyed. "Agreed, Operator. An old ship Cephalon like me wasn't built to handle this kind of stress. I may need to run a diagnostic on my core before I fragment from the tension."

Before the Operator could respond, a sharp series of beeps and whirrs assaulted their ears as Helios suddenly hovered into view, its sensor arrays flaring and scanning them up and down with almost theatrical urgency.

The Operator laughed louder, unable to help it. "Yeah, yeah. You did good too." They reached out and gently nudged the hovering Sentinel aside, brushing one hand over its long sensor limb. "Thanks for watching our backs buddy."

With a stretch, they sat up cross-legged in their Warframe, settling back into the familiar, poised lotus posture. The moment of rest was over. The mission wasn't.

"Alright, Ordis. Where are we now?"

In answer, the navigation display flickered to life in front of them, projecting a spinning holographic globe. A red dot blinked softly near the eastern edge of the North American continent.

"We are currently above the Atlantic Ocean Operator. Near the east coast of the country known as the United States of America," Ordis confirmed.

The Operator studied the globe for a moment, then nodded. "Find somewhere nearby to land. I want to assess the damage and make whatever repairs we can planetside."

"Understood. Scanning for viable terrain." A brief pause followed, then Ordis continued, "I'm detecting mountainous terrain with rolling hills inland—sparse population, high elevation, adequate cover." Pictures, likely taken from satellites, appeared, giving a visual representation of the area. "Shall I set a course?"

"Sounds perfect," the Operator replied. "Take us in."

The Liset descended swiftly. The clouds parted like curtains as the craft sliced through the atmosphere, the water below rushing up to meet them with breakneck speed. The distance was practically nothing for a ship like the Liset, and within minutes they were gliding low over forested slopes and rugged rock formations.

Ordis brought the ship down toward a wide clearing nestled in the arms of a gentle ridge. Towering trees surrounded the glade like silent guardians, and a sheer cliffside loomed just ahead of them, offering a panoramic view of the landscape stretching to the east.

"We have arrived, Operator," Ordis announced. "No threats detected."

The Operator stood slowly, stretching out their limbs as they walked over to the exit ramp. "Alright, let's see what we're working with."

Ordis, already anticipating the request, opened the ramp with a pneumatic hiss. Cool forest air swept in as the door lowered, revealing the clearing beyond.

Without pause, the Operator jumped out, landing lightly on the forest floor in a crouch. The moment their feet touched down, Ordis eased the Liset backward beneath the overhang of the cliff, nestling the ship into a concealed position. The engines powered down into a passive hover, holding the ship steady just above the earth with minimal energy draw.

From their position on the mossy ground, the Operator stood up and took in the view, Burston Prime in hand and ready for anything. The landscape stretched wide and green, with dense trees trailing off into the distance. Wildlife signals flared briefly across their HUD's map—small mammals, birds, and clusters of insects. Nothing worth attention.

They dismissed the readouts, put their gun on their back, and turned their focus to the Liset. The ship looked battered, no question. Scrapes along the hull. Warps in it from telekinetic blasts. One of the rear thrusters was clearly deformed, its casing warped and plating half-torn.

Helios hovered beside them, sweeping its scanners over the damage. The Operator tilted their head slightly, pulling up the diagnostic overlay from Ordis.

"Looks worse than it is," he muttered. "Thrusters the worst of it. The rest is mostly superficial." A pause as helios pinged them with its own scans. Not exactly necessary but the Tenno wouldn't deny the sentinel its purpose. " And Helios confirms."

The Sentinel chirped, projecting a real-time schematic of the ship. Most of the external damage glowed in dull yellow highlights—cosmetic abrasions, shallow hull impacts, and minor heat scoring. Only the rear right thruster showed red.

Inside the ship, Ordis was already mid-process. "Thank you Helios. Operator, I've finished running full internal diagnostics. Most systems are green. Primary and secondary life support intact. Shield core functioning. Navigation stable. However... cloaking suffered damage. It's possible we were spotted during descent."

The Operator turned their head slightly toward the ship, a subtle flick of attention. "Think it's a problem?"

Ordis hesitated. "Unlikely. The Simurgh disabled a significant number of local observation satellites during our engagement, and given the speed at which we entered the atmosphere, visual tracking would have been near impossible. But... it is within the realm of possibility that someone, somewhere, caught a glimpse. Especially with parahumans involved."

The Operator groaned in slight annoyance. He wanted to remain in the shadows of this world for as long as possible, but after his lightshow in orbit, he knew better than to expect such a luxury. He would make due without complete anonymity.

"Something to worry about later." He raised one hand, summoning the Omni from their Warframe's storage with a flash of energy. The multi-function repair device unfolded in their grip, ready and waiting with plenty of Revolite in store. "Let's get this thruster fixed."

Fifteen minutes later, the Tenno completed the basic repairs. The damaged thruster was restored and the scars on the Liset's frame were mostly patched over. Now back on board, the Operator took their seat at Navigation, one leg crossed over the other, watching as the projected Earth slowly rotated into view at Navigation. Helios wasn't with them now, the Operator had let the curious little Sentinel out to scan nature to its little cerebrums content while he continued the debrief with Ordis.

"The void cloak is once again fully operational," Ordis reported. "We should be undetectable to any native system."

"Should?" the Operator repeated flatly. "I thought you said it was fully operational?"

"Yes... unfortunately, Ordis cannot guarantee protection from parahuman thinker or tinker abilities. The Simurgh's capacity to locate and intercept us was anomalous. If others possess similar predictive or information-gathering traits, the cloak may not be sufficient."

The Operator didn't respond immediately. They simply stared at the globe for a few seconds, thinking about the fight with the relentless false angel and the fact that there were two others in the world with similar capabilities to her.

"Well if that is the case, we need to be even more prepared for her and any other threat in a similar class if it's going to take as long as I think it will for help to arrive.

"Very wise of you Operator," Ordis replied warmly. Then his tone shifted, more alert and worried. "But before we proceed, I believe you will want to see this."

The holographic globe vanished from the navigation array, replaced by an incoming torrent of digital noise. Feeds from news broadcasts, public forums, social media clips, and even encrypted satellite logs started to cycle across the screen. They were raw, chaotic, but unmistakable in what they were capturing.

Grainy cellphone footage played first—videos taken from rooftops, balconies, and streets across the globe. Civilians pointed shaky cameras skyward, panicking as brilliant explosions lit up the clouds far above, the flashes of Ivara's elemental arrows coloring the sky like fireworks. Some screamed, others stared silently as a fight they couldn't even see took place in the heavens.

Then came the telescope shots: amateur astronomers on live streams, freaking out mid-broadcast as they caught glimpses of a strange object darting through the upper atmosphere. Frame-by-frame analysis showed the faint silhouette of the Liset, warped and blurred but still identifiable if you knew what to look for.

One shaky satellite feed played on loop—just five seconds of blurry combat before static took over as its parts began to unravel the Simurgh telekinesis. Then another, showing a brief glimpse of her tinkertech ring and another near indiscernible shot of Ivara hanging by a wire from the Liset before it, too, went dark.

News headlines followed, all in different languages but saying almost the same thing:
"Unidentified Aerial Combat Over Earth's Atmosphere!"
"Endbringer And Alien Encounter?!"
"Government Officials Refuse to Comment on Orbital Incident."
"New Tinker Weaponry or Extraterrestrial Life?"

Blog posts and forum threads exploded with theories. Conspiracy boards were already filled with edited stills of the Liset, circled in red and accompanied by paragraphs of unhinged analysis. Some claimed it was the creation of rogue tinkers belonging to a parahuman organization called Toybox. More than a few jumped straight to aliens, which the Operator found slightly amusing due both its foundation in truth and inaccuracy.

"I tried to limit the damage Operator," Ordis added after some time. "Suppressed as many high quality captures of you as I could but the civilian feeds… well, they're everywhere."

The Tenno exhaled through his nose as he looked at the feeds again—a little disappointed in himself in how fast his cover was blown but it wasn't all that bad. The exposure wasn't total. There was no solid information or even a clear picture of Ivara and the Liset that they could use to confirm his "extraterrestrial" origins.

"Thanks for trying Ordis but I sort of suspected this would happen so it's no big deal. You don't need to do any more damage control. Lets focus back on the threats of this world for now."

"Yes Operator," Ordis replied succinctly before dismissing the feeds.

Once more, the globe of Earth spun slowly, its surface marked with several threat indicators on different continents. Ordis, as requested, had begun compiling intelligence regarding what this world considered high-level threats within the same tier as the Simurgh.

"Operator," Ordis began, his voice calm but brisk, "data packets recovered from previous intercepts and open broadcasts suggest several hostile threats in this continent alone. Three are particularly active and rated S-Class threats by the locals, similar to the Simurgh. The Machine Army at location referred to by the Parahuman Response Team as Site Q3, a biology manipulator in the now destroyed town of Ellisburg labeled 'Nilbog,' and a roving group of MURDERERS known as the Slaughterhouse Nine."

The operator's eyes widened minutely in the transference chamber, that was the first glitch from Ordis they had heard in a while. The last group, judging by their name alone, had to be real scum if they got Ordis worked up enough to glitch like that. However, this machine army and the biological anomaly that sounded like the Sentient and the Infested warranted more of his attention first.

"Start with the Machine Army Ordis." The Tenno ordered.

"Of course, they are a swarm of autonomous self-replicating, self-upgrading AI believed to have originated from a rogue tinker in the town who lost control of it and died during the AI's violent takeover of the area. It continues to maintain control of Eagleton Tennessee with hostile precision, eliminating intruders on sight, and adapting to most of this world's mundane and Parahuman countermeasures."

The Operator nodded slightly in relief that they definitely weren't sentients. Without relying on Umbra or transference, they were annoying to fight. Though he wouldn't be too worried about taking on some Sentients without those things as he had one of his Incarnon weapons equipped.

"So basically a bunch of rogue Corpus proxies," the Tenno surmised nonchalantly. If these AI were anything close to the Sentients, a little containment zone wouldn't have stopped them.

"A fitting comparison Operator. We have no telemetry inside the quarantine zone without breaking into secure PRT communications but satellite observations and my own scans before the Simurgh incident showed advanced, by this world's standards, drone formations but nothing on the level of the Sentients."

More data on their capabilities and forms was provided on navigation but it seemed relatively outdated. "We'll need more intel but from what I'm seeing, Mag should be more than enough to clear these wannabe Sentients out if we ever end up going there."

"Agreed." Ordis replied.

"Next, I wanna hear about this Nilbog guy."

"Ellisburg. Site E2. Occupied by a parahuman bio-tinker known as Nilbog. He has turned the quarantine zone into a fiefdom after killing all its inhabitants and the retaliatory force that came to apprehend him. His abilities let him generate empowered biological entities through bio-modification and forced reproduction."

"Great," The Operator grumbled as he read the new information and thought back to a similar situation with a certain warframe obsessed corpus researcher whose name was one letter off from sounding like salad. "We have a madman with control of this world version of the Infested."

"Indeed. The process he uses has similarities to the Infestation, though Nilbog and his creations lack the parasitic hunger and exponential spread of the technocyte. His creations are loyal, territorial, and not inherently expansionist so containment is stable for now. His interest appears to be inward."

"If that changes, we move, and he dies." The tenno spoke calmly with the finality of someone who was judge, jury and executioner. "I don't know why the powers of this world haven't wiped him and his pet monsters from the map but I can't let someone so dangerous keep living if he poses even half of the danger the infestation would to this world."

"I concur operator, I believe Saryn would be ideal for EXTERMINATING that particular parahuman," Ordis added on.

'Yeah, she would be.' The Operator thought somewhat wistfully. 'Sol, I could think of plenty of other warframes and weapons I could use to kill this Mutalist Alad V knock off, the Simurgh, and every other threat to me and this world. It probably wouldn't even take a full planetary rotation to do it if I'm fast and chose my loadout well.'

The Tenno's thoughts were little more than a fanciful dream at this point in time. The Man In The Wall had compromised his arsenal, so stacking the proverbial deck against his enemies by choosing warframes and weapons to perfectly counter their abilities and exploit their weaknesses was not possible.

"Tell me about these murderers Ordis," He asked after some time with his thoughts.

The display shifted again. New data flowed across the holographic globe.

"The Slaughterhouse Nine," Ordis continued in a voice dripping with disdain. "Unlike the others on this continent, they have no base of operations. They are migratory. Their tactics include psychological warfare, targeted abductions, civilian massacres, and the elimination of other parahumans."

Images flashed across the display—scorched buildings, broken capes, mutilated corpses and new feeds and articles displaying the gruesome results of their sick games. The Operator's jaw clenched. He could see why Ordis hated these guys in particular now. They were scum comparable to some of the most depraved Orokin.

Hearing no remarks from their operator, Ordis continued speaking. "Their leader and longest surviving member is Jack Slash—dangerously charismatic, mobile, and lethal."

Images and videos of an average looking but well trimmed bearded man appeared. He wore casual clothing, with only a belt of knives and unnaturally cold eyes to suggest he was anything but normal. Fights of heroes and villains going after him played but they were cut down by an invisible attack when he drew his knife.

The operator continued to say nothing but his mind easily came up with a counter to the man's parahuman ability and dismissed him as a non threat. He could do the same and better with Equinox, Dante, or even just his void beam since normal people couldn't perceive the non-existent colors of the void the way a Tenno could.

What was more interesting to the Tenno was how Jack had managed to stay alive as the sole permanent member and leader of a group of wanted blood thirsty lunatics for years without either being dethroned by the clearly stronger members of the group, assassinated by the local law enforcement or killed by a grieving survivor of one of his slaughters that happen to own a sniper rifle or lots of explosives.

"The team roster fluctuates.." Ordis droned on."But current members include several S-class individuals such as Crawler, Bonesaw, Siberian, and Shatterbird. They are classified by local law enforcement and parahuman organizations as active kill-on-sight targets."

New data, images, and brief clips filled the air around the Operator. He absorbed the information and estimated threat levels based on just his current kit. None of them except the Siberian rated even close to high. The stripped cannibalistic woman seemed truly invulnerable, having no recorded case of ever being injured or slowed down even a bit by some of the strongest warriors of this world.

However, the Tenno did not believe this to be the case. In his own experience killing and using some of the many beings in the Origin System who could boast to be invulnerable, there was always a gimmick. And if there wasn't, just apply generous amounts of void energy.

Ordis was quiet as the information on the different members cycled through the Operator's vision. The Tenno either commenting on the members or asking Ordis for clarification on certain parts of the report.

Then he saw a face that shouldnt belong on this list.

Bonesaw. A biotinker and little girl, maybe twelve years old at most. She had blonde hair and a bright smile, despite being covered in blood and guts when the photo was taken. She was too young to be standing among madmen and murderers, but there she was. Not a hostage, but an active participant who reveled in the bloodshed and torture as much as her comrades.

The Operator stared at her face in the stills and videos for a good long while, not even he was sure what he was looking for until he focused on her eyes. Behind the childlike grin, her eyes were cold, detached. Familiar.

He'd seen that look in fellow Tenno, long ago aboard the Zariman Ten Zero and in Margulis care. It was the eyes of children who had lived through too much, too fast. The experience stripping whatever innocence she might've had before. Burned out no doubt by the oh so charismatic Jack Slash.

His fist clenched in anger. If the Machine Army were Corpus and Nilbog the Infested, then the Nine were Orokin. The Grustrag Three could be considered more fitting but those insane Grineer didn't twist children into being their loyal killing machines. Orokin did that.

The more he stared at her pictures and videos the more he wanted to end Bonesaw. Not out of anger or hate, but to free her from the hell she didn't even know she was living in right now. Saving and rehabilitating her didn't seem a viable option in their current situation and Bonesaw was rightly hated and wanted dead by this country's people for her atrocities and crimes, regardless of her age. Her victims and their loved ones deserved some sort of justice after all.

Yet, another part of him wanted to save her. Like Margulis had saved him. Like the Lotus had adopted them. But there were no guarantees, only choices. And when the time came, he'd make one. What that choice was now, he couldn't tell. But one way or another, he would bring her peace.

Ordis, oblivious to his thoughts, continued to speak. Voice shifting from disgust to delight. "Operator look, their kill orders are tied to substantial bounty rewards! Should you choose to rid the world of these ANIMALS and claim the reward, I have taken the liberty of tracking them through local surveillance nodes and have marked them on navigation."

The data on the nine were put away and a camera feed tracking a drab, tinted window RV strolling down a highway appeared.

"Would you like to set a course for them, Operator?" The ship cephalon sounded excited, blood thirsty even. It was clear what he wanted the answer to be.

The Operator leaned back in Ivara, their fingers on their knees, thrumming them like bow strings. Then with a slow shake of her head, answered. "No. Not yet. Keep an eye on them. Alert me the moment they try to attack anyone but we're not striking yet."

The Tenno didn't doubt his ability to kill the Nine but he wanted more time to think about what to do with Bonesaw. Furthermore, something stank about all of this to him. Not just the Slaughterhouse Nine running free for so long but Nilbog and the Machine Army. The way the threats were handled and cornered away without ever being truly dealt with rubbed him the wrong way and he wanted to find out why.

There was also the fact that their main mission now was to get back to the Origin System and their secondary mission was to figure out why the Indifference sent them here. As a Tenno, he was honor bound to help the innocent where he could, so he would eventually kill some, if not all, of these S-Class threats before he left.

He wouldn't be able to face his family—those gone and still alive—if he didn't. However, his first priority in this new world would always be getting back to his family.

Ordis's voice, tinged with surprise and enthusiasm, cut through the Tenno's thoughts. "Understood Operator, while it is a shame you will not eliminate those—CRAZED LUNATICS—criminals right now, Ordis has discovered something rather fascinating. According to several broadcasts and the world wide digital network… this version of Earth possesses pathways to alternate Earths."

The Ivara's head jerked up, its main optic locking onto the ceiling of the Liset. It was as close to eye contact with Ordis as the frame could manage outside the Weave—and in a way, it was.

There was a long pause as the Tenno tried to make sense of this news. How could this world—primitive by most standards of the Origin System—have cracked interdimensional travel without the Void? Sol, they hadn't even colonized the moon and yet they had interdimensional travel. He ran through several theories on why this could be in quick succession, even trying to tie it back to the Infestation somehow.

Eventually, he gave up and simply decided that these Tinkers were bullshit. "Could you elaborate on that Ordis?"

"Of course, Operator," Ordis replied as several data feeds began to flicker into view. "It is public knowledge—though, I must admit, due to this world's generally primitive technological base and the limited impact of this alternate Earth outside of consumer media, Ordis initially dismissed it as speculative nonsense when we were in Orbit. A mistake I regret."

The Tenno remained still, listening closely as the Cephalon continued. He didn't even blame Ordis for missing such valuable information. This place was weird and nonsensical.

"Upon closer inspection, however, I discovered that a real, stable interdimensional portal exists somewhere. It was created by the well known and now-deceased Tinker named Professor Haywire and has been active for some time. Unfortunately, its exact location is highly classified and almost certainly guarded. I have found no trace of it in public data caches. Furthermore, the only other known site containing Haywire's technology was attacked, used, and subsequently destroyed by the Simurgh during a prior attack."

The Warframe leaned forward slightly, an unspoken mix of suspicion and hope in the Ivara frames body language. The Operator couldn't believe getting home would really be this simple. It couldn't be with a Tenno's luck. But he wouldn't know that for sure unless he got his hands on that technology.

"Ordis," the Operator said, voice low but firm. "Find me the nearest major Parahuman Response Team headquarters. We're going to know everything they do about this portal technology and where they keep it."

Chapter Text

Breaking into the PRT ENE headquarters would be surprisingly straightforward for the Tenno. Not due to any lack of competence on the part of the staff, nor solely because he was utilizing Ivara Prime's stealth abilities, but primarily because he had Ordis. The Cephalon's ability to seamlessly bypass and manipulate security systems proved invaluable.

By the time the Liset had entered the city limits of Brockton Bay, still cloaked, Ordis had already begun peeling through the PRT's external firewalls. Real time camera footage editing, spoofed alarms, dummy sensor data—basically turning their security system into a puppet show.

Even so, caution was still exercised. After all, even if the security system would be blind to him and his machinations, the people could still notice something if he made a mistake. That wasn't even getting into the complication that would be parahuman technology and powers.

Luckily, due to his recent engagement with the Simurgh, the Protectorate heroes of this city were gathered on their sea fortress, still waiting for news on if they would need to fight. So aside from the junior division of the Protectorate, the Wards, no other parahumans would be in the building.

As the ship hovered high above the base, the Operator, already invisible, dropped from the belly of the landing craft. The wind flew by loudly as he rapidly descended from air to the ground. Just as Ivara was about to make impact with the helicopter pad and undoubtedly grab the attention of the guards by cratering it. On nothing but air, Ivara jumped, arresting her momentum in an instant to land softly.

The PRT Troopers, none the wiser of the intruder among them, kept talking amongst themselves near the door. Generating a trick arrow in their hand, the Operator casually threw it to his left while walking away from it. The trick arrow burst into energy and let out a ping.

Despite their conversation and the wind, the troopers heard the noise of the trick arrow, allowing the slight mental compulsion of the sound to take effect. All four guards got quiet, readied their weapons and went looking for the source of the noise as the Operator circled around them and approached the door.

The access door clicked open without resistance. Ordis had already hijacked its controls and spoofed the feed—anyone watching the camera on it would see a door that never moved. The Tenno could hear the guards report into their radios the noise they heard as the roof access door gently closed behind him but was not worried about it. Ordis would handle it.

Inside the stairwell, it was all clean lines and white walls. The Operator descended each step with soft, quick, and deliberate movements. The sound of distant chatter and office bustle began to bleed through the walls the lower he went. Ordis had marked a path through the building, and the fastest route cut straight through a floor of busy office space.

There were longer, safer routes the Operator could have taken to get to the servers but he chose the faster one because he was confident in his stealth skills, especially when he had the Infiltrate augment mod on. Any traps or surprise alarms that Ordis couldn't detect or hack could be easily bypassed as the mod strengthened Ivara's Shroud to the point she could walk through even laser grids without tripping them.

Once he finally made it to the office floors, he stopped at the door that he would need to cut through.Using the mini-map and the camera feed Ordis was steaming to him, he perfectly timed when to open the door and slip in when no one was paying attention to it.

What greeted him inside were rows of cubicles stretched across the space, broken only by clear-glass meeting rooms and the occasional cluster of uniformed troopers speaking in low tones. Parahuman specialists, techs, analysts—most focused on their terminals, a few sipping coffee or pacing with tablets in hand. Enough eyes and ears to ruin everything if he slipped up.

With Ivara, he could put the whole room to sleep in an instant and go past, but the Operator didn't do that. Instead, he scaled the wall with barely a sound. Hands and feet latched onto the vertical surface with practiced ease. Ivara moved less like the huntress it was and more like Oraxia, crawling sideways, upside down, climbing across support beams and ventilation rails.

Below, a worker in a blazer stretched at their desk, glancing upward and saw nothing. Just the ceiling, even as Ivara in all her gold and white glory, was crawling right above him.

At a tight bottleneck, where the ceiling dropped low and two groups converged near a hallway intersection, he perched silently above them. Ivara clung to a horizontal beam as two small crowds passed directly beneath, exchanging jokes about the Liset being a U.F.O.

The time it took for them to thin out caused his latch to weaken significantly, so he dropped silently to the floor and rolled behind a wall partition for a few seconds to get it back to full power.

A moment later, he was on the ceiling again.

He moved quickly across the room now, using wall latches and silent bullet jumps where needed, slipping past clusters of people and furniture until he finally reached the far end of the office floor where the second stairwell was located. He entered without pause.

Down he went, floor by floor, slipping past the occasional worker or trooper moving between levels. Eventually, he reached the designated floor—one level below the underground parahuman containment wing and just above the Wards' quarters. This was where the backup generator and main server room were located.

The difference between this floor and the rest was stark. No windows. Colder air. Dimmer lights. Sparse foot traffic.

Even so, the Operator didn't let his guard down. He kept Ivara's Shroud active, moving briskly but alert down the corridor. A few staff and guards moved about, but with space between them there was no need to stop. He stepped around their paths cleanly, avoiding contact.

Almost a minute of walking and following Ordis markers had passed until Ivara finally reached a hallway where a reinforced door waited at the other end—solid steel with a biometric lock panel and dual authentication scanner, guarding what was clearly the server room.

While walking up to it, the locks disengaged with a soft click the moment the Operator got close. He slipped through the now-unlocked door, letting it seal quietly behind him and Ordis relock it. Inside, the air was colder still, almost sterile. Towering server racks filled the space, blinking with rows of indicator lights and humming with low, constant energy. Cables snaked in every direction, some suspended from overhead tracks, others coiled neatly along the floor. Cooling fans droned steadily, masking all but the loudest noises.

Near the central control terminal sat a lone tech—pale, shaking, probably from stress or lack of sleep. His eyes were wide, fixed on a screen. Whatever data he was monitoring had him too distracted to notice the door or the shadow moving through it.

Without a sound, the Operator raised a hand and summoned a sleep arrow. With a light toss, it whistled softly through the air and on impact with the tech, burst into energy. The man didn't even twitch before slumping forward in his chair, breathing slow and steady.

The Operator gave the body a glance to confirm unconsciousness, then looked toward the main terminal. "Ready Ordis?"

"Always, Operator," came the Cephalon's prompt reply.

With that confirmation, the Operator jammed the Parazon into the terminal. The device interfaced seamlessly, its tendrils of code weaving into the system's architecture. Data streams flowed across his HUD, lines of information cascading as Ordis navigated the network.Lines of data flew by—encrypted PRT logs, internal reports, facility schematics and much more. The Operator narrowed the search parameters. Portal. Interdimensional. Professor Haywire. Earth Aleph.

Seconds passed before Ordis spoke.

"This is odd…" He said, voice tinged with digital frustration. "The data is heavily compartmentalized. All files related to the Aleph portal are stripped of meaningful content. Logs contain only surface-level details—public information we already possess. All technical and operational specifics are restricted."

The Operator frowned behind the Warframe's helm. "How restricted?"

"Only accessible to Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown, the President, and select cabinet-level personnel. No backups exist here. The encryption systems enforce total lockdown unless queried from verified central terminals."

The Operator pulled the Parazon free, the connection severing. He stared at the console a moment longer, then let out a low, annoyed exhale through his nose in the transference pod.

So he'd been right. Getting home wasn't going to be easy. And unless he was willing to stoop to kidnapping world leaders, that technology was going to stay out of reach. Sure, the politicians were probably far from innocent—but he'd already besmirched his honor by breaking into the PRT and trying to steal classified data from an organization that wasn't even his enemy. He wasn't ready to cross another line. Not yet. Not when he could still wait for the Lotus to find him.

Ivara turned and retraced her steps, gliding through the cold corridor like a ghost. The tech slumped at the console would wake soon, unharmed, never realizing he'd even lost consciousness. The terminal would show no breaches. No tampering. No sign anyone had ever been there.

The Operator took the same route back up—through the stairwells, keeping to shadows and blind spots as Ordis quietly cleared the way. He didn't stop. Didn't pause. Just kept moving until he reached the ground floor.

There, under the cloak of Ivara's shroud, he waited near the exit, looking at the floof's in the gift shop until a group of tourists began exiting the building. He followed close behind them, slipping out the door without issue.

He walked away down the city's street to the designated evacuation site.

Annoyed at this waste of time and more than a little frustrated.

Chapter Text

Back aboard the Liset, the Operator sat in silence, brooding both in Ivara and the transference chair. The soft hum of the ship's systems filled the quiet, but it didn't ease the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Ordis, ever the loyal Cephalon, tried to lift his spirits. "Operator, while the data was unhelpful, perhaps some... stress relief is in order? Might I suggest eliminating the Slaughterhouse Nine? It would be good for morale—THEY DESERVE IT ANYWAY."

Helios, sensing the mood, hovered closer. The Sentinel drifted beside the Operator like a concerned pet. It meant well, but the gesture wasn't needed, it wasn't like he'd given up hope of returning or something. He was sure that anytime now he would be contacted by the Drifter—if he ever stopped sucking face with Aoi.

As if thinking his name summoned him, the Operator felt a tug at the edge of his mind. Subtle, but unmistakably his connection with the Drifter. Without wasting time, he informed Ordis to hide the ship and dived into the connection.

Reality blurred for a moment, and instantly the Operator wasn't in his warframe or the transference chamber, not mentally at least. His mind was elsewhere, in the Void. Its impossible colors streaked past at speeds beyond comprehension as the Operator's mind once again traversed unreality.

Then as swiftly as the experience came about, it ended.

He stood on solid ground, but it wasn't any part of the Liset or the Orbiter. The floor beneath him was packed dirt and stone, damp and uneven. Moss clung to the rock in patches. Roots hung from the ceiling like veins, and light blue void light poured in through cracks above.

The place looked like a natural cave that had been repurposed. Stone lanterns glowed faintly along the edges, and at the center of the wide cavern was a raised circular platform with six stone stools surrounding it. It was empty except for two figures standing near the back.

The Operator recognized both immediately—the Drifter, his older looking half, weathered, posture relaxed. Their armor was scuffed, cloak half-draped over one shoulder. Next to them stood the Lotus, she wore her standard attire—smooth, purple and black bodysuit with gold accented robes. Her helmet was sleek and angular, covering nearly all of her face except for what was below her nose.

Then between one blink and the next, she was on him.

The Lotus wrapped him in a crushing hug—tight, desperate, trembling. "My child… I was so worried. I thought… I thought I lost you."

The Operator didn't even jump at his adoptive mothers sudden change in location, he only let out a breathless chuckle and hugged her back. "I'm fine, Lotus. Ordis and Umbra are fine too."

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands still holding his shoulders like she was afraid to let go. Relief flooded her visible features, but it was the deep, quiet love in her aura that said everything. He might've been one among thousands of her children, but to her, each child was her heart and for even one to be lost was unbearable.

"But where are you?" she asked quietly. "No matter what I do, I cannot track your location in the Void."

"Another universe, it looks like," Drifter answered before the Operator could. He stepped closer, arms crossed, voice low. "Right before he got pulled in here, I saw an unfamiliar city through his eyes. Pre-Orokin from the looks of it."

The Operator and the Lotus turned to him. Drifter looked mildly sheepish, like he'd just been caught slacking.

"Sorry it took so long to get back to you kid. Aoi was…" He glanced away, eyes shifting to the nothingness above, clearly embarrassed. "...insistent."

The Lotus frowned at him, clearly not pleased he had put time with his girlfriend above helping her find her son.

"There was also the issue of his competence," she added, her tone more measured now. "The Champion could not stabilize a telepathic link on his own. We had to build a custom transference amplifier to reach you. It also unintentionally helped him create this space—a sub-dimension in the Void that allows our mental bodies to interact as if we were physically present."

"Well, that explains why it took so long to contact me," the Operator muttered, shooting his counterpart a dry look before asking for the information he wanted to know. "So how long until you guys can come get me and Ordis? This place is interesting, sure, but I'd rather be back in the Origin System."

Drifter's expression tightened. He scratched the back of his neck..

"Yeah… about that." A beat. "We have no idea how to do that right. We got me to 1999 using a bunch of science I can barely comprehend and a vessel designed with Arthur's proto-frame genetics. You don't have one of those for us to use to pinpoint you and even if we did, we're going to need a new way to cross between universes and time if we want to bring your Orbiter back with you."

The Operator groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but this is ridiculous."

The Lotus and Drifter both opened their mouths to respond, but stopped when the Operator straightened slightly, his expression shifting.

"But," he said, "I think I've found a way to speed things up."

They both focused on him more intensely, silent, and waiting.

The Operator took a breath, then launched into a summary—how he'd been swallowed by the Indifference, how the orbiter was now stuck in the void but near an opening in it small enough to let a landing craft through, how his Arsenal had been compromised, how he woke up in a primitive new system and discovered another version of Earth.

He explained the existence of parahumans, the way their powers didn't rely on the Void or any other known source of power, his first confrontation with an Endbringer, finding out about this new earth's access to stable interdimensional travel, and finally his infiltration of the PRT and the discovery that Professor Haywire's technology was locked behind political walls.

By the time he finished, both Lotus and Drifter were silent, absorbing everything.

Drifter finally broke it with a low whistle. "Well damn… you've been busy. I think Cy's going to be jealous when he hears about your dog fight."

The Operator laughed, putting a smile on the Lotus face. "That's what I said!"

"My child," she said, voice warm but composed, "If you believe this PRT and Protectorate are worthy of your trust, then treat them like any other Syndicate. Introduce yourself. Offer your strength. Build reputation and trust. When the time is right, use that to access what you need."

He nodded, a little surprised he hadn't thought of this himself. This was the same way he'd dealt with New Loka, Perrin, Solaris United—even the Entrati Family. Different world, same tactics.

"You're right, Lotus. Thanks." His brow furrowed in thought. "So… who's going to lead the effort to crack interdimensional travel? Loid? As Albrecht's assistant, he's definitely the most qualified."

The Lotus gave a long-suffering sigh. "Loid and the Cavia will be asked to contribute. As well as Kaya, given she already has her own means of portal based time travel but... other experts will be needed to help speed the process up."

The Operator had completely forgotten about Kaya's incredible feat of time travel due to the fact the version of her in 1999 from drifters recent memories hadn't cracked it yet.

But what he focused on the most was that sigh from the Lotus. Then there was that tone… Could it be?

"Wait…" The tenno grinned slowly as realization dawned. "No way. Is Al going to help?"

The simultaneous sigh from both the Lotus and Drifter confirmed it before either said a word.

The Operator was grinning ear to ear now. "As in little Al, Limbo Theorem Al? The one who telefragged himself across the system trying to calculate a Rift Walk manually because he 'didn't need a Warframe to be a genius'?"

"That was a long time ago!" a voice snapped sharply.

With a flicker of blue void light, a short boy materialized in front of him, hair dark and slightly unkempt, glowing purple eyes glaring up at him with every inch of defiance his small frame could muster.

The Operator gave him a long, smug look, the surprise of the boy's appearance not stopping the words coming out his mouth. "Sure it was. Doesn't change the fact that I had to rebuild your warframe from scrap."

Al's cheeks flushed red, his purple eyes glowing so fiercely with void power that'd make a hardened Grineer Elite shit their pants. "I said stop bringing that up and give back my Limbo!"

"Make me," the Operator shot back, clearly enjoying himself.

"I'll quit this stupid rescue mission. I swear to Void."

"Do it. Then I get to tell everyone from Simaris to Kayla De Thayme you rage-quit like a baby."

"I WAS TEN!" Al was floating now, his eyes level with the Operators. Not that it helped the ancient child appear more threatening to his older brother.

The Operator scoffed, barely keeping himself from doubling over laughing. "Maybe mentally, but you were well over a hundred by that point. I guess Teshin was wrong about wisdom coming with age, at least when it comes to you."

The Lotus sighed as the petty argument between her children escalated a notch in volume, though a smile was on her face.

The Drifter turned to her, ignoring the argument. "Think if you say yes it'll crash the system?"

"Most likely," she responded after some thought. "But now is as good a time as any for a stress test."

Her words broke the dam.

One by one, Tenno began phasing in, some already snickering, others piling on the teasing as more voices filled the cave. A dozen at first. Then more. Brothers and sisters crowding around him in half-real avatars, shouting over each other, demanding updates, throwing in their own memories.

"How strong are the Eidolons in that world?"

"Who's the strongest parahuman? Think we can beat us?"

"Please tell me you got some scans on the tinker tech?"

"What's the fashion like?"

"You find any cute floofs?"

It was chaos—but familiar chaos.

They were loud. Messy. Invasive.

But for the first time since waking up in this strange world, the Operator felt just a little less lost.

"Alright, quiet down, kids." Drifter's voice cut through the noise, lloud and authoritative.

The silence was immediate, almost jarringly so. Heads turned, around eighty pairs of glowing eyes locking on him.

And then the murmur started again. Not excitement but confusion.

"Kids?" one of the older-looking boys asked, raising a brow.

"Did he just call us kids?" said a sharp-voiced girl in a transference suit.

"We're the same age." said another, her tone flat with disbelief.

"I'm literally older than you by four cycles," muttered someone else in the back.

Even the tiniest of them were staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Drifter's smirk mirrored his younger self's almost perfectly. He shrugged and crossed his arms. "Yes, kids. I can call you that because I'm one of the two people here that's physically an adult."

A beat.

Then a tiny voice piped up—high-pitched, almost squeaky, from a girl who looked barely older than five. "You spent most of that time trapped in Duviri though. So, even if you look older, you've got way less life experience than the rest of us and even with mom here, we're still the oldest."

A few snickers followed. Some of the Tenno even looked a little shocked at the realization that they were older than their adoptive mother.

Drifter opened his mouth to reply then closed it again when he saw his counterpart smiling while shaking his head at him. Al now on his shoulders like a young prince riding his loyal steed.

"…Fair," he muttered, grudgingly.

But before the Tenno pack could swarm with more comebacks and poorly hidden laughter, the Lotus stepped forward. Her presence alone was enough to calm the room.

"Enough children" she said gently, her voice layered with subtle echo and warmth. "You have had your turn to check in on your brother. Now we must depart. I cannot predict the consequences of so many of us interacting with the experimental transference technology all at once."

Many sighs and whines of disappointment echoed throughout the cave but all the children of the Zariman present nodded, ready to depart.

Al, still perched on his big brother's shoulder with his tiny legs swinging lightly against the chestplate, idly commented, "Well, if we don't manage to work things out by the next big disaster, Drifter could always make himself useful and let you bounce back to the Origin System using your connection."

The Operator opened his mouth, already prepared to repeat—again—that not only could he and Drifter not exist in the same timeline for any meaningful stretch, but that returning would mean abandoning his Orbiter in an untraceable corner of the Void.

But Al cut him off before a single word left his mouth.

"I know, I know. You can't be in the same timeline too long, and you don't wanna leave your stuff," Al said with the brisk impatience only a genius child could wield. "But if we get Drifter to Duviri—or 1999—before you destabilize, you'll both be fine. As for your stuff... well, if push comes to shove and we need you, starting over would be better than being stuck, right?"

There was a beat of silence.

Then a new voice broke through the crowd.

"And what," asked a teenage girl as she stepped forward, "have him abandon Umbra and Ordis to drift in the Void forever?"

She wore a transference suit like the others, but hers was scuffed, worn in a way that showed long use and little vanity. Her fire-red hair was pulled into a rough ponytail, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched just above sharp, no-nonsense eyes.

The moment she spoke, the possibility Al had raised evaporated. The Operator's jaw clenched. Al, still balanced on his shoulder, quieted, sensing the shift in his brother's mood.

"I'm not doing that," the Operator said finally. His voice was low and firm.

"You all know Umbra's story," he continued. "But most of you don't know Ordis. Not like I do. After the old war, I left him alone and it nearly killed him. He couldn't take it. The waiting. The centuries of loneliness."

The Operator's hands curled into fists at his sides, shame and guilt on his features.

"He tried to self-destruct." That got a few sympathetic gasps and Al's legs stilled completely. "But his love for me, programmed or not, made him abort at the last second, fracturing his mind. That's why he's the way he is now. Glitchy with pieces of his old and new personality split and twisted together."

Silence reigned as The Operator's eyes traveled the room, not just to his brothers and sisters but to the Lotus and the Drifter.

"I'm sorry but I'm not leaving him alone again." His words were heavy and final. "I was lucky that Drifter appeared to take care of him after Ballas trapped me in the void. I won't bet on a third alternate version of me appearing if I leave Ordis now.

Even though he couldn't meet all their eyes, he sensed their acceptance of words and even their support.

"Then do not worry my son, no matter what the system faces next, we will handle it." Lotus stated firmly, her voice not just directed at the Operator but to every one of her children in the cave and the ones listening in from the Origin System. "Until the day we can call all of our family back home safely."

A wave of agreement spread through the room once more before Al spoke up again

. "…Sorry." he mumbled into his brother's hair

The Operator heard him and reached up to ruffle the kid's hair. "Don't be. You were just thinking ahead. That's what you do."

"I'll think of something better," Al muttered stubbornly.

The Operator nodded and smiled. "I know you will."

With those words, the weight on the Operator's shoulders vanished as Al blinked out of existence. Following his lead, many of the others began saying their farewells too—some with waves, others with nods or nothing at all. One by one, they shimmered out, until the cave was quiet again.

Only three remained.

"Be safe, my child," the Lotus said gently as she stepped forward. Her hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing his skin in a mother's final act of comfort. "This new world is far from my sight and far from my reach. I cannot protect you there."

The Operator leaned into her touch and gave her a small, confident smile. "Don't worry, Lotus. I'll be careful."

She hesitated, just a second longer, and then she too faded away.

The Operator stood still, staring at the empty space she left behind for a few moments before he finally turned, facing the only other one left.

"Listen, kid," the Drifter said before he could even open his mouth. "I know this new world is dangerous. That Simurgh thing is proof. But if you can fight their equivalent of Eidolons using just Ivara and no void powers… then the rest of this place can't be that bad."

The Operator tilted his head. "Are you saying I shouldn't be on guard?"

Drifter shook his head. "I'm saying you don't need to be war ready every second anymore. So while you're there, live a little."

The Operator raised a brow, lips quirking as he thought back to Aoi. "Like you?"

"Yeah. Like me." Drifter said seriously.

The Operator blinked.

"I mean it," Drifter continued, voice low and calm. "Do normal things. Be a teenager. Go out. Eat junk food. Sleep outside that transference chamber. Date. Laugh. Have fun. Do stuff the Orokin stole from us. This new world isn't peaceful, but it's not the Origin System either. It doesn't need a Tenno to keep it from the brink of ruin. It'll survive if you take some time for yourself."

The Operator stayed quiet as he genuinely considered Drifter's words.

Drifter stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. "And if you ever get homesick, I'll be happy to switch places for a bit. Give you a break."

The Operator glanced away, exhaling slowly through his nose as he realized that for the first time since becoming a Tenno, that the weight of his duty, while not gone, would be much lighter.

"…Alright, thanks Drifter. I'll think about it."

Drifter gave a short nod, then smiled again, more brotherly this time.

"That's all I ask. Just try not to put the fear of Void in too many people, ok?"

"No promises," the Operator chuckled.

With a final smirk, the Drifter turned and vanished, leaving the Operator alone in the cave. It was time to return back to Ordis.

Chapter Text

"Operator?" Ordis's voice buzzed through the ship's systems. "Are you alright? Your vitals spiked during that transference trance."

"It was a family reunion," the Operator replied with a smile. "To make a long story short, the Lotus is aware of our situation and is currently working on a way to track and retrieve us."

"This is great news Operator. Ordis is glad we'll be back home in no time!"

There were a series of gentle knocks on the pod, and already knowing who it was, the Operator mentally commanded it to open. With a soft mechanical hiss, the transference pod unfurled and revealed Umbra standing directly in front of him.

"You heard all that?" the Operator asked.

Umbra tilted his head slightly and gave a slow nod.

The Operator nodded. "Good, I..."

The door to the transference chamber slid open with a whoosh. Umbra instantly turned around, Ignis Wraith in hand and ready to blast the intruder, only to find out it was Ordis.

The cephalon had decided to show up in his Sentinel form and knowing Ordis, the Tenno guessed he had probably decided to use this body to not feel left out.

As Umbra lowered his guard and holstered his weapon, Ordis floated closer and chirped out. "Operator, Ordis is happy to inform you that the Liset is cloaked once more in that forest. Exactly as requested."

"Good work, Ordis." The Operator swung his legs off the pod and stood up, stretching slightly. "Now… we need to figure out our next move."

Umbra tilted his head again, confused. The Operator could tell the former Dax had probably expected the plan to be going into stasis until rescue. Ordis, while more informed, would also be confused since the cephalon wasn't with the Tenno when he was talking to the Drifter.

So the Operator gave a summary of everything that had happened after departing with the Liset and then spoke about what he experienced when the Drifter contacted him. He could've instantly passed on his knowledge through Transference, but staying linked to Ivara helped him stay alert to any changes back on Earth.

"And that's basically everything that's happened so far," the Operator closed out. "Thats why our goal now is to get in good with the PRT so we can access Professor Haywire's portal tech—either to build our own way home or pass the blueprints to the Lotus to help with her end."

Ordis hovered closer in his sentinel form, optics glowing gently. "How do we intend to accomplish this, Operator?" he asked, his metallic voice tinged with caution. "From my initial and still ongoing analysis of the PRT and Protectorate, individuals of our… particular background would not be met with open arms."

The Operator turned to him, face shifting from casual to serious. "Explain."

Ordis tilted in place, doing his best imitation of a nod. "This world's government fears interdimensional contact to a degree that unauthorized portals to other worlds are a criminal offense. In the most extreme case, our presence could be seen as a precursor to an invasion."

The Operator frowned..

"And that's not the worst of it," Ordis continued. "As you know, the North American continent has suffered greatly at the hands of 'biotinkers'—a label that, by their standards, would apply to us. Bonesaw, Nilbog, and their atrocities have poisoned the public's perception of biotechnology. Even if we present ourselves as benevolent, our reliance on the Infestation, even in the form of warframes, would be nearly impossible to justify."

The Operator folded his arms. "We could try to pass the warframes off as power armor… or parahuman mutants. I remember there being mentions of people mutated by their powers, case fifty-three's I believe."

Ordis shook his body in the negative. "Unlikely to hold in the long term. With the arsenal compromised, there is no telling when we'll be forced to use one of the dozens of Infested weaponry or even Nidus. Their mere existence violates multiple parahuman and international biosecurity laws and that is without acknowledging that they are weapons of mass destruction. Additionally, since perception matters much more here than in the origin system, operating as we usually do by permanently eliminating enemies is also ill advised unless the target has been issued a kill order."

The operator groaned in annoyance, voice heavy with disbelief.

"These rules are starting to get annoying," the Operator said dryly. "What's next—'don't shoot unless shot at'?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Umbra turned to stare at Ordis.

"It's not a strict rule for law enforcement or parahumans," Ordis said carefully. "But… it's likely a guideline we'll need to follow if we want to build a positive public reputation."

The Tenno sighed, but didn't argue. He wasn't thrilled about fighting with one hand tied behind his back, no lethality eliminated many, if not all of his weapons, as options when dealing with those who don't possess a kill order but it wasn't a deal breaker for him.

"Fine. We play nice. Kid gloves on. The real question is how do I approach them. I could walk through the front door and pretend to be a parahuman with my real body, but I doubt that'll hold up if any of their thinkers can tell if I'm not one of them."

Umbra began gesturing with growing energy, drawing the Operator's attention while Ordis hovered nearby, clearly trying to puzzle out what the warframe was trying to say, but the Tenno caught on immediately.

"Let them come to us, huh?" he said, nodding. "Not a bad idea. If we build up a solid reputation on our own, when the PRT inevitably comes to recruit, we can talk from a position of strength—as respected public figures instead of unknown threats. That way, even if they find out the truth, they won't have any logical reason to assume we mean harm."

It was an idealistic strategy, admittedly. Even if they acted with pure intentions, there would always be people in power willing to spin it into a threat—either out of fear, selfishness, or sheer paranoia. But it was still a better plan than flying the Liset to PRT HQ, announcing that he was an immortal teenage warrior, and asking for help opening a giant portal to his universe full of solar system-spanning, war-happy factions and threats.

"A wonderful plan, Umbra," Ordis said, complimenting the former Dax before turning to his Operator. "Is this to be our next move?"

"Yeah. And we already have a strong card to play," the Tenno said, a broad grin on his face. "We gave the Simurgh a hell of a beating and she's one of the most feared threats on this planet. All we have to do is flash the Liset and Ivara in a public broadcast and we can claim credit for it."

Umbra nodded sharply. Ordis bobbed in approval.

"But," the Operator added, tone cooling, "since we didn't finish the job, I think a definitive win over an S-class threat would make an even stronger impression."

He turned to the hovering Sentinel.

"You're still tracking the Slaughterhouse Nine, right?"

.......

It wasn't even ten minutes later that the Liset was flying low across the treetops and powerlines, invisible and inaudible. Ordis kept her steady, broadcasting a high-priority, miles-wide emergency alert that hijacked car radios and cell signals alike—an escalating voice pretending to be the PRT and warning of dangerous parahumans in the area.

"Hopefully they won't be too mad," Ordis idly spoke while keeping the broadcast on repeat, making sure to keep any of it from reaching the RV housing the nine. "After all, we're about to save quite a few lives. Now if only this JACKASS WOULD GET OFF THE ROAD!"

The Operator hunched forward in Ivara Prime, her jellyfish-like veil waving gently as she watched with irritation as a nondescript civilian van trailed awkwardly behind the nine. Ordis had pinged it with a hundred warnings, but the driver never budged. Probably deaf or too stupid to listen. Regardless, the Tenno couldn't start until that civilian was out of the way.

"Guess I'll have to give him a nap," the Operator muttered in annoyance. One armored hand reached out to the air and grasped, the Artemis Bow materializing in hand as if it was always there. "I've waited long enough for him to move.

Ivara got out of the lotus position, stood, and turned to face the rear ramp coming face to face with Rhino Prime, Trinity Prime, and Excalibur Prime wearing Umbra's visage. All three frames were waiting in patient silence while either leaning casually against walls or seated like armored kings on the shop and codex terminals. Each one looked like the real deal but they weren't, just one of his many and now limited specters. A clone of a real warframe with all their abilities.

These ones also didn't have weapons. It seemed that whatever effect the Man In The Wall put on his arsenal also robbed them of their preset weapons. It was annoying but expected. It wasn't like they needed weapons to do this job anyways.

All this power to take out a couple of murderers drunk on power felt unnecessary to the Operator but Ordis and Umbra had advised before coming here that while being known as a singular powerful being would work fine, appearing as a powerful group would be exponentially better in the long run. Especially if his brothers and sisters were to make an appearance in the future.

"You three ready?" He asked with internal comms.

The Specters didn't speak, just nodded.

"Good, remember, try to keep the bodies intact, and Jack and Bonesaw alive," Ivara commanded as she drew her bow and knocked a sleep arrow while the ramp opened. Wind rushed in, the sight of the highway barely visible before she loosed the arrow.

It flew fast and course corrected automatically to hit its target. The van jerked once as the arrow hit its hood, then coasted to a gentle stop. The driver was slumped over the wheel. There wasn't a need to worry about the civilian sleep-driving into an accident because the car was also asleep.

The nine's RV almost immediately started driving faster for some reason, ditching the highway to go off road and into the woods. Ordis had no problem following them over the dense forest but this wasn't part of the plan. Had the civilian been a secret member or informant of the nine? If so, why didn't he warn them before Ordis had gotten everyone to evacuate the area? It didn't matter either way right now, he was out of commission.

"Operator, we still haven't located Crawler, do you still wish to proceed?" Ordis asked

"Yes, we'll hunt him down later if he doesn't come out soon. Got the recording going?"

"Yes operator."

"Good. Try to get our good side."

The Operator didn't waste anymore time talking, he dropped from the Lisets ramp with the specters, cloaking immediately. They hit the tree line running—silent, deadly and synchronized. Ivara led the pack in the chase, following the dirt trail of the murderers vehicle until they were right on them.

Rhino launched himself into a bullet jump from Ivara's right flank, arcing over the vehicle, and crashing down in front of the Nine's RV with earth shattering force. A concussive wave expanded out from the impact site, smashing into the van and sending it crashing and rolling into the trees.

Normally, this is where the Operator would have put the entire crew of murderers to sleep and then committed them to the void, via the Artemis Bow. But instead, the Operator took to the trees to observe how well the specters would perform against powerful parahumans while also trying to follow his command.

Surprisingly, the RV was intact. Helios, cloaked with Ivara, scanned it, and revealed it was layered with the same alloy they found on the moonbase. An interesting piece of information but irrelevant right now.

The first of the nine to come out the wreck was Hatchet face, the bald and maimed man punched the RV door right off the hinges and sent it flying as he jumped out roaring. Excalibur's hands joined together and pulled apart to reveal his Exalted Blade. Rhino charged past him, bashed the door aside, and met Hatchet Faces' charge.

The killer swung his namesake right at the Warframe specter but it didn't move to defend itself. His hatchet met warframe shields and the shield won effortlessly, rebounding the weapon and leaving its wielder open for attack. Rhino showed no mercy in his retaliatory strike, roaring right as it swung its armored fist into Hatchet Face's chest. The force of which caused him to explode in a shower of blood.

"I said keep the bodies intact," the Tenno chastised the specter through internal comms. "No more using Roar, just stay on defense until Crawler or Siberian show up."

Mere moments after Hatchet Face's death, the vehicles glass exploded outward. Shatterbird mid-song, levitated out the door on wings of glass and sent a shower of it towards Rhino, Trinity, and Excalibur. Rhino alone stood to withstand the onslaught as Trinity and Excalibur, broke right and left respectively to flank the woman as the rest of the Nine spilled out the RV like rats from a burning nest.

Jack Slash, Bonesaw, and Mannequin, each exploded into action the moment they could see their enemies.

Jack, already with a blade in hand, sent invisible slashes toward Excalibur, bypassing shields to carve futilely at warframe armor. Bonesaw's petite form stood under the floating Shatterbird, flinging powders and chemicals from her blood-soaked apron at Rhino instead of running off like Jack to fight. Mannequin, white, armoured and faceless, crawled out the front window of the RV like a roach before flipping onto his legs and blitzing toward Trinity with eerie silence, scalpel-like digits gleaming in the sunlight as he raised to swing at her. She dodged the first swing with a backstep and three follow up ones before grabbing Mannequin's arm and throwing him with a full body twist deep into the forest before following him out of sight.

The only member who wasn't given a chance to even attack was Burnscar.

The Operators Lex Prime barked once and the young woman, midway out the wreck, had a high-caliber round punch a gaping hole through her chest. She gasped once, flames flickering on her fingertips, but collapsed backward into the RV with a gurgle before she could ignite anything and start a forest fire.

Jack twisted in alarm, gaze snapping toward the parts of the tree tops Ivara had fired from just as Excalibur Prime surged forward to take advantage of his momentary distraction. He crossed the gap in an instant and Jack barely raised his arm before the Exalted Blade carved it clean off. The second swing came just as fast, reducing his other arm to a stump. He screamed as he fell on his ass, arms waving wildly as blood poured in wide arcs.

Distracted by the scream of their leader, Bonesaw and Shatterbird turned to see Excalibur raising his sword to do what looked like an execution strike. With a shriek of fury, Shatterbird raised her hand and commanded all her glass that wasn't supporting her flight to attack Excalibur. Bonesaw also leveled her arm at it, the skin moving in weird ways.

They never got the chance to attack, a radiant light flashed from the void powered energy sword, blinding both girls and Jack.

With Excalibur securing Jack for later interrogation, Trinity fighting Mannequin, and Rhino instructed to play defense, the Operator decided that he'd take matters into his own hands again.

A second Lex Prime round put a hole in Shatterbirds chest, narrowly missing her spine but causing her flight to falter. A third shot rang out to finish the job, puncturing through her throat mid-gurgle and beheading her, silencing the monster once and for all. The glass wave meant to save their leader and Shatterbird's wings broke apart harmlessly in the air and she crashed to the forest floor, her body jerking in spasms one more time before going completely still.

With nothing left to attack him, Rhino let Iron Skin activate. His overguard armour gleaming like Orokin Gold as he began his walk towards Bonesaw who was screaming and clawing at her eyes with manic desperation. She had tripped on some of the larger shards of glass after being blinded by Excalibur and that landed her in a crumpled heap near Shatterbird's corpse.

With that done, he began wondering when Trinity would be…

A white blur came tearing out of the treeline, it hit the RV hard enough to cave in the engine block and nearly flip the wreckage over again. Both Rhino and the Operator twitched, weapons and fist ready, expecting the Siberian. But as the dust settled and the form became clear, it wasn't her.

It was Mannequin.

His ceramic armour was caved inward, a perfectly shaped Warframe fist indented in the center. Fractures spidered outward from the point of impact like shattered ice. Brain matter and oil-black blood leaked from cracks in his chassis.

He was dead.

Trinity fell from the treeline in a graceful crouch nearby, stood, and walked close to Rhino as she flicked blood off her knuckles.

Jack Slash, still blind and bleeding, stopped screaming in pain for a moment and shouted. "CRAWLER!"

It took a while to sense if the man turned monster would respond but the Operator felt it through Ivara's heightened senses when it did. Something moving fast and with a tremor that was subtle before quickly rising like a drumbeat of a marching band.

Crawler exploded into the clearing in a wave of limbs, mutated muscle and glistening tentacles. The Operator's first thought was Phorid. A special kind of infested unit that popped up on different planets every now and again, but even that thing didn't look nearly as mutated as Crawler did.

"KILL ME! BREAK ME! MAKE ME STRONGER!" he roared, voice filled with madness and excitement.

Excalibur was standing with his blade at Jack's throat, but Crawler didn't even register him. His eyes—and every other grotesque sensory organ—were fixed on the biggest and shiniest of the specters. Rhino.

He didn't waste time with more talking, just charged. The collision between the two was titanic but Rhino barely moved, already dug in before he caught the attack. In retaliation he brought both arms up in a hammering strike that crashed down like a meteor, slamming Crawler into the dirt with a shockwave that rippled out and stripped nearby trees of their branches and sent flesh, bone, and ichor flying in every direction.

But Crawler just howled in delight as his body began regenerating.

"YES! MORE!"

His ruined body surged. Twisting, bloating, and reinforcing itself with stronger muscles and armour plating. But Crawler didn't stop moving even in his broken state and bit down on Rhino's leg, raising the warframe into the air and slamming it down like a club over and over.

Rhino's Iron Skin held and the retaliatory kick shattered Crawler's jaw in a burst of gore and teeth that forced him to leg go. Landing on his feet, Rhino charged into Crawler and sent both tumbling. Crawler laughed in joy as he and Rhino began grappling, trading haymakers and slams as dirt exploded and tree trunks split with every blow as they fought.

Trinity raised a hand, ready to support Rhino with an ability but the Operator stopped her with a mental command. He was confident Rhino could win on his own. He also wanted to see just how powerful Crawler's adaptation was in comparison to a Sentient so that if he ever encountered a similar ability, he would know what to expect. Once enough data was gathered he'd incinerate Crawler with his Burstron Prime Incarnon form to make sure there would be nothing to come back from.

Instead, he directed Trinity toward Bonesaw, who was trying to crawl away during the chaos. She was smearing something from her belt over her eyes—milky tinkertech gel. It worked quickly and within seconds, her eyes regained the light they once had. And when Trinity reached her, Bonesaw lashed out.

Needles extended from her fingertips like claws, jabbing at the Warframe's arm but they bent uselessly against her shields.

Uncaring of the fact Bonesaw wore the visage of a little girl or that the attack hadn't worked, Trinity reared back and delivered a single, brutal punch to the girl's temple. A crack like a gunshot echoed out on impact and she slumped to the floor.

With things seemingly coming to a close, the Operator uncloaked Ivara and dropped from the tree's right next to Excalibur, purposely letting the landing make noise to alert the now former leader of the Nine to another presence.

Helios, recognizing it wasn't needed, immediately parted with her to continue to scan Crawlers adaptations.

Jack Slash twitched but despite being blind and drenched in his own blood, he wore that same charismatic smile.

"Trinity," A voice that wasn't the Operator's own came out of Ivara. It was a calm, soft, and feminine voice that used to belong to the woman that Ivara was before being turned into a warframe by Ballas. "Make sure our captive doesn't bleed out."

Trinity obeyed, dragging Bonesaw through the forest floor and glass without a care, her limp frame bumping and snagging against roots and stones. She stopped beside Jack and dropped the girl's body unceremoniously. Then, with a glowing hand, sent a pulse of healing energy into his torso. It was just enough to stabilize the killer.

Jack chuckled hoarsely, teeth stained pink. "Some bedside manners you have. Not even going to heal my eyes so I can see the leader of this strange team who so soundly defeated me?"

The Operator knelt before him, unmoved by the attempt at conversation and began asking questions

"You've been active for years," Ivara said, her voice carrying all the warmth of the vacuum of space. "A low-level S-class threat. Not Endbringer tier, but still a more immediate danger than someone like Nilbog and even the machine army. And yet, the Nine stay alive, murdering at will. How?"

Jack sat up straighter, blind eyes blinking against nothing as he turned toward Ivara's voice.

"Trade secret," he whispered mirthfully. "But I'll bite, since you asked so nicely."

He coughed a wet, rattling, rasp before continuing.

"It's not that we're strong. Well, we are, but parahuman ability isn't our main strength. We—or rather, I—just know where to cut. We make a hero disappear? Sidekicks scatter. Announce ourselves by having Shatterbird maim a city? Panic spreads everywhere. All while spreading fear and recruiting from where we decimate. That's how we've thrived throughout the years. There's an art to it you know. One that only I mastered."

"Is that what you call your terror campaign? Art?" Ivara asked coldly.

"Yes. And with each member of my merry band and every atrocity we committed, it made a new splash on the canvas of the world and changed history," he said as the edges of his mouth curled into a sinister smirk. "The infamous Siberian, who killed Hero and scarred the Brute of Brutes, Alexandria. The immortal, ever-evolving Crawler. Bonesaw, our little plague maker. Shatterbird, our herald. Hatchet Face, the Brute-killer. Grey Boy and many, many more. And then there's me, Jack Slash, the one who brought out their full potential and carved our names into history."

The Operator watched him ramble. He was already done with this lunatic. He'd heard enough speeches about murder as art from that Orokin bastard Nihil. And all he was really getting from this was that Jack Slash had no real idea how he'd survived this long.

While Scion and the Endbringers were perhaps the only powers in this world that could match a Tenno, there was no reason a group of parahumans—or even heavily armed unpowered humans—couldn't have done what he just did to the Nine, if enough of them made a concerted effort.

In the Origin System, vengeance burned brighter than Sol itself. It united enemies, ended empires, and culled bloodlines. And humans here, despite the difference in time period and even universes, should be of similar temperament. Endbringer Truces existed after all. So a group like the Nine who only used fear tactics and terror campaigns, with none of the absolute power of someone like Scion, shouldn't have been thriving for decades, let alone a year, without someone or something protecting them from behind the scenes. Or maybe, humanity here was just more willing to tolerate evil than fight it.

Either way, it was time to end this.

"And the Siberian?" the Operator asked flatly. "Where is she?"

Jack's smirk faltered for the first time. "She popped."

"Popped?"

"Gone," he said, gesturing vaguely with both stumps. "At first I thought it was some sort of teleporter… then I thought it was you people. But you clearly don't know either."

The Operator stared silently, as if Ivara's main optic could peel the answers from his brain. But there was nothing more to glean. Jack didn't know anything. That was all there was to it.

So without another word, Ivara pulled the Lex Prime from her hip.

Jack heard the weapon draw but he didn't flinch.

He just smiled.

And then Ivara fired.

The bullet tore through Jack Slash's skull. The back of his head exploded against the forest floor, blood misting the air behind him.

Jack's body slumped sideways, the madman's twisted smile still frozen on his face, even in death. The Operator thought a quick death was too good for the likes of him, but torturing someone for satisfaction was beneath him.

Bonesaw stirred at the sound of the gun, quickly picking herself up and looking around. But instead of seeing a great stand between her allies and the warframes. It was only their bodies and her enemies surrounding her. Then she saw him, her mentor and kidnapper. Dead.

"Jack…?" she croaked. Her voice cracked as if breaking from a long, deep sleep. "No… no no no!" She scrambled across the dirt on all fours. "Jack! JACK!"

Trinity made to restrain her again, but Ivara held up a hand. The Operator wanted her to see this and process it properly. Trinity obeyed, and the little girl collapsed beside the body. Her sobs were high, childlike.

Bonesaw hands touched his ruined skull. She didn't recoil from the gore at all. Just shook and sobbed.

"I-I can fix you! Bring you back," she said desperately. "I just need my lab and tools!"

Ivara knelt beside her right as she started gathering as much of Jack's remaining gray matter in a pile. Then slowly and gently, reached out and pulled Bonesaw into an embrace.

The child killer stiffened immediately in fear, but instead of being executed like the rest of her murderous family, she was just held tightly but gently.

"I'm sorry," Ivara said softly, voice filled with pity for the girl despite everything she had done. "I wish I could've reached you before he turned you into… this."

For a moment, it seemed like Bonesaw had relaxed in that hug. Then her body tensed, and she screeched with fury.

"Don't touch me, you jelly fish face bitch!" she howled, flailing in the Operator's arms. "You think I care!? That I want your pity!? I made art out of hundreds of wannabe heroes! Wrote music with the screams of all the people I tortured. I broke better people than you for fun!"

She twisted and screamed. But couldn't break the hold.

"You think this hug matters? You think I'm sad?! I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! I'll tear you apart and stitch you together with your friends!"

The Operator didn't flinch at the outburst. Didn't loosen the hug. Didn't move.

He just whispered.

"Then I hope that what I'll do next will offer the girl you once were some sliver of peace."

Bonesaw's body began to shimmer a deep orange in Ivara's arms, glowing from the inside out. The little girl took a while to notice because of her struggling, but when she did, she momentarily stopped trying to escape.

"What… what are you doing to me?!" Her high pitched voice demanded.

No answer was given but she had figured out quickly from the pain assaulting her that it wasn't good. Bonesaw howled as orange particles streamed off her into Ivara's palm as she began disintegrating on a molecular level.

She immediately activated every defense—needles, blades, injectors, stomach acid. None worked.

"LET GO! LET GO!!" she screamed as the glow intensified. "I SAID LET ME GOOOO!"

With no other hope left, she went berserk. Pain turned off as she clawed, punched, bit and roared like a cornered animal against the inevitable as her body came apart atom by atom until there was nothing left.

And just like that one more member of the nine was gone.

The Operator stood slowly as Ordis' voice crackled over the comms.

"Excelent work Operator, Ordis is here to inform you that local Parahuman law enforcement and PRT strike units are now aware of the fight and are heading your way. ETA, five minutes."

The Operator nodded, then turned to the clone of Umbra.

"Excalibur," The Warframe nodded its helm in acknowledgment. "Help Rhino finish off Crawler. Make it quick. I want him dead by the time the PRT gets here."

"And what about you, Operator?" Ordis asked.

The Tenno turned his head toward the highway.

"I'm going to visit our little civilian friend," he said. "Recent evidence points to him not being so civilian after all. Trinity, stay here and make sure nothing happens to the bodies or that one of them doesn't resurrect and leave."

Ivara stepped away from the clearing right as Excalibur bullet jumped deeper into the forest, towards the source of laughter and tremors. Soon, she broke off into a sprint before bullet jumping away, leaving Trinity behind.

Chapter Text

Ivara broke free of the forest and landed on the asphalt highway in a crouch. Her main optic flicked left, zooming in—a couple miles up the road, blue and red lights strobed across the horizon. The PRT was already closing in. She pivoted, scanning the other direction until she spotted the van exactly where she’d left it under the effects of a sleep arrow.

So either the suspected Nine operative was still inside or had slipped away.

Ivara cloaked again, moving low and silent with Burston Prime raised. She approached the driver’s side, finger poised on the trigger but the Operator could tell the seat was empty before they reached it.

“Sleep arrow must’ve worn off,” the operator muttered in annoyance as he decloaked, seeing no point in wasting energy trying to sneak up on someone already gone. “Ordis, the suspect is gone. Scan the area for anyone running around in the forest.”

Through the window and on the other side of the vehicle, Ivara’s sensors spotted disrupted foliage and shoe prints leading into the treeline.

“Belay that Ordis, I think I have a lead.”

Then through that same window he had spotted something appear behind Ivara, without a sound or visible disruption of space. A naked woman, skin white as bleached bone and striped black like a tiger, already mid-swing. Her arm blurred forward at high speed, claws angled for the back of Ivara’s head.

The Operator twisted and rolled out the way, making the strike miss and punch through the van’s window instead of her head. The Siberian didn’t pause. She kept attacking in a feral rush, her claw like nails flashing in wide arcs. Ivara wove between them, footwork tight, body rotating in minimal movements, allowing each dodge to flow into another burst of fire. She aimed for joints, eyes, feet, anywhere that might reveal a weakness but none had any more effect than the other.

A clawed hand slashed sideways. Ivara ducked under it, returning fire even as she pivoted, but one of the Siberians' fingers grazed her shields. The barrier flared once and collapsed without resistance.

The Operator vaulted backward in slight alarm, momentum carrying him into a bullet jump. Burston vanished into storage with a flicker of light as he summoned the Artemis Bow.

The Siberian didn’t hesitate to chase, glowing yellow eyes looking at him like prey before she leapt after him like a human arrow.

“They weren’t kidding about her invulnerability and her strength… it’s absurd,” the Operator thought, nocking a sleep arrow. “But let’s see how she handles this.”

He loosed the arrow and it struck her dead center between the eyes before popping in a burst of energy meant to lull the naked woman into slumber. The Siberian didn’t even blink.

She crashed toward him, arms wide for the tackle, and at the last instant, Ivara double-jumped over her, activating her Shroud. The warframe landed without a sound.

Surprisingly, the brute landed just as gently. Her head turned immediately, searching the area where she’d last seen him but found nothing. The striped woman's head turned left and right, searching for her opponent in silent anger but it was futile.

The Siberian didn’t stay still though. She crouched, clawed her fingers into the asphalt, and ripped out a jagged section of roadway the size of a car. Then without a sound of strain, she hurled it at the patch of tarmac where she suspected Ivara was hiding.

It was surprisingly accurate even if off. Ivara sidestepped casually, the chunk of road slamming into the road behind him in a spray of asphalt and shattered stone.

She ripped up another piece and hurled it again but this time it went wide. He didn’t even need to dodge it.

“Thankfully she’s not pulling the ability to see through invisibility out her ass,” the Operator thought dryly, watching his shields recharge.

With space to breathe and time to think, the Operator’s mind replayed his brief engagement with the Siberian. The more he examined each moment, the less she made sense.

First was her sudden appearance. She had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, yet in all the years she’d been active, there had never been a single documented case of the Siberian teleporting. Her abrupt arrival didn’t fit the established pattern.

Then there was the way she’d instantly popped Ivara’s shields with nothing more than a finger. If the Siberian truly had the raw strength to tear through a warframe’s defenses so casually, then her earlier swipes should have been producing shockwaves or at the very least knocking Ivara off her feet from sheer impact with the finger alone. Yet there had been none of that.

And finally, the sleep arrow. It had no effect for even a fraction of a second despite its proven ability to disable anything more sophisticated than a rock. Even the Simurgh, a being supposedly beyond parahuman limits, had been susceptible to its influence. Yet the Siberian wasn’t touched by it.

The only other entities the Operator had ever encountered that were completely immune to the sleep arrow’s effects—and to similar warframe abilities—were Corrupted Vor, Thrax enemies, and the Eidolons. All of them shared one thing in common, they were energy given form.

That single connection snapped the rest of the puzzle into place. The Siberian was an energy being. That realization alone didn’t explain all her abilities but it explained enough.

And if her sudden disappearance, timed exactly with the Nine operative going under, was more than coincidence—as the Operator was now certain it was—then she had to be a projection. Something akin to Sevagoth’s Shadow. And considering Sevagoth had to be nearby when he sent his shadow out and the operative had been trailing the Nine relatively close, that host couldn’t be far.

Which meant finding them would be easy, if he moved now. The problem was leaving the Siberian active while the PRT was just minutes out—doing that would turn the highway into a massacre. Blowing the forest to hell would work, but that would start a wildfire, and he wasn’t interested in causing an ecological disaster to kill one person when this assasination mission was supposed to be a way of amassing a good public reputation.

Actually… why was he thinking this hard about it? There was a far simpler solution.

“Ordis?”

“He’s already been found, Operator. Marking him now.”

A red enemy indicator winked into existence on his HUD. Not even thirty feet away. The Operator exhaled slowly, almost annoyed at himself for overcomplicating things.

He let the Shroud fall away. Instantly, the Siberian’s sight locked on Ivara, the chunk of road in her hand dropped in favor of charging her prey in a blur of striped white and black. Her body folded into a predatory sprint as her fingers splayed and shoulders lowered like a wild Kavat breaking from cover to chase prey.

The Operator didn’t flinch, having Ivara’s main optic look at the projection as he angled Lex Prime toward the forest, barrel perfectly tracing her creator.

The Siberian, still unaware that the secret to her immortality had been discovered, launched herself into a lunge that ate the last of the distance in less than a second, lips stretching into a wide smile for the kill. Her glowing eyes locked directly on Ivara’s main optic through the jelly fish like veil—mere inches now, her claw tips breaking past the shield instantly and nearly brushing the edge of his helmet.

Lex Prime barked.

And then she was gone.

No sound. No fade. No distortion of air. Just there one heartbeat, gone the next.

“Target eliminated, Operator,” Ordis reported.

The Operator lowered the Lex, eyes flicking to the target marker now vanishing from his HUD. “How embarrassing, I can’t believe it took me so long to figure out her gimmick.

“Operator, for what it’s worth… no one else has ever figured out the Siberian was a projection.”

The Tenno snorted. “No one else on this planet is a Tenno, Ordis. That’s not exactly a win.”

“Oh?” Ordis asked in an innocent tone that meant he was setting up for something. “Is that why you dropped Ivara’s Shroud early? Because you were trying to look cool to cover up your embarrassment?”

The Operator’s mouth opened, then closed as he cringed in even more embarrassment within his transference chair. After trying to think of various excuses only to come up with nothing, he settled on, “Shut up.”

“As you command, Operator,” Ordis replied, but the digital lilt in his voice was unmistakable. Even when he wasn’t laughing, the Tenno could hear him do so.

Ivara moved into the treeline, tracing the now dead master of the Siberian tracks to his body soundless step. Barely a minute later, the Operator came out with the body, the limp form of it slung over one shoulder. The head had a neat, coin-sized hole punched clean through it because the bullet had traveled through several trees before reaching the projector, so it didn't create the gaping holes it normally would have.

In other words the face was intact enough to find out who this mystery member was.

"Ordis, ID him for me."

The cephalon processed the scan in an instant.

“William Manton. Former parahuman researcher, most famously the namesake for the Manton Effect—the inability of most parahumans to affect living matter. Missing for over a decade. Thought dead.”

The Operator blinked in confusion. “Why would a famous researcher throw in with the Nine? To help Bonesaw?”

Before Ordis could reply, movement flickered on Ivara’s optic feed. Blue and red strobes now painted the highway a few hundred meters away, and a cluster of figures emerged from the direction of the lights— six PRT troopers in heavy armor, flanked by a masked man in silver and blue tights the Operator guessed was a parahuman.

The troopers raised their weapons instantly.

“Unknown parahuman!” the lead trooper barked, voice booming through an external speaker. “Drop the civilian and surrender for containment!”

“He’s not—” the Operator started, only for the trooper to cut him off.

“Now!”

“I’m trying to tell you, this man isn’t a civilian. He’s a member of the Slaughter House Nine.” He lifted Manton’s body just enough for them to see. “Hes the Siberian, specifically the master responsible for her. My team and I tracked them to this highway and have eliminated most of them, only Crawler remains now.”

The cape folded his arms. “The Protectorate knows who all the current members of the Nine are and he's not one of them. Master powers don't even work on—.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the Operator interrupted, voice sharpening. “The Siberian wasn't a parahuman, she was a projection. This man is the source.”

The cape scoffed. "A likely story, we'll get it all sorted out back at base. Just surrender to PRT custody and this doesn't have to get ugly."

The Operator cursed and dropped Manton's body, he was going to try and stall until Trinity got here with the bodies. But before he could, the PRT trooper with the hose opened fire. Rolling aside before it could hit, the Operator watched as the foam splattered and hardened on the corpse.

His annoyance with these troopers was short lived though, his HUD pinged an alert. Helios had sustained critical damage and had put itself into storage to begin self repairs.

“Ordis, what happened to Helios?” he asked while sidestepping a blue laser beam from the cape.

“It's Crawler Operator." Ordis responded immediately. "Rhino and Excalibur reported he had been completely neutralized. But a moment later, his biomass detonated. Helios was too close when it happened.”

The cape controlling the blue beam yanked his arm back toward him. Realizing what that could mean, Ivara vaulted into the air. That quick thinking allowed her to avoid one of the larger chunks of road the Siberian had dug up smashing into her back. The cape held it over his head, ready to use it again.

"Okay, so he blew up, mission complete," the Operator surmised as he watched for the PRT’s next move.

"Mission not complete,” Ordis denied. “My sensors detect that his biomass is continuing to expand and shape itself rapidly. I believe Crawler is evolving."

Following Ordis's words, the tree line ahead erupted.

Rhino Prime came hurtling out like a meteor, moving so fast that he was a blur. He impacted Manton's van, turning the vehicle into a fireball that sent heat washing across the road.

The PRT and the cape that had been preparing to attack Ivara stopped to focus on the fiery wreck that Rhino's specter had started walking himself out of and the trail of destruction his impromptu flight had made through the forest.

And then a roar shook the land.
"MOOOOORRRRRRREEEEEEE!"

Deep and bestial. The sound that made birds for miles scatter and turned nearly every living thing nearby into prey that knew it was prey.

Then from the same direction but far over the trees, a streak of black and gold blurred overhead, landing somewhere beyond with a loud boom.

Heavy footfalls followed after, the trees hiding the source for a few seconds but no more.

Crawler emerged but not as he was before. Almost twenty feet tall, covered in thick plates of bone and chitin layered across him like natural armor, ridged and fitted together so tightly they looked forged rather than grown. His face—or what passed for one—was a smooth, angular mask of carapace with no eyes, only a thin vertical split where his mouth should have been. When he opened his mouth to huff steam, that seam tore open to reveal rows of different kinds of teeth.

His armor flexed as he moved, covering most of his bulk but leaving gaps in the joints and other areas where raw muscle swelled beneath. His arms ended in blades grown straight from his forearms. They were jagged sharp things long enough to skewer a truck. More growths jutted from his back, tentacles tipped with hooks and spear-like bone growth writhing restlessly as though eager to strike.

One look at the PRT troopers and the cape, faces pale and eyes wide, and the Operator knew they were not equipped for this.

Burston Prime shimmered into Ivara's hands, its form shifting, grey-blue void tendrils curling around the weapon as it morphed into its incarnon state. It wouldn't last long given the Tenno barely met the prerequisites to activate it but it would be enough firepower to bring Crawler down.

He sighted down the barrel at the monster and yelled at the troopers. "Retreat back to a safe distance, me and my team will handle this. Rhino, stay back.”

The gun thundered, each round a miniature sun exploding, stitching a trail of detonations across Crawler’s armored chest and head until the beast stumbled back and fell over.

Ivara kept firing, maintaining the pressure and out of the corner of her vision, the Operator watched the the troopers piling into their vehicle and speeding away while calling for backup. Only the cape remained. Shielding his eyes from the blazing detonation by using his power to hold the ruined street as cover until he closed the distance with Ivara.

The Operator allowed it.

“Sorry about earlier!” the cape shouted over the gunfire. “What’s the plan to deal with this guy?”

He didn’t need to shout for long. The void-tendrils already began retreating, the Burston’s Incarnon form unraveling back into its standard shape. The firepower was spent.

Crawler lay still in the smoke, but the Operator didn’t trust it. Anything short of complete disintegration wasn’t enough to convince him the beast was dead.

“First priority is getting you out of here,” the Operator said tightly. “I understand you’re a hero, but you’ll only get in the—”

The ground exploded with movement. From the dust around Crawler, black tentacles lashed out with lightning speed.

Ivara reacted instantly—gun snapping up and firing down the writhing limbs. But the magazine ran dry quickly, the chamber clicking empty with tentacles still closing fast.

One tore through the cape’s stone shield, missing his torso by inches and slamming into the asphalt between them.

Seeing that, the Operator abandoned reloading. The Burston vanished back into storage in the same heartbeat Hate appeared. Ivara lunged, severing the tentacle in a single sweep. Another three whipped toward them—she stepped in front of the cape, blade flashing, parrying one, slicing through the next, deflecting the third.

The Operator planted his stance, Hate poised for the follow-up.

The street went deathly still, dust and smoke hanging in the air where the tentacles had withdrawn. Then Crawler made his move.

The monster erupted from the haze with impossible speed for its mass, practically a living avalanche. The Operator could see in near slow motion that his armored face and chest had regenerated somewhat, but was still burning with massive gaping holes exposing brain, bones, and fangs.

Rhino crashed in from the side, throwing himself bodily into Crawler mid-charge. The sound was like mountains colliding and despite his size being pitifully small in comparison, Rhino’s momentum and armor cracked through Crawler’s outer plating like paper.

The two titans tumbled down the ruined street, ripping up asphalt and shattering trees as they rolled. Crawler recovered first. His clawed hand shot out, catching Rhino from his side mid-roll, and with a guttural roar he slammed the warframe into the pavement so hard the road cratered. The Operator felt the shockwave through Ivara’s boots.

Pinned, Rhino struggled as Crawler held him down with one massive arm. Then the monster turned his attention back to Ivara. His free hand clenching into a fist, the organic blade on it trembling as he aimed it at her. Then with a sickening pulse of muscle, he launched it like a missile straight toward them.

The Operator had just slapped a fresh magazine into the Burston when the projectile screamed across the street. But he wasn't worried.

Excalibur was here.

He dropped from the trees like an answer to a prayer, Exalted Blade already in motion. One stroke of it and the monstrous projectile split in two. Both halves whistled past Ivara and the cape, detonating downrange in twin eruptions of dirt, trees, and rock.

Excalibur's cut didn’t stop there though. A crescent of light ripped free from the edge of his sword and carved through the arm pinning Rhino. Crawler’s limb split to the bone, ichor spraying as the energy wave dissipated into the street..

Freed, Rhino threw the severed arm off him and surged up from the crater. He roared as he drove upward, fist extended in an uppercut. The blow connected under Crawler’s jaw with enough power to lift the monster bodily off the ground. His head snapped back, plating cracking, flesh tearing. And a heartbeat later, his entire head exploded in a burst of blackened ichor.
Rhino wasn't done yet.

From high above, he roared yet again but this time it was different. After all, the second ability was already active when he punched Crawlers head off.

Defying reason and logic, Rhino’s body accelerated downwards at speed that could not be caused by just gravity alone. His legs went right through Crawler's titanic new form. The monstrous capes upper and lower body separating in a bloody burst of guts and blood.

Then it happened. Time stuttered and slowed. From the blood spraying, to the rocks flying, everything within range of Rhino’s ability experienced stopped time.

"What... what is this?" the Protectorate hero asked in awe and horror.

The operator didn't waste time answering, Ivara summoned the Artemis Bow and drew it.

“Excalibur,” he commanded out loud for the Protectorate hero to hear. “Cut Crawler up fine. I want to make sure nothing is big enough to survive this.”

The specter obeyed, his sword flashed through the air dozens of times in seconds. And with each strike, light flew off its edge and carved up the villain's body. Within seconds, Crawler had gone from a beheaded armored titan to large chunks of flesh and scattered armor.

“Perfect,” the Operator breathed, loosening his grip on the bowstrings.

Six elemental arrows multiplied into dozens as they flew into the stasis field and pierced the chunks of Crawler’s body. Each impact detonated in a colorful flash of elemental energy, frozen in time alongside the suspended debris.

Rhino took his time and walked out the blast radius. When he reached the edge, time resumed and the explosion erupted in a controlled, violent boom.

The Operator had to admit, Rhino looked really badass walking away from the explosion like that. It’d definitely look cinematic to the media when Ordis edited and released the footage of the nines assasination.

And the smoke cleared and the debris settled, it was clear the plan had worked. Crawler’s body had been completely destroyed and thanks to Rhino’s time stomp, any trees high enough to be set ablaze by the last blast had been toppled before it went off.

“Good job, everyone. We’ve officially put an end to the Slaughterhouse Nine.” The Operator’s voice carried warmly through Ivara.

Rhino and Excalibur exchanged a solid fist bump at a mental cue from the Operator.

“Trinity,” the Operator continued, “you can come out now.”

The one specter who hadn’t seen much action, tasked instead with guarding their physical evidence of elimination, stepped from the treeline at a distance from where Crawler had appeared. In her hands, she carried the Nine’s battered RV overhead. With no effort, she walked onto the destroyed highway and dropped it like discarded scrap. The vehicle slammed into the asphalt with a crash, somehow landing upright but a couple of bodies tumbled out onto the road.

“Holy shit,” the Protectorate cape blurted, eyes wide. “You weren’t lying about getting all of them.That’s Jack Slash. You actually killed Jack fucking Slash.” His gaze darted, catching sight of another body. “And Mannequin too?!”

Ivara turned her optic toward the man as he strode forward, disbelief melting into a savage grin. He stopped in front of Jack’s corpse, staring for a long moment before his expression twisted. He spat hard, the glob landing across the corpse’s ruined face.

“Rest in piss, you worthless bastard. I hope hell’s worse than just a pit of fire for you.”

The Operator felt the urge to respond but stayed quiet. These weren’t enemies who deserved honor or respect—not in life, not in death.

The cape exhaled and straightened, realizing how raw his outburst had been. He glanced back at Ivara, awkward but sincere. “Sorry about that. Those monsters wiped out the town my grandparents retired to. Seeing them gone… it means more than I can put into words. Thank you and for this and for saving my life multiple times.”

He extended his hand. “Name’s Blue-Ray. A pleasure to meet you.”

The tenno extended Ivara's arms, clasped Blue-Ray’s hand and shook.

Ivara reached forward and clasped Blue-Ray’s hand firmly. “I’m Ivara,” the Operator said through her. She motioned to the others in turn. “That’s Rhino, Excalibur, and Trinity. We’re part of a new organization—Ten-Zero. Or Tenno, if you like it shorter.”

Blue-Ray blinked in confusion while taking that in. “How new are you? I haven’t heard of you before and your group is definitely front page worthy from your sci-fi aesthetic alone.”

Ivara chuckled lightly. “Not surprised. We’re brand new. Our first fight was with the Simurgh… let’s just say it didn’t exactly go the way we hoped. So we figured we’d start with smaller fish.” She gestured casually at the wreckage of the Nine’s RV and the scattered corpses of North America's most infamous killers.

Blue-Ray’s jaw dropped. “Wait wait wait. You’re not talking about the fight that went viral earlier today right?!” His voice cracked with disbelief. “I—I saw the reports not even a hour ago! That was you guys?” His excitement seemed to surge. “Holy shit. Where’s your space ship?”

The sudden rising wail of sirens cut him off. Red and blue lights crested the highway’s horizon, joined by the thunder of approaching engines. From above, several flying capes streaked in, and at their center a bulky figure descended—gleaming in articulated plates of dragon-styled power armor.

Ivara turned her head slightly, looking above her shoulder. “Our ship? It’s right here.”

At her words, Ordis dropped the veil, and with a ripple of distorted light the Liset uncloaked into full view.

Blue-Ray could only stare, mouth hanging open.

“I’d love to stay and chat with the PRT but we’ve got business to take care of,” Ivara said. Her tone was calm and professional. “But we’ll be back soon to explain everything."

She didn’t wait for a response. With a smooth leap, she landed on the Liset’s ramp. Rhino, Excalibur, and Trinity followed in silence. The ramp sealed shut, and the ship angled skyward.

In a burst of impossible speed, the Liset tore through the clouds and was gone, leaving only the echo of its passing—and a stunned crowd of heroes and soldiers staring at the empty sky.

Chapter Text

Dragon touched down amidst what could only be described as the wreckage of a massacre. Torn asphalt, blackened soil, and bloody paste painted the road. All the marks of a brutal cape battle—but she had expected worse given the name attached to the incident. The Slaughterhouse Nine were an S-class threat for a reason. Reports even claimed Crawler had assumed a new monstrous form, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Possibly defeated, if that colorful explosion from earlier was any indicator.

And yet, none of that was her immediate concern.

Her satellites—what few remained after the Simurgh's dismantling of her network—were already trying and failing to track the vessel that had decloaked and flown off moments earlier. Spade-shaped, sleek, and operating on technology that was far beyond what an average tinker could make. It had accelerated at impossible speeds without leaving so much as a sonic boom or the fireball of atmospheric friction.

Worse, she hadn't known it was there until it revealed itself. Not only fast, the ship's stealth systems were inconceivable. If such a craft was in the hands of villains, the PRT could be hunting an untraceable, uncatchable force of parahumans in the future.

She diverted subroutines, spent precious seconds searching, only to find nothing. Every calculation ended in a dead end. Every sensor sweep came back clean. For all she knew, they could already be off planet or halfway around the globe.

At last, with reluctance bordering on frustration, she shut the process down and returned her attention to the present: the field, the PRT vehicles rolling in, and the lone cape waiting for backup. Blue-Ray—one of the very few Protectorate heroes in this region.

Dragon deliberately throttled down her processors, forcing herself to operate at a more human pace to preserve the illusion of face-to-face communication. Her mechanical frame shifted, optics locking onto the young man before her.
"Blue-Ray, I'm glad to see you're okay. Can you tell me what happened to Crawler and the rest of the Nine…?"

As she spoke, her sensors drifted toward the battered RV parked behind him. Its doors hung crooked, hinges ruined. Two twisted shapes had spilled partway from the opening: Jack Slash and Mannequin.

Blue-Ray followed her gaze—whether because he noticed or simply because he was answering her question, she wasn't sure.

"Well… Crawler's dead. Ten-Zero, the group of capes that took off in the ship just now, cut him into pieces and blew him apart right before you guys arrived. As for the rest of the Nine, I haven't gone inside the RV myself, but I think they're dead."

The words struck the assembled capes like sparks in dry brush. Murmurs spread fast—first disbelief, then swelling into open relief and excitement. For many, the Nine were a nightmare they expected to die or worse, live through, fighting if the killers ever struck their small town.

However, Dragon felt no relief. Her voice cut across the noise with authority. "Everyone clear the area. Now. Call in a hazmat team immediately."

Confusion flickered briefly, but her tone—and her reputation—left no room for debate. The capes and troopers moved quickly, retreating on foot, in vehicles, or taking to the air until the roadway was nearly clear.

Dragon turned back toward Blue-Ray. "You stay with me." Her voice softened, though command still underpinned it. If he panicked and tried to flee, she would have to restrain—or kill—him. "Are you experiencing anything unusual? Nausea, fatigue, bloating, sudden cravings for human flesh? Or does it feel like you're forgetting something important but can't remember what?"

Blue-Ray's eyes went wide. His pulse spiked—her HUD confirmed it. He swallowed hard.
"Uh—no. No, I feel fine. Nothing different than usual. I'm not even tired. Honestly, I only fought for maybe ten seconds before I got in the way and had to get sidelined."

The words tumbled out in nervous self-deprecation, followed by an awkward laugh. His hands fidgeted, patting down his arms and sides like he expected to find something wrong.
"D-Dragon," he stammered, voice cracking, "you don't think I got hit with one of Bonesaw's diseases or something like that, do you?"

Dragon shook her head slightly, though her gaze stayed fixed on him.

"I don't believe so. But Bonesaw made repeated threats that if she were ever killed, she would unleash a massive biological attack. I wouldn't put it past her, especially with Jack Slash dead. For now, remain here. I'll check the vehicle myself."

The playback paused as Dragon peeked inside the RV. The Chief Director and Regional Directors all bore witness to one of the greatest nightmares of their era lying dead and discarded within.

"As you can see," Dragon narrated, "inside the van I found the remains of the other members. Half an hour later we determined Blue-Ray wasn't infected, nor was the battlefield. In accordance with PRT regulations, we cordoned off and investigated the area."

Her voice carried evenly, but her digital avatar betrayed the faintest satisfaction. As a Guild member who had responded to countless S-class disasters, she was relieved to see one so vile as the Nine ended.

"Hatchet Face and Bonesaw's bodies are unaccounted for," Dragon continued. "But genetic analysis of a large bloodstain where the initial fighting began matched Hatchet Face. The volume of loss is consistent with fatal trauma. Forensics place the probability of survival at zero. And given the fate of her companions, it is likely Bonesaw is also deceased."

The recording shifted to footage of the forest clearing: the vast bloodstain where the brute had fallen, giant footprints from Crawler's new form, battle damage to the forest and forensic overlays layered across the image.

Director Alfred Carr broke the silence first. "Then it's done. All of them. The Nine are finished."

Emily Piggot gave a sharp nod. "About time. We've lost good men and women to them for far too long."

Dan Seneca leaned forward, fingers steepled. "The public will want a story. We may not have thrown the punches, but if we play this right, we can frame it as a collaborative victory. Play up Blue-Ray's part. Spin it as the Protectorate working with emergent allies."

"Careful," Director Hearthrow cautioned. "If we overreach, we risk alienating this… Ten-Zero. We don't know how they'll react, we don't even know if they are truly our allies. They seem like heroes now but Capes are unstable and unpredictable and these ones have been in contact with the Simurgh, they could be part of her plan for all we know.."

"Dont let paranoia rule you Hearthrow, the engagement wasn't nearly long enough for them turn into a bombs. As for overreaching, I wouldn't waste time worrying about that. That's what we pay Glenn for," Kamil Armstrong replied smoothly.

Dragon stayed silent as the directors continued their discussion, her digital gaze locked to Rebecca Costa-Brown. The Chief Director hadn't moved since the recording ended. Not at the Nine's confirmed deaths. Not even when Dragon revealed William Manton was the Siberian. Rebecca's calm, unreadable eyes stayed locked on Dragon's display.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, emotion was there but it was indiscernible what it was. "Tell us about Ten-Zero."

The other director stopped their discussion to listen immediately.

Not for the first time, Dragon wondered how this woman remained so unshakable. Still, she answered. "I can't say much more than what's already in my report. They are practically ghosts. They didn't exist until their engagement with the Simurgh in orbit earlier today. But my personal assessment is that the tinker—or tinkers—responsible for their technology already surpasses me, and possibly any other tinker on the planet."

The Chief Director responded without pause. "Even Hero?"

"I believe so,"Dragon responded with confidence.

Rebecca absorbed the answer in silence. When she spoke again, it was with finality. "We need to get on top of this fast. I want everything we can find on Ten-Zero. Bring in Watchdog if you must. Learn their capabilities, intentions, and how they have hidden until now."

The other Directors gave muted affirmations before she continued.

"They're powerful, confident, and competent. We treat them as tentative allies for now. Try to recruit them into the Protectorate. Sweeten the deal as much as reasonably possible. If they still refuse, push for affiliate status. Since Ten-Zero hasn't claimed public responsibility, and the area lacked civilian presence, we'll keep the fight under wraps until we craft a proper story for the media. Now, unless there are further issues, I trust you all have important duties to attend to…"

The meeting should have ended there.

But Dragon's HUD flickered. An urgent-red alert pulsed across her display. Parahumans Online. High-priority flag. She diverted a thread of attention, opened it and froze for milliseconds in surprise. Someone had hacked PHO.

At the top of the boards, a new post titled: Slaughter House Zero. Username: Ordis (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Attached: high-resolution footage

The cycle had broken.

The Thinker was dead. The Warrior, having exposed himself to human emotion, was compromised.

The vast design that had carried them across galaxies in order to find the Answer had ended, truncated in this sector of space. However this planet remained a viable testbed. It would never be the true continuation, not until another pair of entities arrived here, but the most efficient path was clear: maintain the testbed until a new iteration of the cycle could occur. All the futures she followed led to the preservation of this plan.

But then the futures began to collapse.

Not change. Not blocked or hidden. Vanished. Whole branches of possibility winked out of her perception in clusters with no alternatives to fill the gaps.

That was not supposed to happen. Had another pair like the Warrior and Thinker entered the space? No. If they had, even the Warrior in his current state would react and he was still saving kittens from trees.

To find out what had caused this, she increased the power in her scream—what the locals misinterpreted as a psychic bombardment but was really a wide-band information tool. She had even asked for assistance with scouring the planet from her siblings. For long moments they found nothing, her perception, and those of her fellow conflict engines could not identify the source of the disturbance of her sight.

Then she found it, a point in Orbit. A wound in reality that was located not because of what she could detect but that she could detect nothing.

What the anomaly truly was wasn't something she could parse. It did not even have form in her vision, near blind as she was at the moment. It was just a colorless blotch sucking in and eating away at the past and future like a black hole, but not of gravity. Of time and causality.

She approached carefully, halting at the distance optimal for her telekinesis as she focused her scream on the scar, attempting to extract data. But as expected, just like before there was nothing. Her probe collapsed on contact, consumed without return.

Seeing she could not observe it in any meaningful capacity and it interfered with her ability to perform her function, her intention shifted from observation to elimination. Telekinetic force wrapped the anomaly. Her intent was to try and crush it and end its interference. But when her power touched the anomaly, it slipped. Input dissolved into static and instead of crushing it she only managed to push it aside, sending it spiraling away rather than destroying it.

Then to her surprise, the anomaly fled and she realized that this was not a natural phenomena but a being containing some form of intelligence.

From there a chase ensued, the anomaly dodging and retaliating against her psychic might while she followed. It was difficult for the Simurgh to attack and dodge, extremely so due to not being able to see the future properly but her scream made up the difference where it could and allowed her to block many of the retaliatory attacks and build.

She also realized far too late that the weapon the anomaly fired had equally anomalous effects. Setting her on fire in the vacuum of space, freezing her, and corroding her. These effects, interesting as they, were nothing her physiology couldn't handle. As long as the attacks never reached her core, it would not matter.

Or so he thought.

Because something else had slipped in alongside them. Something that should not have been possible. Poison. The realization struck her with a rare, jarring dissonance. She was not organic. She did not metabolize. There was nothing to infect, no bloodstream to carry a toxin—yet her responses slowed. What little remained of her future sight collapsed entirely. The segments of her core that sustained her scream and her telekinesis faltered.

Yet even as she reeled at the impossibility, she pressed on. She struck a blow that disrupted the anomaly's assault long enough to complete her device. It had been intended as a black hole bomb, but in her rush she had assembled only a crude gravity well.

It activated, dragging at the anomaly and slowing its impossible speed. At full strength she could have barraged it until nothing remained. But now, maintaining both her own flight and the device's stability demanded everything she had. If she wanted to end this confrontation, she would need to do so physically.

She believed she could. Its reaction to her psychic force suggested it was vulnerable to direct physical assault. Victory was within her grasp.

And then something happened.

Even now, hours later, wounded and deep in the process of repair, she could not identify what had occurred. One moment she had been poised to strike and the next, she awoke spiraling through orbit, her device collapsing into wreckage beside her.

It was… difficult to accept that she may have somehow lost consciousness, almost as much as it was to accept she had been poisoned. The concept itself felt impossible. She was meant to function until her processes completely ceased or she was shut down.

Which left only one explanation she found remotely plausible, at least when it came to her black out. Her creator had intervened and forced a temporary shutdown to allow the anomaly to escape. There was even precedent: Cauldron and their endless desperate search for a "silver bullet" to turn against the Warrior could see the anomaly as that and try to save it.

But regardless of the truth, her path forward remained the same. She would repair. She would wait. Inevitably, one of her brothers or the many pawns she had would cross the anomaly's path, and she would either have answers or new information to work with in order to neutralize it.

Now, If only she could isolate the corrupted shard of her core responsible for that persistent glitch.

Rap. Tap. Tap.

____________

A/N: Not my best work, a little disappointed actually. I wanted to do more like a pho interlude and i dont think i captured the heart of all the character i put in here well so I'll probably rewrite it later. But I figured I needed to get food on the proverbial table today so here we are. Enjoy!

Chapter Text

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♦ Topic: A New Thread

In: Boards ► Ten Zero

Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Posted On Feb 25th 2011:

Citizens of the United states of America, my name is Ordis. I represent a new and elite super hero team named Ten-Zero. I am on this forum to inform you that at noon today in Missouri on highway 63, four of our members of our organization Ivara, Excalibur, Rhino, and Trinity, tracked down and eliminated all members of the Slaughterhouse Nine.

Before the predictable wave of doubt: attached is an edited compilation of the events, condensed for clarity and viewer safety. This includes bodycam feeds, external sensors, and tactical overview. We would also like to thank the PRT for its quick and effective response to evacuating civilians before the engagement. Thanks to them there were no civilian casualties.

Viewer discretion advised.

[VIDEO LINK]

(Showing page 1 of 23)

►FreeToTry (Unverified Cape)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Holy shit. This looks like real footage. the bodies, the fighting, fucking everything. if this isn't hoax by a video tinker then that means the nine are really gone...

►Capewatcher92

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Mods pls confirm before I click this. If this is a rickroll after that intro I'll riot.

►VisionsOfSilence (Moderator) (Protectorate Employee)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

This thread is under immediate review. Please refrain from spreading disinformation. Posting false claims about ongoing parahuman threats is a bannable offense.

►Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Oh, Moderator! Thank you for your concern. But it would be very silly to claim a lie while attaching high-definition multi-perspective recordings of the Nine being EXTERMINATED.

If the Slaughterhouse Nine are not "officially" gone by your standards, then perhaps the bodies, footage, and your own very frightened field agents and capes in the video will help you reconsider.

Also, it seems you attempted to lock this thread. Don't worry, I've undone the lock for you. Mistakes happen to everyone!

►kibbles

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Wait. Did… did the OP just unlock his own thread? Is PHO being hacked?

►Antigone

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

I watched the whole video. If this is real, each of these Ten-Zero capes are all Triumvirate tier. They tracked and stomped the Nine like it was nothing when the PRT and Protectorate have only been picking of one or two member for years now.

►SummerCampEnthusiast

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Forget the power levels, can we talk about how goddamn cool they look?? The sleek armor, the weapons, the spaceship that decloaks at the end?? Straight up sci-fi capes.

►BoatDreamer (Veteran Member)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

I agree. This is the first time in years I've seen a cape team that doesn't either just look like spandex clowns or recreation of robo-cop. Anyways, if we really wanna know if this is real, we just have to tag Bagrat, that guy knows everything.

►Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

It's real.

The PRT locked down the site near Highway 63 outside of Kirksville where the footage was taken. I've even got confirmation from boots on the ground that that Jack Slash, Mannequin, Shatterbird, Burnscar, and the Siberian (now known to be William Manton) are all confirmed dead. The only ones that weren't confirmed were Bonesaw and Hatchetface, and as we can see from the footage, they are very much dead.

The Nine are gone.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 21, 22, 23

(Showing page 2 of 23)

►Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Oh! Thank you for verifying, Mr. Bagrat! I am delighted to see community-sourced confirmation. Also, I noticed several Nine sympathizers attempting to post earlier—don't worry, I banned them for you. Free of charge.

You're welcome!

►SharpSharon (Moderator)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Stop banning people. You don't even have permission to!

►Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

I'm just helping keep the forum clean! After all, it would be so embarrassing if the wrong people were allowed to muddy such an important announcement.

Anyway, if anyone has further questions about Ten-Zero, please ask! I'm very responsive.

►Potent420 (Newfoundland Survivor)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Lol, the mods are seething. Anyways, thanks Ten-Zero, i never lost anyone to the nine but i sympathize with anyone who has lost their homes and family to those monsters. It also helps that i can sleep a bit easier knowing they're all dead.

►4Glasses4Eyes (Verified Cape)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

I lost many good friends and had to kill my own daughter when Bonesaw infected our citys water supply five years ago. I thought I'd never see her pay for it. Seeing her die in that recording… I cried. So thank you Ten-Zero.

►Fluoride Treatment

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Rhino literally punched a super evolved Crawler's head off and stopped TIME. Dude might be the strongest brute behind Alexandria. I mean, how do u fight against that level of strength AND time manipulation?

►Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

You said four of your members. That means you've got more capes, right?

Can we get a list and can you tell us which one is the Tinker responsible for Ten-Zero's weapons and armor? I'm also curious how an organization that can field a spaceship and easily defeat the Nine has stayed hidden this long.

And one more thing—are you related to the Simurgh sighting in orbit earlier today?

►MiLocks

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Can we talk to the members of the team? Your cool Ordis but i want to ask THEM the questions. Like can Trinity's heal like Panacea? My mom has been in her waiting line for months now and I'm scared that she'll pass before she can receive help.

►Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Thank you all for the wonderful support. We at Ten-Zero are happy to have provided you and many other closure.

As for your questions Mr Bagrat, you have such insightful questions! Unfortunately, certain details are restricted for now. Operational security, you understand. But yes we do posses many more members. As for the Tinker, I am the one of the two responsible for maintaining and building the weapons and armor of our organization.

The "orbital incident" was us. We were intending the excursion to simply be information gathering, but the mission took a turn when the Simurgh detected our vessel, the Liset, and engaged us. Ivara fought back and this led to the incident you are referring to.

Addressing Ms Locks, while I cannot speak for Trinity directly, her healing ability is at least on par with Panacea. Sadly, her focus remains on field operations for now. But please do not lose hope! Assistance to the ill and suffering is something Ten-Zero deeply values.

►Fluoride Treatment

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Wait so you guys soloed the Simurgh AND ended the Nine in a single day!? What are the power rating on you and your people!?

►Ordis (Original Poster) (Ten-Zero PR Manager)

Replied On Feb 25th 2011:

Oh, dear user… attempting to scale the members of our organization would be quite meaningless. Power ratings only have meaning when you understand the scale you're measuring against.

And quite frankly no one here does.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4 ... 21, 22, 23

■

"...and yes we'll take full advantage of the edited out confrontation between our organizations. Get to work everyone, i expect nothing but the best."

A chorus of "Yes, Chief Director," answered back before the screens went dark.

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders loosening — but only slightly. A thousand emotions stirred beneath her composure, each rising like bubbles from the depths before being crushed again by discipline.

She was happy — happy that William Manton was dead. That someone, finally, had avenged Hero. If she'd ever been given the chance, she would have done it herself. She would have torn through the Slaughterhouse Nine one by one until Manton was nothing but memory and bloody paste.

But she hadn't.

Manton's was too valuable, both as a scapegoat for the Case-53 phenomenon and as the power behind the Siberian projection. And Jack Slash had been a valuable tool meant bring out more unique triggers. His powers were also unique in a way they couldn't explain so needed to study,

Now both were gone.

No warning. No sign. No time to prepare.

Whether this was the will of the Path or a failure of their understanding, she didn't yet know. But either way, Cauldron would be meeting.

Rebecca straightened, pushing her emotions back down into the calm steel compartment where she kept them locked since the beginning of her foray into saving humanity. She pressed a button on her desk. The privacy shutters descended with a soft hiss, sealing off her office from the outside world.

A faint shimmer appeared beside her — a vertical ripple in space that solidified into a door-shaped portal of blue light. Without hesitation, she stood and walked through.

The transition was instant.

Cold white light, polished glass and ivory floors replaced the mundane Chief Director Office.. Through the panoramic windows beyond the meeting chamber, she could see it — the vast, unmoving crystalline corpse of the Thinker, its presence a reminder that even to ants a god could fall..

The others were already waiting. Doctor Mother at the head of the table. Contessa was beside her, as always, quiet and unreadable. The Number Man with his usual stillness, tablet already active and David — arms crossed, gaze focused but tight with the restless energy that never left him.

Keith's absence was immediately noted, but expected.

Rebecca nodded once in greeting as she took her seat. Doctor Mother didn't waste time. "Ten-Zero has publicly taken responsibility. Verification is overwhelming. The Nine are gone. Manton and Jack Slash are both confirmed deceased."

It wasn't news, but it was said out loud to incase someone here missed it.

"That means," David said, leaning forward, "we've lost some of our most valuable pieces to try against the Entity."

Doctor Mother inclined her head. "Yes. Some paths will need to be restructured."

Contessa spoke next, tone even but eyes distant, already seeing possibilities unravel and reform. "I'm running projections now. Without Jack, several predicted paths close, but not the critical ones. We can still create the right chain of events — it will just require alternate catalysts. Provided these newcomers don't interfere."

The Number Man's stylus paused mid-notation. "Jack's removal also reduces behavioral volatility. Fewer random variables, tighter models. Still, his… unpredictability had value."

His expression didn't shift, but Rebecca knew enough of his history to see the shade of something human flicker through — regret, perhaps. Jack had been a friend once, after all.

David frowned, realizing what she had. "Wait. Their removal wasn't in the path? You're saying these Ten-Zero people are blind spots like me?"

Rebecca answered before Contessa could, confirming to her that their all seeing woman was off her game. "Dangerous ones at that. The Nine were no pushovers, and they were taken apart casually. Even with the footage edited, you can tell they were holding back."

That drew David's full attention — a spark of excitement in his eyes showed his old hunger for challenge returning anew.

Doctor Mother steepled her fingers. "Indeed. The fact that we knew nothing of them until now implies their blindspot might be a trump. Possibly external."

The Number Man spoke again, tone thoughtful. "How sure are we that they're even parahuman? Their physiology appears human, but the armor—if it is armor—behaves more like a second skin. Their ship is also well beyond any known tinker ability and their first confirmed sighting was in orbit. That is… concerning."

Rebecca had silently thought the same thing and felt deep down that Number Man was right. For all Cauldron's reach—across the different Earths, with agents, thinkers, and precogs embedded in every major parahuman structure—no whisper of Ten-Zero had ever reached them. That wasn't just improbable. It was impossible. Even with a thinker blindspot they wouldn't be able to hide all traces of themselves from Cauldron.

Doctor Mother broke the moment with her usual authority. "Your points are noted, Kurt. We'll investigate. But first, we must address immediate concerns — namely Keith."

Everyone understood.

"We told him Manton was responsible for the Case-Fifty-Threes," she continued. "We'll need a new explanation for any continued appearances."

Rebecca had already thought of an excuse, one she had been holding in since the day they had told him that lie. She had been hoping to use it after she murdered that son of a bitch but this situation was perfect for it. "Say that Manton had an apprentice. Someone who continued his work in secret. It's believable, and it buys us time."

Doctor Mother gave a short nod of approval. "Thats what we'll tell him."

The conversation continued, more discussions and plans on setting the path right being bounced back and forth.

Rebecca looked around the room as Culdron talked — they were the few who knew more than anyone else alive, the ones shaping the fate of worlds. And yet here they were, improvising when one mistake could mean millions dead. It was a sad reality and one she had made peace with.

When the discussion came back to Ten-Zero, Doctor Mother had already decided what they would do and it was a plan Rebecca agreed with. "As for Ten-Zero, we observe. Limit contact and observe from afar and do not interfere with their plans until we understand their nature and how to work the path around them. The last thing we need is another alien race declaring war on humanity."

Voices of agreement rang out, though reluctantly from David.

Rebecca didn't speak. She only nodded as she looked at the holographic display in front of her — the frozen frame of Ten-Zero's Rhino disrupting time. Excalibur dismembering Jack, Trinity healing, and the leader Ivara shooting Manton and ending the Siberian.

Maybe Manton's death had put her in a good mood because despite the path being in shambles and the weight of responsibility not being any lighter, she felt a little hope that these Tenno would be good for the world.

The Operator sat slouched in his transference chair, fingers pressed to his forehead in utter exasperation. The faint hum of the Orbiter filled the silence, punctuated only by the distant whoosh of Umbra practicing his sword play.

"Ordis," he said at last, voice low and weary.

"Yes, Operator?" came the chipper reply, far too bright for the mood.

"When you asked to be the public relations manager, you made me a lot of promises about... staying out of trouble."

"Ordis did do that!" the cephalon chirped proudly.

The Operator exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it now. "Then please, explain to me why—after less than twenty-four hours in that role—you are currently wanted dead in seventeen countries and have a collective bounty of twenty-four million credits on your head from several major criminal syndicates?"

A pause. Then very seriously Ordis said: "They were being very rude to you, Operator. So Ordis was rude back by leaking classified information and draining many of the assets, all for PHO to see."

The Tenno let out a long, defeated sigh and dragged a hand down his face.

"...Haaaaaa."

Ordis hummed happily, oblivious to the despair in the air. "Would you like me to prepare another statement for the press?"

"Absolutely not. Just get the new body ready for me please, Umbra and I are heading to Earth."

_____________

A/N: Sorry for missing last week. I'm not exactly swimming in my free time due to my current financial situation but I'm here now! Thanks for all the support on the story so far, it's always fun reading the reactions to my work and it keeps me motivated. Next chapter is a timeskip btw.

Chapter Text

It had been months since Missouri. Months since the Operator and his specters had turned the Slaughterhouse Nine into a memory. Since then, Ten-Zero's reputation has grown faster than anyone expected—including the Tenno.

To maintain that momentum, he'd spent the time since building bridges: meetings with PRT directors, coordinated operations with the Guild and Protectorate, and the occasional carefully managed "public appearance" to keep their image polished without revealing more than they wanted to.

The meeting with the PRT in particular had been interesting and had been scheduled to happen in the "Big Apple" not even twenty four hours after their kills were confirmed. The Operator wasn't sure why it was called that though, there wasn't one anywhere in the city. Not even a statue.

They chose New York as the meeting point because it was home to one of the Protectorate's strongest and most influential capes: Legend of the Triumvirate. The Operator had hoped to meet him, to gauge the man's reaction to them and to begin building standing within the organization faster by acquainting themself with him.

Legend, of course, had been out of the city the entire time—busy helping another branch of the Protectorate dismantle some criminal syndicate calling themselves the Teeth in Boston.

So instead of a Triumvirate member, the Operator got Director Wilkins.

The conference room at PRT ENE headquarters was clean in the way places got when they expected cameras. The long table was polished dark wood, its surface reflecting the overhead lights and the silhouettes of those seated around it.

At the far end of the table sat Ivara, the Operator resting comfortably within her frame. Trinity stood to her right, posture straight, hands folded in front of her. To her left, Excalibur Umbra loomed like a silent guardian.

They'd swapped out the Excalibur Prime specter before coming planetside because leaving Umbra on the ship to do nothing would be cruel. Rhino's specter also wasn't present so as to put everyone more at ease by giving the impression that Ten Zero had less firepower in the room. Plus, it was better not to have him around so as to not accidently level the building in the slight chance a fight broke out.

Opposite them sat Director Wilkins and the assembled weight of the PRT's New York leadership and an agent from the Whitehouse.

Wilkins herself was a woman in her forties, the lines around her eyes carved more by stress than age. Her suit was sharp, her posture sharper. To her sides sat a pair of male and female PRT lawyers with tablets, a federal representative with an easy, practiced smile plus two capes, Cashe and Ursa Aurora.

Names were exchanged, titles recited. Ivara, Umbra, and the specters emoted where necessary. When the Operator was questioned on why his teammates didn't talk, it was waved off as Ten-Zero policy that there was only one speaker per squad. The PRT let it go after realizing that they weren't going to get any more details on that.

Someone tried a joke about it and the laughter that followed was as polite as it was fake.

Director Wilkins let it die, folded her hands on the table, and didn't waste any more time with pleasantries.

"Ten-Zero, once again, on behalf of the PRT, Protectorate, and the good people of the U.S.A, thank you for eliminating the Slaughterhouse Nine. You've done us a great service." She began as her gaze fixed on Ivara's optic through the jellyfish like veil. "But as professionals I'm sure Ten-Zero understands that you are simply too powerful to be allowed to operate indefinitely on U.S. soil with zero oversight."

The room tightened and the Operator felt the change as clearly as a shift in gravity. Shoulders tensed. Breaths caught. One of the Lawyers went pale, fingers whitening around a pen. Ursa Aurora twitched, gaze moving between Ivara and her teammates as if expecting someone to make the first move.

"And frankly," Wilkins continued despite the reactions, "'Ordis has already demonstrated that lack of oversight is not a hypothetical concern. We can ignore impersonating the PRT for the sake of evacuating civilians during your fight with the Nine, but what he did on PHO is unacceptable."

Umbra's posture, which had been slowly growing hostile the more she talked, stopped its subtle shifts and transformed into an outright hostile one. His shoulders dipped and his sword arm was outstretched. He was ready to summon his blade the moment they tried anything.

The Operator would normally tell him to stand down quicker but he could understand why Umbra was so tense. This meeting would have felt awfully like an ambush If not for the genuine surprise flickering across several faces and the fact that one of the lawyers shot Wilkins a quick, sharp and panicked look.

It seemed Wilkins had stepped off whatever script they'd prepared. If this wasn't a negotiation ploy, good. Better an honest person unafraid to speak their mind than a bureaucratic sock puppet. If it was, they wouldn't find them anything to use against Ten-Zero.

Ivara lifted a hand, causing more of the room's inhabitant to flinch, and rested it on Umbra's shoulder, fingers curling tight enough to transmit intent even without transference.

Stand down.

Umbra didn't relax completely, but he stopped looking ready to pull his Exalted Blade and carve up the entire building. As a result, the capes also stopped looking ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

"We are aware," Ivara said, "of how the PRT and the government at large may view Ten-Zero. We are after all an unregistered, highly trained, advanced, and high-impact strike team with the demonstrated capacity to combat and kill S-class threats and disappear at a moments notice."

Wilkins nodded her head in agreement.

"We are also aware," the Operator continued, "that Ordis's... overreach... on Parahumans Online did not help."

Over internal coms, Ordis made a wounded sound. "Overreach? Operator, I was appropriately reaching. The information was deeply relevant to public interest and THEY WERE SAYING TERRIBLE THINGS ABOUT YOU!"

"Not now Ordis," the Operator ordered and the cephalon cleared coms. He wasn't mad at Ordis but he needed him to be quiet so he could think clearly.

Wilkins' jaw tightened even as her shoulder relaxed from realizing that the Tenno were not taking offense. "Overreach is a generous term for cyber terrorism. He hacked into multiple foreign governments and organizations, ripping out classified material, and dropping it in the middle of a civilian forum."

She tapped at her tablet before turning it over and showing the forum in question, still open because Ordis had done something to the site that prevented anyone from deleting it. "Thanks to your Thinker's little stunt, several of those entities are now rattling sabers at us. They see us as complicit because the leaks were posted on a U.S.-hosted platform by a U.S.-based cape team."

That was what she was saying but the Operator knew that conflict and diplomacy issues were not the root of the problem.

The U.S. had the Triumvirate, the Protectorate, and enough parahuman and conventional firepower to make any open conflict into someone else's tragedy. The regimes Ordis had gutted were also already enemies or adversaries of the U.S.. Their outrage was theater.

What Wilkins and her people were really afraid of was someone able to do that to them.

"From where we sit," Wilkins went on, "Ordis isn't just an over enthusiastic PR Manager. He's a destabilizing geopolitical factor. And he's tied to you."

One of the lawyers leaned in. "Which brings us to why we need more... assurances from Ten-Zero If we're going to look past Ordis's blatant disregard of the law and work with you. We need him to answer for his crimes."

The Operator let the silence sit a moment longer than was necessary to show that he was not feeling the pressure they were trying to stack on him before answering with a calm and collected tone. "I hear your concerns and I want to be clear: we did not come here to tell you to ignore them. We came here to address them, make amends, and show that Ten-Zero is willing to work with the PRT."

"But not be accountable to them, correct?" The federal representative asked pointedly.

He wore a sharp suit and glasses. The operator wondered why he was even here stepping on the PRT's toes to be in this meeting. Maybe he was the one applying pressure to Wilkins to be more aggressive with negotiations? No, the PRT would have to have addressed it anyways. It didn't truly matter why he was here though, his presence wouldn't change anything.

"We're not here to become a division of the PRT. Ten-Zero will not be folded into your chain of command. That is not on the table. But we are here to build a working relationship that respects both of our positions. And since Ordis is a high ranking and essential member of our organization, we will not be handing him over." Was the Operator's answer to him.

It seemed the tension increased a notch again at the defiance but one of the capes, Cashe, seemed to have found his confidence and interjected by raising a hand slightly.

"Then how about something simple," he said with slight nervousness. "Tell us more about your organization. Numbers. Structure. Some idea of your origin. I'd go a long way to bridging our organizations if we knew more about you."

The Operator had expected they'd ask about their number and it was decided days ago to be the current number of rediscovered warframes plus the Lotus and Ordis.

"In total," Ivara said, "we currently have sixty-one members."

The number hit the room like a dropped stone.

Cashe and Ursa's mouth fell open. Even Wilkins' who had been stone-faced this whole time had her eyes narrowed slightly in what had to be disbelief.

"Sixty-one," the cape repeated before swallowing and asking another question like he dreaded the answer. "How many operate at the same level as you?"

"Thanks to our armour, all our members operate at comparable levels to me," Ivara said smoothly. "Obviously we are not all identical, but we each are equivalent in overall impact when it comes to our power specialization. We deploy in teams according to the threat but usually one of us is enough."

The first lawyer latched onto the perceived opening. "And those teams operate under... What structure? Cells? Squads? Is there a central command figure? A council? We can't coordinate effectively if we don't know who to talk to or how your chain of command works."

"There is a structure," Ivara said. The Operator was beginning to see that this man was more than just a lawyer. He seemed very interested in prying for information that had nothing to do with the law. "But it is more extensive than we can reasonably cover in this meeting. You will receive a formal document with the details we're willing to share, once we've had time to prepare it properly."

"That's not—" the other lawyer started, then stopped when Wilkins gave her a look. She rephrased. "We would prefer at least broad strokes today."

"You have broad strokes," Ivara replied. "We are an independent, mobile organization with sixty-one current members. We operate under a unified leadership. We conduct operations according to our own threat assessments and priorities, which, at present, align with yours."

The federal rep pressed with a frown. "And your origin?"

"Also extensive," Ivara said, without hesitation. "And not something we intend to rush through in this session. We are here to collect the bounty on Nine and formalize a partnership with the PRT Syndicate."

The lawyers and others bristled at being called a syndicate, so the Operator made note not to use that term with them again.

The female lawyer clicked her stylus against her tablet, betraying her own irritation. "You're asking us to put a lot of faith in you."

"And you," Ivara said while gesturing to the whole room. "are sitting at a table with people you watched fight the Simurgh in orbit and win. Yet you are still trying to pry information out of us with subtle threats when Legend isn't even in the room right now. Faith is already clearly involved."

That hushed the room for a good bit, it seemed the PRT needed a reminder about who exactly they were talking to here. The Operator didn't particularly dislike their fierce negotiation tactics and he could understand their reactions on some level. The talking was also less annoying than dealing with the rival syndicates back home who had an annoying habit of occasionally sicking squads of eximus unit specters on them. However, patients had limits, and with this much posturing and prattling he was reaching his.

Tenno weren't known for savvy negotiation tactics for a reason.

"All right, let's talk about power testing then," Wilkins redirected. "Standard procedure for any cape team working with the PRT is baseline power testing and classification. It's not just bureaucracy; it's about safety. Knowing what you can do helps us plan joint operations and evacuations and save more people."

Ivara inclined her helm agreement. "We understand the purpose. In principle, we are not opposed to power testing."

"In principle?" The lawyer echoed.

"In practice," the operator continued, "our members are usually occupied. For example, Rhino isn't here because he's on a mission. Others are on assignment elsewhere.We will not drag them all into a lab for your convenience while there are still threats to be stamped out."

"We can however schedule," Ivara added. "When our operational tempo allows and when we're satisfied your facilities can handle us without catastrophic failure. Until then, you will have to rely on field data. Luckily, there is plenty we will be able to provide for you."

The female lawyer brightened at that. "If you're willing to share raw combat footage and other data, perhaps an exchange of technology may be in the cards."

"It is," the Operator confirmed. "Within reason."

The federal rep leaned forward, eyes alight with greed. "If you're willing to share your technology, that makes this exchange more even. But that still leaves Ordis actions unaccounted for."

The female lawyer chimed in again. "As previously mentioned, his actions didn't just adjust the trending page on a cape forum. He breached and released classified files from multiple hostile and rival governments and organizations overseas."

"Which admitable," the federal rep cut in smoothly, "we can handle. We've dealt with their tantrums before. That's not the part that keeps people in D.C. up at night."

"The part that does," Wilkins joined in, "is having a parahuman—attached to a powerful, unaligned combat team—who can do the same thing to us if he decides we've become an annoyance."

There it was, finally spoken plainly.

"We understand," Ivara said."It was quite apparent this was the case from the beginning."

"Call it institutional self-preservation," Wilkins said. "If Ordis stays out there, unbound and unaccountable, The PRT will keep getting pressure—from politicians, from the military, and everyone else with a dirty secret—to treat him as a primary threat. Some of that pressure is already coming with words like 'containment' and 'neutralization' attached.

"And as I've said, he is one of ours. We are not handing him over," the Operator spoke with no room for argument. "Nor will we give you his information that could compromise him, like his face, name, or his location."

"Then what are you offering?" the lawyer asked. "You should understand that as a law enforcement agency, we can't just let this incident go with a slap on the wrist. Work with us here."

The Operator paused as if in consideration, Ivara fingers joining together to sell the idea she was concentrating before speaking. "Allow us to handle his discipline internally. In return, you get three things."

Ivara lifted a finger.

"First: a formal, public apology issued by Ten-Zero for his actions both through our channels and, if you wish, jointly with the PRT. We will acknowledge that what he did crossed a line and will be held accountable."

A second finger.

"Second: a commitment, written into our agreements, that Ordis will not repeat those actions against U.S. systems or platforms. No unauthorized breaches of U.S. government, PRT, Protectorate, or allied infrastructure. No large-scale manipulation of civilian networks without immediate, post-fact notification in clear, imminent life-threatening crises."

A third finger.

"Third: a log of his previous actions on Parahumans Online and the related leaks. Enough for your people to see exactly what he did and did not do. Who he targeted, and who he specifically avoided. That will give you a realistic picture instead of the worst-case scenario your more... excitable... advisors are painting."

The federal rep's smile grew, no doubt loving the idea of knowing how Ordis managed to breach those foreign systems so they could replicate it themselves.

"And if he breaks that agreement?" the lawyer pressed.

"Then," Ivara spoke with what seemed like surrender, "we will let the PRT do its job."

Not that Ordis being arrested would ever happen. Not only would Ordis not touch an allied syndicate's data without permission but the PRT certainly wasn't capable of space travel to get to his Orbiter, much less removing it from the void. So it was really an empty promise the Tenno was making.

Wilkins drummed her fingers on the table in contemplation for a few seconds, probably not expecting the Operator to give in after so vehemently denying them access to him, but she nodded slowly regardless of her thoughts. "Acceptable. If we can tell Washington that we've got a signed commitment, visibility into what happened, and a promise that further issues will be dealt with by the PRT should there be a repeat, that will be enough to keep the more extreme responses off the table."

"Then we have an understanding," Ivara said.

From there, the lawyers went to work on language.

They argued over what counted as "U.S. systems." Over which agencies had to be listed explicitly. Over how fast "immediate" notification had to be in emergencies. Over whether "life-threatening crises" included economic collapse or only the sort with visible fire and screaming.

To Wilkins credit, each time someone pushed too hard for more hooks into Ordis, she reined them in before the Operator could shut them down.

By the time the provisional agreements were drafted, reviewed, and marked up enough to be called "good enough for now," the air in the room had shifted into something more peaceful and Ten-Zero left the room as recognized partners of the PRT and very very rich.

The official apology for Ordis's actions soon after had done its work. The gesture was apparently unnecessary, given how positive public opinion of the Tenno already was, but it soothed ruffled feathers in high places—both politicians and big media personalities unnerved by capes who operated without oversight or accountability.

The truth, however, was that Ordis still quietly ruled the site from the shadows. Only the moderators and the PRT suspected, but none could prove it. The Operator would have ordered him to stop, yet after Ordis reported the discovery of an unknown but seemingly benevolent digital intelligence also moderating the site, he had decided to let the cephalon keep watch.

The bounties on the Nine also brought in the numbers that were obscene—hundreds of millions across the board—and overnight Ten-Zero had become what one news anchor dubbed "the one percent." The Operator hadn't liked that label—too Orokin-sounding for his taste—but he couldn't deny the advantages that came with it.

Most of the wealth didn't stay with them for long though. Millions were donated to organizations aiding survivors of the Nine's massacres, all carefully vetted by Ordis. The rest went into constructing a "public headquarters" in Manhattan—a glass-and-steel monument to transparency and heroism. Cameras loved it. People adored it. The PRT tolerated it. Businesses wanted a piece of it, and parahuman merchants—or "Rogues," as they were officially classified—clamored to be a part of despite the only thing special about the building was the iconic Tenno insignia on the front of it.

Construction, however, was still far from complete, leaving the place more of a tourist attraction than an actual command center. The real base would remain the Orbiter—hidden from all of Earth Bet, parahuman or otherwise because as convenient as having a real forward operating base on earth was, the Orbiter was safer. During the first week, Ordis and the Operator had discovered that parahuman powers seemed tied to the planet itself, unable to extend beyond its atmosphere. Another piece of proof that the Simurgh was not parahuman at all.

Speaking of her—the Tenno hadn't seen her since that day. They had made sure of it. Every deployment to Earth was carefully calculated, entering from the opposite side of the globe from where she drifted. It wasn't fear that kept them apart—quite the opposite. The Operator wanted a rematch, but he knew that if another fight in Orbit with her didn't end within the opening blows, it would escalate until what was left of Earth's satellite network was obliterated in the crossfire.

Around half of it had already been destroyed during their first encounter and that alone had nearly sparked a global incident once word spread that Ten-Zero had been responsible for the battle in orbit. Certain members of the United States government—most notably the Director of NASA—had been particularly vocal in their outrage. Yet that fire was swiftly smothered by an overwhelming wave of global support.

Ordis had made sure of it. He flooded the net with footage of Ten-Zero striking the Simurgh harder than any army or parahumans had before. For the first time in history, humanity saw its supposed "hope-killer" brought low—and they loved every second of it.

That didn't mean diplomacy hadn't been necessary.

The first time the Operator walked into NASA as Ivara, the outrage was already waiting for him—neatly pressed, professionally dressed, and barely concealed.

The conference room was long and narrow, one wall nothing but glass overlooking the Florida coastline and the clustered silhouettes of launch complexes. The opposite wall was a bank of screens: orbital debris maps and red LOSS OF SIGNAL markers.

Ivara took the seat at the end of the table, unbothered by the emotions in the room. After the song and dance with the PRT, this was almost relaxing.

Trinity Prime's specter wasn't with him. She was in New York "power testing" with the PRT by quietly emptying a hospital's critical ward of anyone the doctors thought was beyond help. Umbra was also gone, in the field with a PRT strike team dismantling a foreign cape group trying to set up a staging ground near the capital. Rhino's specter was doing a fan meet at a famous local gym with PRT Brutes, letting people take photos of them holding impossible weights and signing anything shoved under their hands.

Today, here, it was just Ivara. Well Ordi's was also here but like with the PRT he'd remain silent unless asked to speak or an emergency happened.

Opposite her, much like the PRT, NASA had brought its best faces and its sharpest knives.

Administrator Rose sat at the center—silver hair, dark circles, posture like a coiled cable. To her right, the Associate Administrator for Space Operations, their tablet already filled with numbers and casualty lists in the form of hardware. To her left, NASA's Chief Engineer, gaze fixed on the debris maps as if he could will each lost satellite back into existence before turning eyes full of blame on Ivara.

Further down the table sat the program manager for their main communications constellation, a systems engineer with a worn mission patch sewn discreetly inside his blazer cuff, a White House science advisor from the National Space Council, a DoD space liaison in uniform, a PRT national liaison, one lawyer who looked like they lived on caffeine, and two industry representatives from major aerospace contractors with hungry eyes and expressions and somewhere between anger and opportunity.

"Ten-Zero," Administrator Rose began, voice very calm in the way people got when they'd already shouted themselves hoarse in private, "I hope you understand just how much work it took to get to this point after the Simurgh first appeared."

She didn't wait for an answer.

"Years of negotiations. International committees. Every launch a fight. Every satellite justified three times over to people who want to shut us down every time she twitches." One finger tapped the table, sharp and steady. "And after all that, we finally put a fragile but functioning network in orbit... and then your battle takes out half of it in an afternoon."

Around her, the others shifted. The program manager stared at Ivara over folded hands, jaw tight. One of the contractor reps looked like he didn't even want to be in the same room as the looping debris footage.

"We are aware," Ivara said sincerely. "And we are truly sorry for the damage that incident caused."

"That apology is the only reason we're having this conversation," Rose said. "Some people wanted sanctions. A formal declaration of Ten-Zero as a threat to national infrastructure—"

The Tenno nearly sighed. If he'd been in his own body, they would have seen him roll his eyes.

"Spare us the threats, Administrator Rose," Ivara said, voice almost bored but not dismissive. "They're unnecessary and unhelpful, especially when you already know we intend to correct the issue."

Before anyone could argue, the Operator raised Ivara's hand, palm up.

Light blossomed above it—a rotating hologram of the Liset, sleek and alien to their eyes, hovering over the center of the table. The room's quiet anger tripped, stumbled.

"This is the Liset," Ivara said. "As many of you are no doubt aware by now, it is a highly advanced spacecraft. It can reach orbit in seconds, without launch windows, without worrying about weather, or even fuel. With it, we can put hardware exactly where it needs to be, when it needs to be there."

The Chief Engineer's eyes widened despite himself, no doubt already forming in his head what he thought their plan was. One of the contractor reps leaned forward, momentarily forgetting to look annoyed. The Operator imagined that when some of them had dreamed of being astronauts as children, this was closer to what they'd pictured flying—or at least something in the same category.

"But if I was here to just offer a transportation service," Ivara continued, "Ten-Zero would have sent an email, not me."

With a flick of her fingers, the Liset shrank and slid to the side. In its place, another hologram unfolded: a compact satellite, panels nested tightly against a central bus. It rotated slowly, arrays blooming outward, emitters and sensor clusters highlighting as they extended along calculated angles. Orbital tracks appeared next—a web encasing the Earth, coverage footprints pulsing in soft light.

There were soft sounds now. A low whistle from the systems engineer. A murmured "holy..." from the program manager and similar reactions from everyone else because they all knew, instantly, what was being put on the table.

"A global network, unbelievable. And with this sort of tech..." the Chief Engineer said slowly, leaning in, "it has to be at least a decade ahead of current designs. The optics alone, those thrusters... they're not standard anything. So... it must be Tinker tech."

The words hit like a bucket of cold water. The room's excitement dipped into disappointment as if the words Tinker Tech were a curse.

"No," Ivara said immediately.

That got their attention. The Chief Engineer looked up at her. A few others straightened, hope recalibrating.

"Our organization includes very strong parahumans," she said. "Some of them have Thinker or Tinker-adjacent abilities and they did contribute to the designs. But we also used real, feasible science and engineering."

She gestured, and the hologram zoomed in on a cluster of components. Parts disassembled, cross-sections revealing layered, sensible machinery. No impossible geometries. No black-box cores. No "because the Tinker said so" nonsense to be seen.

"These designs are advanced, yes," she went on, "but they are still mundane technology. Your own teams can fabricate them from the ground up with your existing industrial base—as long as they have complete specifications."

"So this is actually reproducible, like Dragons..." the Chief Engineer whispered, more to himself than to Ivara.

His eyes flicked between the projection and Administrator Rose, practically begging her to do whatever it took to seal the deal for the designs. Her expression didn't move much, but the death grip she had on her own lap when she heard the word "reproducible" spoke volumes.

"Correct," Ivara said. "Once you have the design, you don't need us to assemble or maintain it."

"And because it's not classified as Tinker tech we don't need PRT Tinker approval to start using it," Rose stated quietly.

The PRT liaison heard and grimaced. "There would still be inter-agency consultation," he said. "But no. If the tech is non-Tinker and licensed appropriately, we don't get an automatic veto."

One of the contractor reps seized the opening like a starving man spotting meat.

"What would it take," he asked, leaning forward, "to buy these designs from Ten-Zero outright? Full schematics, full rights, exclusivity. Whatever number you're thinking of, we can get close."

The Tenno almost felt bad for them.

These satellite designs were primitive garbage by his standards. No cloaking, laughable encryption, mediocre lifespan, and a dozen other shortcomings. But that was to be expected when all the time he'd invested into them was maybe fifteen minutes—and Ordis had needed about a picosecond to simulate their validity. Even so, he couldn't just give it up. Securing funding for the future was necessary after using most of the money from the nine.

"We're not selling the designs," Ivara answered, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The intellectual property stays with Ten-Zero."

The man's jaw clenched. His colleague started to protest, but Rose lifted a hand, cutting him off without looking away from the hologram.

"Then what are you offering?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Licensing," Ivara said. "NASA receives the right to produce this satellite family under your authority. You build them in your own facilities, with your own people. Ten-Zero provides the initial design package, training to build them, manufacturing tolerances, and consultation on integration."

The hologram shifted: Ten-Zero's emblem, NASA's logo, and a generic contractor icon appeared, linked by clean lines.

"In return," she continued, "for every satellite of this line you assemble and launch, Ten-Zero receives a fixed fee. Scaled by mass and function. If you want us to handle orbital insertion with the Liset for particularly sensitive or time-critical deployments..."

The Liset's hologram slid along a projected trajectory, dropping a satellite neatly into a highlighted orbit.

"...there will be an additional charge per launch."

"So you get paid every time we put one of your birds in the sky," the DoD liaison said. There was more acknowledgement than accusation in his tone.

He, like everyone else in the room, understood the real equation: even if Ten-Zero had access to the network, it would be too valuable not to build. The military applications alone would pay back whatever licensing scheme the Tenno demanded. And Ten-Zero offering this after making it clear they could build their own independent network was, effectively, them saying: join up or be left behind.

"And you," Ivara said, "get the most advanced satellite network this world has ever had—and as a bonus, if the Simurgh tries to mess with this one we'll send her packing again, free of charge."

Administrator Rose exhaled, long and tired, but there was something fierce and bright in her eyes now. The kind of look someone got when their entire career had been about pushing uphill, and suddenly the slope shifted in their favor.

"You're the only people on the planet except Scion that can say that and make me believe you." she said finally, turning her head to look at Ivara's main optic through the hologram. "If this holds up and gets approved, we'll take your license and your help getting back into the sky—as long as you're helping us build more of these than you're blowing up."

"That," Ivara said, letting a hint of a smirk enter her voice as the holograms fade one by one, "is the plan, Administrator Rose."

So yeah, most governments and organizations forgave them, aka the U.S and her allies.

But not all.

"Guzzleshaft"—a mocking nickname for Gesellschaft coined on PHO that the Operator quite liked—wasn't among them. Nor were the CUI or several other authoritarian regimes and criminal syndicates that viewed Ten-Zero, and Ordis in particular, as existential threats to their control.

Ordis hadn't gone so far as to reveal their capes' true identities—he knew to play by the so-called unwritten rules, even if only for pretense—but their finances and digital infrastructure had been... appropriated.

Many hadn't collapsed completely though—some had plenty of parahuman muscle and too many entrenched assets for that—but the damage was done. And there would be more before the Operator made his way home.

Not that there'd been much progress on that front. The Chief Director remained "too busy" to meet, even after months for a brief talk. The frustrating stagnation was softened only by visits from the Lotus and his siblings, and by the quiet discovery that his arsenal wasn't locked to the frames and weapons he'd first arrived with. Every two weeks, the available set located in the arsenal seemed to reshuffle.

He had learned that suddenly and inconveniently when he placed Ivara back in storage at the end of the second week and found Hydroid Prime in her place the next day. From there on, he had to use an Ivara specter to keep up public appearances until Umbra could slowly take her place as the public face of the organization. But every now and again, he had Ivara and the original trio of specters run missions or fan meet-and-greets to keep up appearances.

Honestly, the Operator considered the entire endeavor a monumental waste of resources—but he had plenty to spare, having long prepared for another Solar System-level disaster after Ballas. He wasn't worried about running low unless he somehow tried to field and outfit an entire army of specters. Plus it hadn't all been bad.

Still, resources were precious, and coordinating all of the specters on his own—even with Ordis's help—would eventually risk exposure of their inhuman nature or overextension. That was why he decided to begin investing in Earth Bet's talent pool and developing a new initiative: Echo Zero.

People who could play the role of the Tenno Operative's of the Origin...

"We are here."

The Operator's thoughts scattered as Ordis's voice echoed in his mind. He blinked, realizing how long he'd been staring blankly at nothing.

He exhaled through his nose, head resting on one hand, elbow propped against the door as his eyes drifted open. The interior around him was simple—unassuming leather seats, muted console lights. Nothing fancy by design, but far more advanced than it appeared.

Outside, muted daylight filtered through the tinted window. The Operator turned his head toward it, eyes half-lidded, watching the vague blur of motion beyond the glass. The car had stopped beside a curb, and through the smudged window he could see the shapes of students moving in loose groups, backpacks slung over tired shoulders, laughter and chatter dull through the glass.

He caught his reflection in the window—a stranger's face looking back.
Dark skin. Black hair. Eyes a deep, earthy shade that didn't glow with void power. Close enough to be familiar, but wrong enough to unsettle him if he wasn't already used to wearing different bodies.

He groaned softly, glancing down at his new human body—taller than he was used to, broad-shouldered and athletic. He turned his gaze back to the reflection, and for a brief, unwanted instant, the image of someone different yet so similar overlapped with another.

. Umbra's son.

That quiet, anxious smile he had as he stood beside his father on Lua before Ballas—

The Operator forced the thought away before it dug in too deep. He regretted designing this form but he hadn't realized it was so similar to the boy until he checked the foundry upon its completion—and Umbra had never conveyed a word about it till now, despite the emotion it stirred.

He turned his head toward the driver's seat. The man there was motionless, posture perfectly straight. Brown skin, dark graying hair, the hard lines of his jaw framed by a tailored black suit. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses, and gloves covered his hands completely.

"Is this really necessary?" the Operator asked.

Umbra didn't answer, but the faintest incline of his head was answer enough.

From the implant in the brain of this body, Ordis spoke again. "It was your idea, Operator."

The Operator groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. "Right. Of course it was."

"I think this might be good for you," Ordis continued, tone bright but with an undertone of concern. "Since Ballas, and especially since we arrived here, you've done nothing but work. A... change of pace could help you, don't you think?"

Umbra nodded once in agreement.

The Operator looked out the window again. The school loomed ahead—a squat, weathered building with peeling paint, cracked steps, and a faded sign that still managed to read Winslow High. Students shuffled through the front doors like a slow-moving current, their laughter and chatter dulled by the glass.

He thought back to his promise to the Drifter—the vow to try living something resembling a normal life, even if only for a little while. He could have chosen a nicer school, even a nicer city, but that would have been dull, unproductive, and counter to his goal of recruiting for Echo Zero.

Brockton Bay, by contrast, was perfect. It had the highest cape-per-capita rate in the US, the weakest Protectorate presence relative to its villain population, and an economy so in the dumps that even minor intervention could tip the scales.

The Operator figured he could kill three Grineer with one kunai by staying here for a few weeks: help the PRT clean up the city and ingratiate them even more to him, give the economy a nudge in the right direction to help the general populace, and maybe recruit a few stray parahumans along the way for his initiative.

He sighed, done trying to find excuses. "Fine," he muttered, reaching for the bag beside him. Slinging it over his shoulder, he felt the weight settle awkwardly against his borrowed frame. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck, Operator!" Ordis chirped as Umbra gave him a thumbs up. "And remember to have a great day!"

The Operator gave a tired half-smile and pushed the door open. Cool air brushed against his skin as he stepped out.

A few nearby students turned to stare—not at him, but at the sleek car he'd just exited. Whispers followed him for a moment, curiosity flickering and then fading as quickly as it came.

He adjusted the strap on his bag and started toward the steps. He spotted, in his peripheral vision, a group of what looked to be young E88 members pointing at him and whispering what were no doubt many obscene and racist remarks—but he ignored them.

He stepped through the double doors of Winslow High. The air smelled of old paint, disinfectant, and faint mildew. The halls buzzed with voices, laughter, the squeak of sneakers against waxed linoleum despite how tragic this place looked.

"Don't look so disappointed," Ordis murmured through the implant in his head. "It's an educational facility, not a Grineer cloning lab."

The Tenno's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "I'd honestly prefer the lab," he replied mentally.

He followed the signs toward his first class—Computer Studies. Rows of aging desktops lined the walls, their monitors thick-backed and dusty. A dozen students filled the seats, chatting or already tapping at keyboards. At the front, a woman in her forties looked up from her laptop.

"You must be the new student," she said, voice brisk but not unkind. "Isaac, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said easily. His tone carried calm confidence, his expression relaxed but unreadable.

A few students glanced up as he turned his head to face the room.

"Well, welcome to Winslow. I'm Ms. Knott. I know you're coming in mid-semester, but we'll do our best to get you caught up. Anything you want the class to know about you?"

He gave a faint shrug. "Not much to say. I'm from out of the city. And, uh... I have narcolepsy, so if I suddenly fall asleep, it's not personal."

That earned a chuckle from the class. Ms. Knott gave a polite smile. "I was already informed by the Principal, but thank you for letting me know. Find a seat anywhere you like, Isaac."

He scanned the rows. There were cliques everywhere—students huddled in pairs or trios, phones tucked between them, eyes half-focused on their screens, each other or him. Only one desk sat isolated, its occupant bent over her keyboard as if trying to merge with it.

The choice was easy after seeing that.

The girl didn't look up when he approached, though he saw her tense slightly.

"Mind if I sit here?"

A beat of silence followed by her quiet, "No. Go ahead."

Up close, she looked... tired. Pale skin, hair pulled back too tightly, shadows under her eyes that spoke of poor sleep. Her hands moved over the keyboard with a strange mechanical precision.

The Operator turned his own screen on and stared at the boot sequence of an operating system that should have been extinct centuries ago, his face showing little interest until he looked at the girl's screen. His lips twitched, almost amused. "So these are ancient computers, and look rougher than what they had in 1999."

She gave him a strange look. "It's not that old but yeah. The school can't afford to upgrade. You'll get used to it."

"I'll try." He frowned at the sluggish load time of his computer, pretending to squint at the interface when he started up the programming program. "What's the difference between this and, uh, other coding languages?"

That caught her attention. She hesitated, glancing toward him like she was trying to decide whether he was mocking her. When she didn't find any ridicule, she began explaining—carefully, methodically.

He listened with genuine interest, nodding occasionally, adding small questions that encouraged her to continue. In truth, he grasped the logic faster than she was explaining it, but he forced himself to go slowly, stumbling just enough to make her feel helpful.

"Thanks for explaining all that. Name's Isaac, by the way," he offered, holding out a hand.

"Taylor." She hesitated before shaking it once, quickly.

After that, they listened to the teacher drone on until she gave them an assignment on the board: a basic coding exercise. Taylor started typing immediately; Isaac decided to stare at the screen for a little longer, not doing anything.

"Do you need help?" she asked after a while, moving her eyes from him to her screen.

He turned slightly, feigning a bit of uncertainty. "Maybe a little."

She decided to help, and by the end of the period both of the assignments were done.

The bell rang echoing through the halls like the end of a battle more than the end of class. Chairs scraped, computers whined as students logged off, and Ms. Knott's voice rose above the chatter:

"Alright, that's all for today! Remember to save your progress—some of you lost work last time!"

Isaac leaned back slightly, stretching in his seat as the rest of the students surged toward the door. Taylor was slower to move, carefully shutting down her computer, methodical even in small motions.

"Thanks for the help, Taylor. You're a good teacher."

"No problem. It's not... hard or anything." She answered easily, though she still looked faintly surprised that someone had said something nice to her at all.

The Operator gave her a faint nod, wondering how much this girl had been beaten down before pushing away from the desk and following the flow of students into the hallway.

"Ordis, she's a bullying victim, right?" the Operator thought as he left Taylor behind.

"Correct, Operator. From what little I could glean from this school's shi-shi-shi—underdeveloped digital records—it seems Miss Hebert has been suffering for at least a year now. Extensive social and physical bullying resulting in slipping grades and increased absences, all culminating in being trapped in a locker filled with biological waste for hours months ago. No one was held responsible."

Isaac's jaw tightened. He didn't slow his pace, but his expression flickered—just enough for anyone passing to mistake it for thoughtfulness instead of anger.

"Names," he asked flatly.

There was a brief pause—Ordis pretending to hesitate. "Are you sure that's wise, Operator? Getting involved may attract unwanted attention."

"Names, please, Ordis."

"Very well," he answered happily. "The primary aggressors are Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements. There are others, but those three are where the complaints were mostly directed."

The Operator's brow furrowed. "Why ignore her though? I understand this place is a dump and people can slip through the cracks, but they shouldn't have any logical reason to ignore Taylor—especially when these girls are so well documented as her aggressors."

"Because," Ordis answered with carefully measured cheer, "Sophia Hess is also a Ward. Codename: Shadow Stalker."

The Operator nearly froze mid-step but continued walking. He knew the PRT weren't exactly one hundred percent clean or righteous—no syndicate was, especially when they occasionally recruited from the morally bankrupt—but letting a Ward moonlight as a high school bully seemed out of character for that PR-obsessed machine of an organization.

Ordis explained that the school benefited from having Sophia, receiving extra funding from the PRT. Having her sent away to juvie would likely cut that revenue stream, so it was more likely the school was covering it up than the PRT being negligent.

The Operator's tone turned dry, edged with faint annoyance. "This is why you have handlers for these types of human assets. Someone's supposed to keep them accountable, not cover up their mistakes."

There was a brief pause before Ordis responded, almost surprised. "She does have a handler, Operator. But it appears they are involved in the cover-up as well."

The Operator almost sighed. "Then it's not negligence," he said flatly. "It's corruption."

"Should I intervene?" Ordis asked carefully. "A subtle correction of files could lead to an investigation into the handler, the school, and..."

"Yes," the Operator cut him off, not needing to hear the rest. "But I don't want to draw any attention to this form by bringing a PRT investigation on our heads. So delay it for a bit. Still...I can't have her terrible treatment continue simply because I'd rather stay hidden from prying eyes. So for now, I'll take it upon myself to protect her and any others like her in this school."

He quirked his lips slightly, a hint of mischief visible in his face and apparent in his mental voice. "I might not know much about high school politics, but I did graduate from Scoria. How hard could this possibly be?"

Before Ordis could answer, a pair of kids from Ms. Knott's class caught up to him in the hall, weaving through the tide of students.

"Yo, Isaac!" one of them called—a lanky boy with a mop of brown hair and an oversized hoodie. "Wait up, man! Are you heading to Mr. G's next?"

The Operator glanced back, slowing his stride just enough for them to catch up. "If you mean Mr Gladly then yeah," he replied.

"Nice," said the other—shorter, wiry, carrying the nervous energy of someone always a little too aware of his surroundings. "We got that class too. Mind if we tag along?"

The Operator shrugged. "Not at all. Free country and all that."

"So, where are you from, anyway? You said you're not from the bay right?" Brown hair asked.

The Operator tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Would you believe me if I said I was an alien?"

Both boys blinked, had a moment of dawning realization, then burst out laughing. "Oh, like an immigrant?" the shorter one said after finishing his snickering.

"Something like that," Isaac replied with a smirk.

In his head, Ordis giggled at the joke as well.

Isaac suppressed his own laughter, shaking his head slightly.

"Alright, since you're new," the shorter one said, adopting a mock-serious tone as they approached the next door, "here's a crash course on surviving Winslow."

The taller one raised a hand, counting off on his fingers. "Rule one: don't mess with any of the gangs. You got the ABB, the Merchants, and E88. If you can't tell who's who, just assume they're trouble and walk away."

"Rule two," the other added, "stay out of the bathrooms if you can. Merchants like to deal there, and E88 uses it for initiations."

Isaac nodded slightly, eyes flicking over the crowded hall and spotting some examples of the two walking by. "Mhmm, got it. So "

"Quick learner," one said with a laugh as they traced his gaze. But then their tone shifted—still casual, but with the undercurrent of something wary. "And, uh, if you're smart, don't hang around Taylor Hebert."

Isaac hummed with curiosity as he glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Why?"

"Because," the taller one said, lowering his voice, "the Queen Bitches—Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, and Sophia Hess—they'll make your life hell here if you do. Like, actual hell. They can get away with anything man. They're all pretty, popular, and Emma's dad's a lawyer so the school won't do squat about them."

The other boy nodded. "They're untouchable, man. You don't want that kind of attention."

Isaac's gaze drifted ahead, to the classroom door just a few steps away. His tone was casual when he replied, "Thanks for the warning."

The shorter boy grinned, taking it as gratitude. "No problem, dude. Just trying to save you some pain. You seem chill—would hate to see you end up on their shit list."

They reached the classroom door then, and one of the boys grinned, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Just looking out for you man. Gladly's class is chill, though—you'll like him."

Isaac offered a faint smile in return. "I'm looking forward to it."

As they filed into the classroom, Ordis's voice hummed quietly in his head, mischievous and amused. "You see, Operator? You're already making friends. Isn't this fun?"

Isaac gave the mental equivalent of a shrug as he followed the boys to their seats. "I appreciate them looking out for me Ordis," he thought back. "But I'll need them to have a little more backbone before I can call them friends."

"Try not to judge them too harshly, Operator." Ordis advised in a slightly chastising tone. "They aren't Tenno and they didn't grow up in the harsh future of the Origin System. Fear here isn't cowardice, it's survival."

He was right, the Operator conceded silently. Life on this version of Earth wasn't easy—he could see that already—but it also wasn't the Origin System, where exploitation, death, and endless war rolled in and out like the tides. Here, people still flinched from cruelty instead of embracing it. Here, they were never left to rot by their only heroes and saviors for years.

He slipped into a seat beside them just as the bell rang, leaning back slightly as he scanned the new room of faces again.

Moments later, Taylor walked in. She didn't look around much, just moved to what seemed to be her usual spot near the side of the room—sandwiched between a kid who looked half-asleep and possibly high, and another with a stiff blonde bowl cut who immediately launched into conversation, talking far too quickly for her to get a word in.

Her eyes flicked up for a moment, meeting his across the room.

He gave her a small, easy smile—nothing too forward, just polite acknowledgment. She blinked once, startled, before looking away almost immediately, her shoulders tensing slightly as she opened her notebook.

He frowned faintly to himself, wondering if he offended her somehow. The question lingered for only a moment before he pushed it aside and turned his attention to the man walking to the front of the room—a short, gregarious, and young-looking man who could easily be mistaken for a high school student.

His class passed fast.

Isaac had paid attention through World Issues because Mr. Gladly was interesting. He bounced from topic to topic with enthusiasm, tying cape politics to global policy, and for all its flaws and sometimes inaccuracy, it was... entertaining. Nostalgic even.

When the bell finally rang, the class erupted into motion. Binders slammed shut, chairs scraped across tile, laughter and gossip rose like a tide.

Isaac stood, stretching slightly before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He lingered long enough to let the rush die down, then made his way toward the door. Taylor was ahead of him, slipping her books into her bag as she moved.

He caught up as she stepped into the hall. "Hey, Taylor."

She turned hunched before recognizing his voice.

"Wanna grab lunch?" he asked, tone easy but not pushy. "Could use a familiar face for company."

For a moment she seemed to consider it before shaking her head. "No, sorry. I usually eat alone."

Her voice wasn't sharp or dismissive, just resigned. She didn't wait for his response before walking off down the hall.

"Dude," a familiar voice called. It was one of the two from Computer class —he really needed to figure out their names. "C'mon, man, don't waste your time."

The Operator turned his head slightly toward them.

"Listen to him," the shorter one said, falling in step beside him. "We told you Hebert's bad news. Not like it's her fault or anything, but... it's like she's cursed, you know?"

"Yeah," the other added quickly. "Trust us, it's not worth it to play prince charming. Don't get dragged into her mess."

Isaac regarded them both with neutrality, eyes flicking toward the where she disappeared. "You guys don't need to worry about me but I'll keep that in mind."

They took that as agreement and sighed, tugging him toward the lunchroom. He let them. He couldn't help Taylor by forcing his way into her solitude, not yet at least.

The cafeteria was alive with noise — a dozen conversations, trays clattering, the smell of overcooked fries and something pretending to be chicken. Isaac took a tray, filled it with whatever passed for food here, and followed the two boys to an empty table.

They sat, continuing to fill him in on the unspoken laws of Winslow, rant about girls, and parahumans. He didn't care for girl talk but parahumans was something he could add to considering he'd met many during his PR campaign.

"Soooo," the taller one asked leadingly after the conversation died down, "why'd you try talking to her, anyway? I joked about you being prince charming but are you actually the white knight type?"

Isaac speared a fry with his fork, thoughtful. "Hmmm, I suppose in a way I am. I don't really like the idea of leaving people I can help alone"

That earned a sigh from the boys.

"Dude, you're gonna need a hell of a lot more than white knight complex if you wanna help anyone in this shitty city, especially her."

Before he could answer, the Operator noticed something small and wet flew across the room. A water bottle, half-full, spinning end over end. He didn't even think — one hand shot up, catching it without looking. Isaac flicked his eyes toward the source — a table full of teenage skinheads with E88 gang colors. One of them was smirking, clearly expecting a different outcome than what was about to occur.

Without a word, Isaac turned the bottle in his hand and tossed it back. It sailed through the air, just barely grazing the space in front of the smirker's nose before sinking into the trash can beside their table with a soft thunk.

A quarter of the cafeteria went quiet for a heartbeat before breaking into a chorus of surprised exclamations and drawn-out "ooohs."

The E88 boy's grin vanished fast, replaced by something angry at being one upped. He half-rose, but froze as one of the teachers across the room turned to look. Isaac didn't move, didn't even glance up again — just returned to his food as though nothing had happened.

The two kids beside him hunched lower in their seats. "Jesus, man," the shorter one hissed under his breath. "You've got a death wish or something."

Isaac, eyes still on his tray, replied. "I'm not too worried about them."

"Well you should be!" The tall one panic whispered. "They're racist and you're black! They might jump you after school because of that stunt."

The Operator knew they meant well but he couldn't bring himself to care for their worry or explain himself more. They wouldn't understand that not only was he as close to immortal as possible, but that a couple of unpowered and untrained teenagers would need more than numbers and a couple weapons to hope to put a scratch on him, even in this body.

Tension slowly ebbed from the room, conversation resuming in bursts when they realized nothing was going to pop off. Then, inside his head, Ordis's voice whispered.

"Operator, I'm detecting anomalous activity nearby. Possibly parahuman. Location... appears to be a female restroom on this floor. There's a strange congregation of local insect life forming there. Shall I dispatch Umbra to investigate?"

Isaac froze mid-bite, eyes widening in excitement for something to do. "No," he answered in his head. "I'll handle it."

"Understood, Operator."

He pushed his tray away slowly then let his body slump slightly, as though nodding off mid-lunch.

The two kids looked at him funny but he kept it up. "Guess he wasn't kidding about that narcolepsy. Do we call the nurse or something?"

By the time one of them leaned over to nudge him, Isaac's consciousness was already gone. The Operator emerged inside the female restroom, invisible and intangible in void mode once more.

Taylor Hebert stood in the middle of it, soaked and trembling with anger, but unafraid of the insects that swarmed around her — crawling, buzzing, filling every surface and corner. But not touching her.

Her face was streaked with drying juice — stains cutting across her clothes and hair. It seems her bullies had struck.

Then, slowly, with a deep, shaking breath the insects retreated. The swarm broke apart like smoke in the wind, flowing out through cracks, drains, and vents until the room fell still again.

The Operator stood there watching as she got herself together and ready to leave. A smile crept across his spectral features — not cruel, but sharp with interest.

"Well," he murmured to himself, before void dashing back toward his body, "I think I've found my first recruit for Echo Zero."

Chapter Text

Isaac's awareness slammed back into his body with the familiar jolt of transference re-sync.

"…think we should poke him or something?" He heard one of the boys say.

He opened his eyes to find the cafeteria exactly where he left it. Noise, motion, bad food. The two boys from his class were hovering over him like badly trained medics.

"Isaac?" the shorter one said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Dude, you good?"

He straightened slowly, letting his limbs feel heavy for effect. "Yeah. Sorry. Told you—narcolepsy. Comes and goes."

Both of them relaxed at once.

"Man, that's freaky," the taller one muttered. "You were out. Like out-out."

Isaac rubbed at his eyes. "I'm used to it. Thanks for not drawing too much attention."

"Yeah, no problem," shorter one said. "Didn't want E88 over there deciding you were an easy target like that." He jerked his chin toward the skinhead table.

He reached for his fork again like nothing had happened and took another bite of his now lukewarm food.

In his head, Ordis spoke, voice low and tight with barely contained curiosity. "Operator, the anomaly—"

"Was Taylor," Isaac answered. "Looks like she ran into her bullies while in the restroom."

There was a surprised sound from Ordis.

"Taylor Hebert?" Ordis asked, as if there were multiple Taylors he was tracking. "The same Miss Hebert you spoke to in Computer Studies? Did she trigger just now?"

"No," the Operator replied, keeping his expression neutral while the boys beside him resumed their conversation about some cape fight in downtown last month.This time he paid close attention because it sounded fun. "At least it didn't seem like it. Her control was too good. She moved that swarm of insects like they were her own hand, so it's clear that she's been practicing. Run a search. Find out which cape she is."

He speared another fry, chewing slowly while Ordis hummed in thought.

"Understood Operator," Ordi's affirmed.

Isaac speared another fry, chewing slowly to avoid jumping back into another verbal conversation while Ordis did his research.

"Running a cross-reference now…" Ordis voice took on a lilt of concentration even though the effort was likely miniscule for him. "Female, Brockton Bay, approximate age, insect control."

The Operator continued to wait patiently, giving a little chuckle when a joke was cracked by one of the guys.

"I'm sorry Operator, I'm getting nothing." Ordi apologized, his voice surprised. "It would seem there are no recorded heroes or villains matching Miss Hebert's power profile and physical description in Brockton Bay or neighboring regions. There is one retired cape in Miami with insect-linked surveillance powers, but she is in her late forties and very much not Taylor."

"So she hasn't debuted," the Operator thought with excitement. "Perfect."

"Perfect for what, Operator?" Ordis asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"Echo Zero," he replied casually. The Tenno hadn't told Ordis much of the idea due to not having figured it all out himself but the cephalon knew the broad strokes of the plan. "If she passes my assessment. Power's useful, control's already solid, and she hasn't killed those girls despite every opportunity and more than enough motive. That takes restraint. Self-control. Or something else I need to understand."

"And what will this assessment entail?" Ordis asked enthusiastically, eager to hear more of the plan and what role he could be playing in it. "Should I begin compiling a psychological profile, medical history, scholastic record, estimated trauma index—?"

"Keep it non-invasive," the Operator cut in before his friend got too excited. "Basic data only. I want the important parts from her directly. I don't want to walk in with a dozen preconceived notions and I certainly don't want to spook her by knowing something I shouldn't."

There was a small pause as Ordis sighed in disappointment. He didn't think something so basic was beneath him, nothing that served the Operator could be. But doing such mundane tasks when his reach was far greater did bore him.

"As you wish, Operator," he replied. "I'll limit myself to a surface-level report.'"

"Thanks," he thought back.

Isaac's attention snapped back outward as one of the boys nudged him again. The lunch period was over. It was time for Art.

His two not-quite-friends stuck close for the next class, filling dead air with commentary about capes and which ones were "cool" versus "try-hard."

The Operator, being well versed in the great and noble Tenno art of fashion, chimed in and corrected their horrible taste in costumes by imposing his much greater and superior ideals on them. The teacher only had to call them out once.

He still didn't know their names.

At this point, it felt too awkward to ask. He'd just have to catch it from someone else later because these two only seemed to address each other as "bro" and even the teacher had just called them "you boys." Ordis could dig it up in under a second, but it felt wrong to learn that way when they were trying to be genuine.

With Art over they three had to go their separate ways. One boy peeled off toward shop, the other toward gym. Isaac headed to Math, alone this time. With no one trying to socialize with him and with no one to slow down for, Isaac completed his assignment faster than anyone else in the room, then spent the rest of the period watching the class dynamics and spying on the other classes in void mode.

Gangs. Cliques. Popular kids. Where they hung out. Who liked or disliked who. All of it. There was one person he hadn't seen though.

"Where Tayor?" he asked Ordi's as kids shuffled seats around him for group work. He was still pretending to be asleep so no one had bothered him and the teacher didn't care.

"Miss Hebert left the building after lunch period, Operator," Ordis answered.

The Operator thought of what to do for a moment. He should leave her be. But with her being a new prospect for Echo Zero and the fact she was living in a city like Brockton, he felt it best to have some assurance that she wouldn't meet any unpleasant fate when he wasn't looking. It felt especially prudent to do it now after the bullies had gotten the jump on her in the restroom.

"Ordi's, add her to a new subsection of priority observation targets." the Operator ordered. "Label it Echo Zero."

"Yes Operator, I assume you wish for more passive observation to respect Ms Hebert's privacy?"

The Tenno gave a non-verbal mental agreement to the cephalon's words.

"Excellent, I'll deploy Shade. I'm sure It'll be thrilled to have something to do again," Ordis said cheerfully. "

"Good choice," the Operator thought. If anything potentially life threatening happened then Shade could handle some street thugs and even the average Parahuman. "Just make sure it knows we don't want it sneaking into her house for us."

"Shade is under strict instructions to maintain distance and only report to me if she is in immediate danger."

"Thanks Ordis."

By the time the final bell rang, he'd sat through enough classes, listened to enough whispered gossip, met the infamous trio of bullies in passing and watched enough petty power games in their lackeys to assemble a decent first impression of Winslow's hierarchy.

Like he initially thought. It was bad. But it certainly wasn't anything, a bit of violence, money, and political maneuvering wouldn't be able to fix. His first step to the top would have to wait until tomorrow though, school was over.

Isaac stepped out into the front school with the rest of the tide of students, hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder as Umbra pulled up in the car and rolled to a smooth stop at the curb.

"Operator," Ordis warned quietly, "one of the E88 members from lunch is approaching from your three o'clock. And he is not alone."

Nevermind, it seemed he would be taking that step today.

Isaac didn't change his pace. He kept walking toward the car, eyes half-lidded in focus, tracking the reflections in the windows instead of turning his head.

Four of them. The one who'd thrown the water bottle led, face twisted into a too-wide grin. Another flanked him, slightly taller, with shaved sides and a half-faded swastika inked on his neck. Two more hung back a little, scanning the crowd.

The crowd, as expected of Broktonites, began to notice.

Conversations dampened. Students angled their trajectories to give the forming circle space without looking like that's what they were doing. A few phones came out, screens tilted just so as the E88 boys drifted closer.

By the time Isaac reached the curb, they'd shifted enough to box him in—one to his front-left, one to his right, two sliding behind him with all the subtlety of a Grineer maniac.

Umbra saw it and immediately the car door opened before Isaac could reach for it. The man stepped out in one smooth motion—tall, broad-shouldered, dark suit hanging perfectly, tinted glasses hiding his eyes. Up close, the lines of his face were harsh and cold enough to make most adults think twice. To teenage gang wannabes, he might as well have been Alexandria.

His head turned toward the gathering students and the four boys closing in.

The air around the car went tight and an almost growl came from Umbra's throat.

The lead E88 kid's grin flickered and died as Umbra started forward with intent written in every line of his body.

Isaac stepped in before things could escalate.

"Dad," he called, just loud enough for the recording cameras to pick up.

Umbra stopped immediately and murmurs started spreading out. No doubt rumors would spread fast that Umbra was his rich over protective father or something of the sort. This was not the plan though. A school like Winslow wouldn't respect him if they thought he was some baby that was behind his dads money. It was part of why no one in the school genuinely liked the "Queen Bitches."

Isaac turned just enough to meet Umbra's gaze though the shade and gave the slightest shake of his head.

"I've got this," he added, tone casual, almost cocky. "It'll be fine."

Umbra held his stare for a heartbeat, anger radiating off him like a heat wave. Then, slowly, he stepped back to the car and leaned against the hood, arms folding across his chest.

Watching.

Maybe it was the cocky way Isaac dismissed them as threats or the fact that Umbra had backed down but ego and pride reared it ugly head. Despite the shaking from just Umbra's presence, the E88 leader straightened, confidence worming back into his posture.

"So that's your old man, huh?" he said, turning his attention fully on Isaac now that the bigger problem had stepped out of the way. "He made the right choice. You don't wanna fuck with the Empire."

The circle tightened another notch. The crowd thickened at the edges, a ring of faces pretending not to be staring or just interested in recording the drama.

"Dude, this is bad," one of Isaac's not-quite-friends muttered in the increasingly larger crowd. He didn't look, but Ordis kindly augmented his sight by highlighting them and every other E88 member or sympathiser in the crowd.

One stayed. The other was already slipping out, no doubt heading for a teacher—or at least away from whatever this was turning into.

He could hear snippets of whispers.

"Isn't that the kid from the cafeteria?"

"Should we call the cops?"

"No, man, they'll just bail. It'll be over before anyone gets here."

The lead E88 kid stepped into Isaac's personal space, wearing the kind of bravado he'd seen on Corpus crewmen that didn't buy into the horror stories of what a Tenno could do to them and everyone else on the vessel if they were unlucky enough to have something of importance on it.

"C'mon, crowds getting big," he said, reaching out, tone fake-friendly. "Let's take a walk. Talk in private."

He never got the chance to make contact.

Isaac, having enough of this farce, moved.

The skinhead never saw the punch coming. It rocked the gangster hard. The kid's eyes rolled back as he dropped backward like someone had unplugged him. He would've been hitting the asphalt in an ungraceful heap if not for Isaac holding him up by his shirt.

Silence hit the immediate circle like a slap as people barely processed the fight had started.

"What the—" The kid to his left processed his friend was now unconscious faster than the rest.

Isaac didn't let him finish. With a twist of his hips and a shift of weight, he spun the leader around like he was weightless and threw, using him like a human bowling ball.

The ring leader bowled into the one at his flank, sending all them to the ground hard and sprawling. Another staggered sideways into the watching crowd, who recoiled like a wave.

The other two wasted no time anymore and started attacking. Both came at Isaac one with both fists up and the other going in for a grapple.

The Operator slipped beneath the first punch, pivoted around the grapple, and let the clumsy momentum carry the boy past him and nearly into the friend who got out from under their unconscious leader. Another jab from the boxers was figured and the Operator counter attacked with a guy luck that put the boy in his knees, struggling to breath though the pain. One last kick to the back and the kid kissed concrete before he knew what hit him.

"Holy shit," someone in the crowd breathed in awe. And like an infection, almost indiscernible cheering and jeering started filling the circle.

More E88 guys—ones who'd been hanging back at the edges of the crowd—started forward, anger and pride swamping whatever caution Umbra's presence had inspired. Two more peeled away from a nearby car, one with brass knuckles, the other with something that looked suspiciously like a knife hilt tucked into his waistband.

"Operator," Ordis warned, "we are approaching escalation to 'stupid' levels."

"I noticed," Isaac thought back, shifting his stance. Hopefully a teacher came soon because even for him, fighting in a ring like this would be disadvantageous unless he started breaking bones.

He finally let his bag slide off his shoulder, dropping it next to the car with a soft thud.

The next attacker with brass knuckles came in fast but controlled. This one seemed to be another boxer from the looks of it. Isaac stepped into the strike, one forearm deflecting the punch while his other hand snapped up to grab the boy's wrist. A head butt to daze him, followed by a horse kick to someone trying to sneak an attack in from behind. Isaac pulled brass knuckles forward as he fell backwards, bringing them both to the ground so the Operator could plant his feelings on his chest and kick him off into a group of his fellow gang members.

The new members who joined in tried to take advantage of him being on the ground but he simply spun using the power in his arms and knocked the bunch of their feet before getting back up and kicking in some faces to keep them down.

The one with the knife from earlier was smarter. He hesitated, put the knife back in and walked away.

"Enough," a new voice cut in drawing attention.

The Operator recognized her immediately. Sophia Hess, codename Shadow Stalker, stepped through the outer ring like it wasn't there, the crowd parting for her without conscious thought. She was still in civies but her posture and demeanor was dangerous, screaming out the promise of violence.

"So the hero has finally decided to join," he thought dryly. "What's her plan though?"

She sized up the scene in a heartbeat. Isaac. Umbra. The groaning and unconscious E88 kids. Teachers still nowhere in sight.

Then she smiled.

It wasn't a nice expression.

"Hey, skinheads," she called to the boys gearing themselves up to rush Isaac. "You didn't seriously think you were gonna jump someone in front of half the school and get away with it did you?"

"Stay out of this, Hess," one of them snapped, trying to sound tough by adding a growl to his voice. "This doesn't concern a monkey like you."

Chatter went dead as the crowd held their breath. It was language expected of their gang but people still went quiet. Looking at Sophia for her reaction and as expected she was pissed was off.

"Wrong answer," she said with a dark glare that promised bodily harm.

She closed the distance in three long strides, he punched first and she dodged and made him pay by driving her fist into his face. Cartilage crushed as his nose broke.

The kid reeled, stumbling while holding his nose as blood leaked out of it. Another lunged at her. She dipped under his swing, shoulder-checking him in the ribs hard enough to send him crashing into the guy behind him. They nearly went down in a tangle of limbs but bumped into one of the Asian groups in the crowd. The Asians pushed back and the two E88 kids got back into the fight. Naturally, the two racist got annoyed but this time their target wasn't Hess or Isaac.

And just like that a dam broke, more E88 kids swarmed in, drawn by stupidity and pride. Others—students who'd had enough of being stepped on, or just wanted an excuse to hit a racist with plausible deniability—surged in too.

In seconds, the front of the school was an all out brawl. Isaac was sure that some of these people had started accidently attacking their own friends.

With so much going on, Isaac had to move without thinking or he the sheer number of his opponents would already have overwhelmed him.

He kept his strikes tight, efficient. No wasted motion. No showy finishes. Every step repositioned him, every dodge set up the next counter.

To anyone watching closely, it looked wrong on a high school student. Too smooth. Too practiced. But most weren't looking closely. They were too busy trying not to get punched.

But even through the thoughtless movements, he paid close attention to Sophia. The girl fought like someone who wanted to hurt people.

She ducked a swing, drove her fist into a kidney, then brought her knee up between another boy's legs without hesitation. When one tried to grab her from behind, she twisted, hooked his arm, and sent him flying over her hip into the concrete where he was nearly trampled. .

"Operator," Ordis said, voice tight with worry. "I believe it is almost time to wrap this little rough housing session up before these kids get hurt more. Umbra is barely holding himself back from launching in to protect you. And between you and I Operator, I do not believe now to be a good time or place to test how many patients he has left."

"Noted," Isaac thought, slipping past a flailing elbow and shoving its owner gently into another E88 boy who'd been trying to circle behind Sophia. They collided, went down together and started punching each other.

All around them, the fight roared and the Operator was begging to what in Void was taking these teachers so long to break this up.

A kid who'd never thrown a punch in his life swung on an E88 boy and got rewarded with a bloody nose and a proud grin anyway. Another tried to pull his friend out of the mess and got dragged in himself. Phones kept recording, voices kept shouting—cheering, swearing, panicking, all at once.

Someone finally screamed, "Teachers!" loud enough to cut through the noise.

"Break it up! Break it up right now!" a teacher he hadn't met bellowed.

Naturally, some still too into the fight ignored them.

The teacher grabbed at shoulders—some trying to restrain, others having to nearly fight the kids before the student realized who they were trying to swing on. A whistle shrieked from somewhere. Another teacher started yelling names.

By this point, those who weren't getting grabbed by teachers or had been let go off started booking it down the street

Isaac stepped back from the nearest cluster, breathing steady, shirt barely rumpled.

He saw Sophia taking one last cheap shot at a retreating E88 kid's ribs before letting herself be separated, expression hateful.

Several E88 boys, a few merchants, and the ABB, lay on the asphalt, groaning or clutching various bruised parts of themselves. None were seriously injured. A couple might limp for a day or two.

"Operator," Ordis said, sounding pleased despite himself, "I have successfully recorded the entire incident from seven different angles. I am also pleased to report that you did not break anyone."

"Directly maybe," Isaac mumbled to himself as he glanced over at Umbra.

His "father" still leaned against the car, arms crossed, but he was calmer now. His head turned just enough to meet Isaac's gaze before nodding towards the car.

Isaac gave the smallest of nods.

It was time to leave.

"Isaac!" one of the boys from earlier hissed, appearing at his elbow. "Dude, what the hell was that? You destroyed them!"

Isaac rolled one shoulder, feigning mild discomfort. "Got lucky," he said. "They're amateurs at fighting."

"That's not luck bro," the other boy insisted, eyes still wide. "That was… that was some Batman-level shit."

Before he could answer, a teacher's voice snapped out.

"You, you, you—and you," she said, pointing at Isaac, his friends, Sophia, one E88 boy who was still conscious, and a random kid with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles who'd been a little too enthusiastic about joining in right. "Inside. Now!"

Isaac sighed internally.

So much for leaving.

Chapter Text

Blackwell’s office smelled like old coffee but in comparison to the rest of the school it actually looked pretty good. Not that Isaac was keen on showing reverence for it.

He sat slouched in the chair opposite her desk, legs stretched out just enough to be disrespectful but not classless. Umbra sat beside him, back straight, hands folded, expression ever unreadable behind his tinted glasses.

Principal Blackwell was red-faced and already mid-rant.

“—absolutely unacceptable!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at a stack of pink discipline slips on her desk. “On his first day, Mister Dax, your son has managed to disrupt school peace, incite a multi-student altercation, and drag multiple gangs into a brawl on the front steps. Do you have any idea what that looks like on my incident reports?”

In his head, Ordis made a quiet, prideful huff. “A suitable exit for you Operator.”

Isaac didn’t react outwardly. He just watched Blackwell with that lazy, half-lidded irreverent look that tended to annoy authority figures.

“And you,” she rounded on him, “sit there like you don’t care! This is not a joke, young man! The school has enough problems without a new student deciding to play vigilante brawler!”

Seeing his devil may care attitude, she turned sharply to Umbra. “Mister Dax, you need to get your son under control.”

Umbra huffed very softly and reached over, tapping Isaac once on the shoulder. A “behave” gesture.

Isaac sighed theatrically and sat up a little straighter, folding his hands in his lap like a properly chastised student.

“Principal Blackwell,” he said, voice calm, “I didn’t start the fight. The white supremacist did.”

Her mouth tightened into an even deeper frown. “According to multiple witnesses, you struck the first blow, Mister Dax. You had an opportunity to de-escalate when your father stepped out of the car, and instead you chose violence.”

In his head, the Operator had to concede, “Ok, she’s got me there.”

She pivoted back to Umbra, seizing on that point. “And you, Mister Dax—when you saw your son being surrounded by hostile students, you backed off because he told you he ‘had it’? What parent does that? You should have removed him from the situation, not stood there and watched.”

Umbra, like he had been from the beginning, just stared at her with no reaction. Just quiet, heavy presence that had gotten those kids earlier to think twice about coming close.

Blackwell’s irritation faltered for half a heartbeat under the weight of that stare, but she pushed through.

Isaac stepped in before she could build momentum again.

“My father trusted me to handle my aggressors.” he explained calmly. “If I hide behind him like a coward every time someone looks at me funny, then the Empire Eighty-Eight and every other gang in this building will just get bolder when he isn’t around.”

“That is not how this works,” Blackwell snapped. “We have staff. We have procedures. The adults in this building will handle gang issues. You do not take matters into your own hands.”

“Handle it,” he repeated. “Like you handled Taylor Hebert?”

The Operator would have thought Frost was in the room with how fast Blackwell’s expression froze. The flush in her cheeks cooled, her jaw tightening as she smoothed her hands flat on the desk. 

It was almost impressive.

“I’m not sure what you think you know,” she said carefully, “but Miss Hebert’s situation is… complicated. Unfortunate, yes, but we are doing our best. The staff cannot be everywhere at once, and Miss Hebert herself has refused to cooperate with investigations on multiple occasions.”

The Operator didn't buy a word of it, he already knew the real reason.

“So the problem,” he said a condescension, “is that you’re broke, understaffed, and incompetent.”

Blackwell’s eyes flashed dangerously, her anger showing through the mask. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Isaac went on mildly, ticking points off on his fingers, “you don’t have enough staff to monitor your halls. You don’t have enough support to protect even a single girl who got shoved in a locker full of biological waste. And you don’t have enough resources to actually handle gangs on campus, so you’re yelling at a student who defended himself instead of letting them bully him into submission.”

“Operator,” Ordis said warningly in his head, “are you sure this is a wise course of action. She does have the power to expel you and you did say you wanted to keep a low profile.”

“Well that plan kinda got shot into the Void when I got into the brawl," he thought back. “The only thing I can do now to make up for it is build leverage.”

Blackwell drew herself up to her full height, jaw clenched in anger. “You are out of line, Isaac Dax.”

Isaac continued to speak like she wasn’t even there.

“But,” he said, tilting his head toward Umbra, “that’s fixable. Right, Dad?”

Umbra’s head turned slightly. One eyebrow ticked up a millimeter. This was not something they’d discussed or planned.

Isaac gave him a look that translated to Trust me.

Umbra reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook, and flipped it open.

He wrote quickly, pen scratching harshly in the office.

Ordis oohed softly in Isaac’s head as he caught a look at the number through Umbra’s eyes. “That is… generous, Operator. Are you sure you wish to entrust it to—THIS BIIIII—principal?”

“Well,” the Operator answered, “if she embezzles it she’ll go to jail on top of losing her job when the PRT investigation rolls in. If she doesn't, she’ll get some good work done around here by the time her replacement steps up. So it's a win win."

Umbra finally finished writing the check, tore it out and set it on Blackwell’s desk with a sharp slap.

She jumped a little but her eyes dropped to the paper and her pupils dilated as they zoomed in at the number.

Her mouth actually fell open for half a second before she caught herself.

“Th-that’s…” she began, then stopped to read it again, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Isaac rose from his chair, deciding now was a time to exit the stage. Umbra stood at the same time, their movements near perfectly synced from years of partnership.

“Consider it an investment,” Isaac said lightly. “ Get some new staff. Better security. Maybe some actual functioning computers that weren’t built before I was born. So next time I’m in this office, I’d better not hear ‘understaffed and underfunded’ as an excuse.”

Blackwell tore her eyes away from the check long enough to glare at him again.

“We’re not done here, young man,” she said sharply. “You were involved in a major fight on school grounds. There will be disciplinary action. Suspensions, at minimum. We still need to go over—”

What she was saying was largely ignored, the Dax family was already moving towards the exit of her office but Isaac did answer her.

“Take it as my excuse note,” he said over his shoulder, giving her a cheeky little wave. “Have a nice day, Principal Blackwell. I look forward to seeing what you do with the new resources at your disposal.”

He turned and walked out without waiting to be dismissed. Umbra followed, leaving Blackwell standing behind her desk with a red face, a fat check in her hand, and no good way to say no.

They stepped out into the hall outside Blackwell’s office, the door clicking shut behind them.

The little waiting area was still crowded.

Sophia was there, leaning against the wall with arms folded, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else but not in a way that expressed worry. The E88 kid with the bruised face and split lip sat in one of the chairs, glowering at the floor. The bloody-nosed student from the fight picked at a dried smear on his sleeve. Isaac’s two almost-friends were camped a few steps away, trying to look casual and failing.

Isaac stopped just past the doorway, Umbra beside him.

He glanced over the group once before he clapped his hands once to draw all their attention.

“Good news,” he said. “We’re free to go.”

A beat of silence.

“Wait, what—?” the bloody-nosed kid blurted, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” Isaac went on, gesturing loosely to all of them. “All of us. Meeting’s done. She’s letting us off with a warning. Even you, Mr. Empire.”

He pointed at the E88 kid.

The boy blinked, suspicion flickering written on his face. “You serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Isaac asked with a raised eyebrow.

He had thought about leaving the kid to the consequences of his action but with the leader having gotten away or been put in the nurse, he felt there was no point in singling him out. Besides, once the gang issue was taken care off, kids like this would go back to being just that—kids. So if he was going to start climbing Winslow’s little social ladder, he might as well do it with some visible goodwill. Better to be known as the guy who got people out of trouble than the guy who left them in it.

Sophia’s expression after he started talking was interesting.

In the beginning, she watched him with something that looked a lot like respect—eyes judging but not hating what she saw. Then her gaze slid to the E88 kid, when she heard “even you,” and her jaw tightened. The respect cooled into a faint frown after that.

It seemed mercy did not impress her or maybe she just hated that any of the E88 would get cut some slack.

The bloody-nosed kid half-rose from his chair. “Uh, I—I, um, that’s… that’s good, I guess. I mean, thanks, I—”

The words tripped, collided, and died. His mouth opened and closed twice more but nothing coherent came out.

Social awkwardness, then.

The office door opened behind Isaac before he could respond, so he stepped aside.

“Why are you standing?” Blackwell demanded, voice sharp as she stepped out between umbra and him. “I told you to wait to be called in, not loiter and chatter.”

Bloody nose flinched like someone had thrown a rock at him and the other looked at him like he lied.

Isaac turned smoothly, keeping his face guileless as he addressed her.

“Sorry, Principal Blackwell,” he said. “I was just telling them you decided to let everyone off the hook with a verbal warning and no marks on their records. Right?”

Blackwell stared at him with annoyance. Then her gaze shifted to Umbra as if asking if she really had to go along with his son's nonsense..

Umbra gave the smallest of nods.

Her shoulders loosened by a hair and she inhaled and exhaled.

“…Yes,” she said finally, addressing the group. “Given the… circumstances, and assurances I have received, I am willing to let this incident go with a warning. This time.”

The E88 kid’s brows shot up. The bloody-nosed kid and Isaac’s two almost-friends sagged with visible relief.

Sophia watched Blackwell, then Isaac, filing their interaction away in her head.

“If there is another fight,” Blackwell continued, “there will be suspensions. Possibly expulsions. Am I clear?”

Murmurs of “yes, ma’am” and “yes, Principal Blackwell” rose in a disorganized chorus.

“Good.” She gave Isaac one more hard look, then stepped back into her office. The door shut again.

“Thanks,” the bloody-nosed kid mumbled, still not quite meeting his eyes.

“Don’t mention it,” Isaac said. “Literally don’t.”

That got the tiniest huff of nervous laughter like he thought Isaac was joking but didn’t get it.

He glanced over the small cluster. “Anyone want a ride home? We’ve got room for a few.”

The E88 kid was already shaking his head before he finished the sentence.

“Nah,” he said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll walk.”

He peeled off down the hall alone, shoulders hunched, trying to look like he didn’t owe anyone anything.

The bloody-nosed kid looked like he might say yes. His mouth opened, eyes flicking from Isaac to Umbra to the polished shoes and the expensive suit.

Then embarrassment crept in. His shoulders caved a little.

“I, uh… thanks, but I’ll just—walk. It’s not far,” he said, lifting a weak hand in a half-wave before turning away.

“See you tomorrow, maybe,” he added under his breath, already retreating.

Isaac watched him go, the nervous energy and hesitation a sharp contrast to the bloody state of his knuckles and nose. That one had potential, he realized—not for Echo Zero, but definitely as a fighter.

His two almost-friends didn't hesitate.

“We could—” the taller one started.

“Yeah, a ride would—” the shorter one said at the same time.

There words fumbled over each other but the Operator got the gist,

“Sure,” Isaac said easily. “Come on. Cars where we—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sophia cut in.

Everyone looked at her.

She’d been quiet up to now, only watching and listening. Now she pushed off the wall and stepped closer, posture still casual but voice edged.

“You two are better off walking,” she told the boys. “It’s, what, ten minutes? You’ll live.”

They froze, caught between wanting the ride and not wanting to argue with the girl who could fold them in half. Not that Isaac would let her do that.

He turned his head and looked her in the eyes with unflinching confidence.

“I don’t mind dropping them off,” he replied, tone light but firm. “Doesn’t matter how close they live. If they want a ride, they get one. Simple as that.”

Sophia’s gaze sharpened at the perceived challenge and she stepped closer into his personal space to glare up at the slightly taller boy. “And like I said, they want to walk.”

The two boys looked back and forth between them—no doubt trying to decide if they should heed Sophia’s subtle warning or stand their ground with Isaac.

In the end, their fear won.

“Thanks, man,” the taller one said, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “But uh, we’ll, uh… we’ll walk today. Maybe another time. Don't wanna be a third wheel.”

“Yeah,” the shorter one echoed, stepping back. “We’ll catch you tomorrow. Later, Isaac. Good luck!”

They both retreated down the hall, looking relieved and disappointed at the same time.

The Operator nearly signed at the cowardice on display. Just like he thought, he really needed them to have a little more spine before they could truly be called his friends.

Even after they left though, Isaac didn’t look away from Sophia for a good few seconds.

He considered, briefly, telling her to take her attitude somewhere else. He didn’t like how she’d cut his gesture off and tried to assert authority over him and his acquaintances. But he wanted information more than he wanted the satisfaction of telling her to kick rocks.

He wanted to know what kind of “hero” bullied a girl like Taylor all year and then jumped into a brawl to help someone she didn’t know. So instead, he tipped his head toward the exit.

“Looks like it's just us,” he said. “After you?”

She snorted softly, but a corner of her mouth twitched in a smirk of her own like she had just won. She started walking out the door and down the hall.

Umbra fell into step half a pace behind Isaac as he followed her out.

They made their way out toward the front of the school where a redhead and short brunette were waiting just outside near the steps. The late afternoon light catching on the redhead's carefully styled hair and shorties too-bright grin.

 Isaac recognized them immediately from his earlier info gathering in math class. The other two “Queen Bitches.” 

“There you are,” Emma said, pushing off the railing to meet them or more accurately, Sophia. “We saw the fight but lost track when the teachers started grabbing people. You okay?”

“Peachy,” Sophia said while jabbing a thumb at Isaac. “The empire barely laid a hand on me thanks to him.”

Emma’s gaze slid to Isaac, eyes assessing but friendly. “You must be Isaac,” she said. “We’ve heard a lot about you already.”

“A lot?” he echoed mildly. There shouldn’t be much more than rumors going around at this point. Most students would only know him from the brawl or the cafeteria  and that wasn’t much to go off. “I hope you've heard only good things.”

Madison stepped forward half a pace, hands clasped behind her back, smiling up at him with a cute innocent look that reminded him of one of his younger sisters somewhat.

“Something like that,” she said. “You kind of made an impression. I’m Madison, by the way. Madison Clements. And this is Emma Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you,” Emma added, offering him a small, confident smile. “Interesting way to end the first day.”

“Could’ve been quieter,” Isaac commented like they were talking about the weather and not a full on brawl. “But it all turned out fine if you ask me.”

Madison giggled at that like it was funnier than it was.

Sophia cut across the growing small talk.

“You two can go home without me,” she said. “I’m gonna talk to him for a bit.”

Emma’s eyes flicked between Isaac and Sophia before widening, her lips and tone shifting into something teasing. “About what exactly?”

Sophia scowled at Emma in warning but answered anyway.

“I want to see if he’s like us,” she said.

She held Emma’s gaze on the last word.

Isaac caught the way “us” landed between them like a shared secret.

Was Emma a parahuman or did “us” mean something else entirely?

Either way, whatever “us” meant, it did not seem to include Madison. Sophia didn’t even glance her way when she said it and Madison didn’t give any indication she knew there was even an implication in the word.

Emma, on the other hand, understood immediately. Her posture shifted, just a hair more relaxed, like a piece of a puzzle had snapped into place.

“Got it,” Emma said seriously. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She turned to Isaac, smiling again. “It was nice meeting you, Isaac. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he said as she stepped off towards the bus stop.

Madison lingered instead of following Emma immediately.

“Bye, Isaac,” she said while blushing a little. “We should totally hang out more at school. Maybe lunch sometime?”

“We’ll see how schedules line up,” he answered, tone pleasant but giving her nothing solid to cling to.

She tried not to show the tiny flinch at the brush-off. “Right. See you.”

Madison caught up to Emma and the two headed off down the sidewalk together, Emma already talking low and fast, Madison glancing back once before focusing on keeping up.

Isaac watched them go for a moment before turning to Sophia

Sophia jerked her chin toward the curb. “That's yours right?” she asked, looking at the car.

Umbra was already there, standing by the passenger side. 

“Yeah, come on. I don't want to keep my dad waiting.”

He walked ahead and, because Umbra would have done it if he didn’t, he opened the rear door for her.

She scoffed. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he replied with a smirk. “Force of habit.”

There was a pause, like she was considering refusing just on principle. Then she slid into the back seat without further comment.

“Thanks,” she muttered, almost too quiet to catch.

He closed the door lightly, walked around the other side, and got in next to her. Umbra got in the driver’s seat again, hand light on the wheel as he started it up.

“Where to?” Isaac asked, buckling his seatbelt.

“Downtown,” Sophia said. She didn’t buckle her own. “Drop me near the Boardwalk.”

He didn’t need to think long about what was there for a Ward like her, PRT ENE.

“Sure,” he said, like it meant nothing more than malls and food stalls.

Umbra pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into the sluggish Brockton Bay traffic.

For a while, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the road as Sophia just stared out her window.

Halfway to the first lights, she spoke.

“Why doesn’t he talk?” she asked, nodding toward the front.

Isaac glanced at Umbra’s profile, then back at her.

“A disease took his voice years ago,” he said the truth casually. There was no need to lie after all.

Sophia went still for a second.

“Oh,” she said and that was all.

She didn’t apologize or say sorry to hear that. She just turned her head back to the glass, watching the city slide past.

The silence settled back in.

Isaac let it sit, staring at the back of Umbra’s seat as he thought about how to begin questioning her.

After more time letting the silence stretch a bit longer, he broke it with a simple question.

“So,” he said, tone light, “why’d you jump in?”

Sophia didn’t look away from the window. “What, you wanted to get dogpiled?” she shot back.

“No, I appreciate the help, I'm just curious.” 

She huffed at that for some reason but didn’t say anything.

“So…?” he prompted again.

Sophia shrugged, eyes still on the passing street. “Eighty-Eight assholes think they own the place because their gang is the biggest. We don’t need that crap at Winslow.”

It was the kind of answer she could’ve given anyone. Clean. Civic-minded, even. But it didn’t feel like her so he just waited instead of responding.

“And,” she added after a moment, “I don’t like watching four-on-one unless the one deserves it.”

There it was, a hint of her real mindset under the surface, but it still wasn’t completely her. After all, Sophia had teamed up with two other girls to bully Taylor.

“Hmmm, that so?” Isaac asked, voice mild. “Excuse me if I'm being rude but you don't come off as the defender of the weak type. So what made you think I deserved the help?”

Sophia finally turned her head, finally meeting his eyes.

“You weren’t acting like prey.” She said simply. 

“Prey,” Isaac repeated despite grasping her meaning already. “So that’s how it is huh? Everyone’s a predator or prey?”

“Yeah,” she said with a bit of excitement, like she found a kindred soul in him. “Some people are at the top. Some aren’t. The ones at the top survive. The rest get eaten.”

“So I guess that means I'm a predator like you?” he asked. 

She frowned slightly, still sizing him up. “Haven’t decided yet,” she said. “You fight like a predator. But then you went and pulled strings to let that skinhead walk. That’s not something a  real predator does.”

“Really?” he asked contemplatively with a smirk. “Then maybe I'm a prey animal with good reflexes?”

She scoffed. “Why’d you do that anyways? You think he’s gonna thank you? Because he’s not. You embarrassed him in front of everyone, then saved his ass from suspension. That kind of guy? He’ll hate you more for it.”

The Operator considered that. She could be right, he was a racist gangster after all. But she could also be wrong. He was still young. With time and experience, he could change his perspective and mature for the better.

Regardless of which path that kid would take, Isaac needed to correct a misunderstanding Sofia had of him. 

“You know, despite what you think, I’m not exactly big on mercy,” he explained while looking at the roof of the car. “Or second chances. Especially when I don't know someone's story.”

A flicker of something passed over his face. Flashes of memory showing the various enemies he fell with gun and blade and the very few he spared that ended up becoming allies or remaining enemies. He pushed it down to focus.

“But,” he went on, “someone important to me was. If there’s a chance her way works better here than it did where I’m from… I can afford to test it.”

Sophia watched him talk, curiosity apparent on her features but she didn’t say anything. 

“Besides,” he added, “It’s like you said, the dudes embarrassed. If something's gonna make him change his ways, it’ll be that. Not a blemish on his attendance record.”

She snorted in derision.

“That’s too much benefit of the doubt for someone who’d put a boot in your ribs if you tripped,” she said. “I don't know who you're trying to follow in the footsteps of but that kind of mercy gets you hurt around here or worse.”

“Maybe,” he responded nonchalantly. “Or maybe it buys you something later. A hesitation. An early warning. Or nothing at all and I’m exactly where I started. I can live with that.”

“So that’s it?” she asked, frustration bleeding into her tone. “Make a point, then play nice and hope for the best? That’s your big philosophy?”

He smiled slightly at her. “Would it help if I said I’m just… very complicated? Like an omnivore?”

She stared at him, unamused and confused.

“Little bit of grass,” he went on, “little bit of meat. Help the herd when it’s useful, take a bite out of anything that gets too close.”

Her snarled expression said clearly she was not in the mood for jokes.

“You making fun of me?” she asked, voice going cold.

“No,” he answered, letting the joke fall away. “I’m trying to say the world isn’t as simple as ‘predator or prey.’”

“It is,” she shot back immediately. “You can see it all around you. Especially in Brockton.”

She gestured at the city outside. “Merchants. ABB. Eighty-Eight. People who fight, people who get walked on. That’s it. Everything else is a lie people tell themselves so they don’t have to admit they’re food.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, studying her before dropping the bomb.

“And Taylor?” he asked quietly. “She’s food?”

Sophia froze for a heartbeat that told him she hadn’t expected him to know. Then she forced herself to relax, gaze hardening.

“She lets herself be,” Sophia said without remorse. “She could hit back. She doesn’t. She just… takes it. Hides. Cries. That’s not on us. That’s on her.”

Isaac didn’t bother arguing with that directly. There was no point when someone was as remorseless and honorless as Sophia. 

“That so? See, the thing about your model,” he said instead, “is that it pretends being strong is a permanent state.”

She frowned in confusion at the non sequitur. “What?”

“Even lions get old,” he said a bit hypocritically. Warframes didn’t and neither did he. “Sick. Tired. Or just unlucky. And sometimes,” he added, “Even prey animals can bring one down if there’s enough of them. Or if the lion is arrogant enough to keep pretending the prey can’t be dangerous.”

She looked at him like he’d told a bad joke, but he was speaking from experience. A single Grineer marine would never beat even a newly awakened Tenno—but a thousand of them? Then the odds got interesting.

“Sounds like prey talk,” she said dismissively and Isaac nearly rolled his eyes at her ignorance.

“Listen, predator and prey is a nice story,” he continued. “Makes it easy to decide who deserves what from a certain viewpoint. But the world’s messier than that. For example, did you know parahumans get their powers from something called a trigger event?”

Her glare sharpened, jaw tight, but she didn’t answer. So he kept going despite knowing he was touching a sensitive topic.

“Barring second-gen capes like Glory Girl, trigger events happen when someone hits the lowest point of their life,” Isaac continued. “In other words, when they’re at their weakest. By your predator-prey worldview, that makes them prey—too weak to stop what was happening to them until the universe or whatever the source of powers is, bailed them out.”

He watched her carefully as he asked the next question.

“Do people like that  really deserve to be called predators? Do they deserve the same label as people who put in the work to never be victims in the first place?”

She was glaring hard now, not even trying to hide her hostility but Isaac remained smiling and inquisitive like he was completely oblivious to her wrath. Even so, she didn’t lash out and instead calmed herself to ponder his words.

“Deserve’s a useless word,” she said after some time thinking. “The world doesn’t care who ‘earned’ what. You get power, or you don’t. You use it, or you don’t. That’s it.”

She looked back out the window.

“Some of those Parahumans?” she went on. “They get powers and still act like prey. They hide, cry about how it’s not fair and let people walk all over them and blame everyone else when it doesn’t magically fix their life. I don’t care how they got their powers or how strong they are with them. If they live like prey, they are prey.”

“And the ones who don’t?” Isaac asked despite being able to predict the answer.

“Those are predators,” she said simply. “Doesn’t matter where they started. They stand up. They hit back. They take what they want and don’t apologize for it. You don’t get a medal because you ‘trained harder’ to get there first. You either are or you’re not.”

“Sounds a little like villain talk,” he pointed out.

She just shrugged as if to say that’s just the way it is.

Isaac glanced out the window and realized they’d pulled up near the Boardwalk. This conversation was over. 

For now.

Umbra eased the car to a stop at the curb.

“Well,” Isaac said, sounding disappointed that their talk had to end,, “this was… honestly more fun than I expected.”

Sophia huffed a little. “You’ve got a weird idea of fun.”

“Occupational hazard,” he half joked. “See you at school, Sophia.”

She opened the door without returning the goodbye before pausing with one foot out.

“I still haven’t decided what you are,” she said, glancing back at him. “But if you’re prey, you’re the weirdest-looking prey I’ve ever seen.”

He smiled faintly. “Is that a compliment?”

She rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath and stepped out, shutting the door with a solid thunk.

Umbra pulled away once she’d cleared the sidewalk, the Boardwalk sliding past behind them as Brockton Bay swallowed her back up.

Chapter Text

The moment Umbra pulled away from the curb, Isaac’s faint smile faded like it had never been there.

He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, watching the Boardwalk recede in the side window.

“Well,” he thought, more to himself than to Ordis, “that was disappointing.”

Sophia Hess wasn’t just abrasive and angry. She was a walking excuse—someone who’d found a story that let her trample anyone weaker and ran with it so they could still look in the mirror. She thought only about predators and prey and her philosophy, if you could een call it that, boiled down to basic “might makes right.”

A who bullied a girl into the ground, called that “nature,” then had the gall to act like she was on the side of the strong when there was nothing more weak than bullying those who could not fight back.

Ordis cleared his metaphorical throat. “So… are you going to do something about her, Operator? Perhaps… help her? She is clearly—mm—unwell.”

Isaac exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking it over for all of two seconds before letting the idea go.

“I’m already busy trying to rehabilitate Bonesaw,” he said in his head. “I don’t have the time, or patience to add a self-righteous sociopath to the list.”

The car rolled past cracked brick, sun-faded billboards, rust and concrete. Basically Brockton Bay doing its best impression of a slow-motion collapse.

“And besides, Taylor’s too valuable to risk,” he went on. “If I start trying to ‘fix’ Sophia, the most likely outcome is I lose Taylor entirely because I decided the person stomping on her deserved a second chance more than she deserved a break.”

Ordis hummed, thoughtful. “So you intend to simply… leave Miss Hess as she is?”

“I intend,” the Operator shot back a bit defensively, “to let the PRT put her through whatever mental facilities and training they think will help. The investigation we'll nudge into motion will no doubt result in a punishment that should push her toward proper care with or without my direct help.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the low rumble of the car smooth out the edge of his irritation.

“Listen, Ordis,” Isaac said after a while. “I do want to help her. I can feel how angry she is. How much she’s hurting. If Margulis were here, she’d try. It’s what she did for us despite everything."

He opened his eyes again.

“But I can’t help everyone. Not even with everything I’ve got. And especially not someone who wants to live and die by her predator-prey fairy tale.”

Ordis was quiet for a moment as well, then said, very softly, “I understand, Operator. Even so… I believe in you.”

Isaac arched an eyebrow slightly. “That so?”

“Of course,” Ordis said, warming up. “You’ve always found a way to beat the odds. Remember when Ballas stabbed you in the chest and cast you into the Void. Yet you still managed to find your way back to us?”

Isaac sighed at the memory as his hand rubbed his chest where he had been stabbed. “That was… very situational.”

“But you still did it,” Ordis insisted. “A little Ward is not beyond you, if you ever decide she’s worth the effort.”

“Big if,” Isaac muttered, but he didn’t argue further because he considered that maybe Ordis was right.

The car rolled on. Conversation was scarce as crumbling neighborhoods gave way to cleaner sidewalks and nicer lighting. The city smell thinned out, replaced by manicured hedges and freshly cut lawns.

They pulled into the driveway of a two-story place in the rich suburbs—a neat lawn, tasteful brick, big windows. The kind of house realtors called “charming.”

“I’m still saying the Docks would’ve been cooler,” he muttered as Umbra shut off the engine.

“Absolutely not,” Ordis said in his ear, scandalized. “The filth alone—”

Umbra shot him a look over the roof of the car that translated perfectly into: You’re not living in a condemned warehouse, child.

They hadn’t really “talked him out of it” the first time he brought it up so much as hit him with a unified, immovable wall of NO and refused to elaborate. He could have pushed, but he hadn’t; their loyalty ran deep enough that once he made a call, they wouldn’t argue it—and he didn’t feel like abusing that on a dramatic address in the Docks so he went along with it.

They stepped inside, and the house greeted them with cool air and the faint scent of cleaning products. Simple, modern furniture. Neutral colors. Nothing personal. 

A perfect incognito throw away base.

A soft hum preceded Ordis’s sentinel body drifting in from the hallway—the familiar hovering shell of metal and ornamental cloth floating at chest level.

“Welcome home, Operator!” Ordis chimed through the sentinel speakers. “Allow me—”

Tiny energy made manipulator arms extended. Before he could protest, Ordis plucked the school bag off his shoulder with surprising care and scooped up his shoes as he toed them off.

“Thanks Ordis.” 

“Any time Operator,” Ordis replied.

The sentinel zipped away toward the hall closet.

“Since you’re already on a roll,” Isaac called after him, “you want to do my homework too?”

“Of course,” Ordis answered without a moment’s hesitation. “I’m confident I can replicate your handwriting to within a 0.0001% margin of error.”

“Perfect,” Isaac said with no shame. “You’re the best.”

And really, there was no reason to feel guilty about having Ordis do it for him. Aside from niche subjects like Parahuman studies, there was nothing a high school thousands of years in the past could teach a Tenno. Warriors and assassins they might be, yes—but they were also highly educated philosophers, scientists, and tacticians, with their own established schools to prove it.

Umbra tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

Isaac turned and Umbra pointed at the floor, then curled his hand into a fist.

“Gonna train in the basement?” Isaac asked for confirmation.

Umbra nodded once.

“Knock yourself out,” the Operator said. “Try not to shake the whole house.”

Umbra huffed and headed for the basement door, disappearing down the stairs.

The sentinel drifted back into the room without the bag. “Would you like a meal, Operator?” Ordis asked. “I have located several highly-rated recipes from this time period. There is one called ‘mac and cheese’ that people appear to find spiritually important—”

“Later,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “As much as I’m enjoying the culinary dishes of this era, I’ve got something more important to run first.”

He moved to the living room couch and dropped onto it, letting his body relax into the cushions. Then Isaac exhaled and let go.

The human shell slumped back against the cushions, eyes closing as the Operator stepped out of it. His true form slipping free in a wash of void light only he could see.

“Is the Captura connection stable?” he asked Ordis.

The sentinel hovered closer. “It is. Going to check on her, Operator?” Ordis asked.

“Yes,” the Tenno replied. “I want to see if the treatment is working.”

“Very well,” Ordis said simply. The sentinel body drifted back a meter and settled into a stationary hover. The blue eye flared brighter.

“Transport in three,” Ordis intoned. “Two. One…”

A narrow beam of blue energy lanced out, striking the Operator square in the chest. His form broke apart into a flurry of luminous particles, digitizing piece by piece.

“Transporting,” Ordis finished, voice echoing faintly as the last of him was pulled into the beam and vanished.

Bonesaw woke up feeling wrong.

The bed under her was too soft. The air was too clean. No stink of blood, no metal, no chemicals from her work. For a second she thought she was dreaming or more likely about to have a nightmare of that day when the Nine first visited her. When Jack…

Thinking his name made the memories come flooding back.

Jack on the ground. His brains painting the earth as she desperately tried to gather the pieces of him. Jellyfish-face holding her while her own body came apart, turning into light in those arms. The sound of her own screaming cutting off when there wasn’t enough throat left to scream with.

She sat up too fast, heart hammering as she looked around. Expecting a cell. A hospital. Maybe even fire and brimstone.

Instead, the room saw was none of that.

Pastel walls. Shelves with stuffed animals. A cheap plastic night-light in the corner. Posters. A low dresser with stickers peeling off the sides. And Glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. All of it was illuminated by early morning sunlight.

A little girl’s room.

It all looked odd though, like someone had made everything a size too big.

No—she was wrong. Everything wasn’t too big. She was too small. She took off the covers and looked at her legs and they didn’t reach as far as they should. Her hands were also tiny and her finger stubby like she had gone back to being six.

It seemed Jellyfish-face had rolled her time back. It explained why she couldn't feel any of her augmentations.

But why a children's room for her holding cell and one with a window at that?

Bonesaw swung her feet off the bed slowly, toes brushing the carpet as she thought on why her captures would choose this place.

Did they think she wasn’t a threat anymore now that they de-aged her or was it something more disgusting like thinking she would suddenly start playing house. Could these people actually believe she’d just snuggle into her sheets and forget how they’d murdered Jack in front of her. Forget how they’d turned her into confetti. Forget how they killed the rest of her family?

“Cute,” she muttered, voice high and small again. The sound made her blink, then scowl. “Grrr. That bitch.”

She forced herself to inhale. Exhale. Focus. Plan. Without augmentations and even with them, those parahumans were too strong to take in a head on fight. On top of that, they clearly weren’t idiots even if they were stupidly merciful to her. 

If she wanted any chance at avenging her family, she’d need to play dress up doll and family with them until she had an opening to either escape or cut them up into art.

She reached inward for her power, trying to see what in this room she could use to augment herself before someone came to check on her.

Nothing.

She dug deeper, like maybe if she pushed hard enough the blockage would crack. Still nothing.

Her power was gone. The realization made her chest hurt. Not like losing a hand. Pain like that was something she was accustomed to. It was more like losing half of her. Her power was what made her special and useful to Jack. Without it, she was just a useless Riley.

She swallowed a sob.

No, she wasn’t useless. Even if she couldn’t feel her power she could feel everything else. She could still think. Still move. She wasn’t helpless. Just… de-fanged. 

For now.

Once she figured out the extent of what they did to her, she could work on reversing it or trick them into giving her power back. That was all in the future though. All she could do now was… 

Someone knocked.

Three light taps, just enough to rattle the door. Lower on the frame than she expected. Those capes had all been tall. Whoever was out there wasn’t.

“Riley?” a boyish voice called. “You awake?”

The voice made her brain stutter. 

Because she knew it. She knew that voice. Not from the Nine. Not from any of the villains or heroes who'd tried to kill her. From before.

Her mind threw up a picture without permission: a boy with messy blonde hair, grinning at her from the doorway of another room, saying her name like just seeing her made his day better.

His name followed next. Evan Grace Davis.

No, it couldn’t be. That was impossible.

 Her brother was dead. She’d watched his eyes go glassy. She’d heard the wet rattle when his lungs filled and he breathed his last.

…But if that really was Evan’s voice outside the door—

She looked around again. Really looked, this time.

With dawning horror, she looked around again. Really looked around this time and realized she recognized everything. 

The posters. That little scuff on the dresser where she’d rammed her tricycle into it. The same stupid flower curtains her mom had thought were “cheerful.” The night-light in the corner, shaped like a moon. The arrangement of the stars on the ceiling that her dad helped her put up.

This wasn’t just a kid’s room.

This was her room.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head hard as panic set in. “No, no, no. This is a trick. A-a-a nightmare.”

It had to be, there was no way she could be back…

Reality stuttered. The walls weren’t pastel anymore, they were slick red. The carpet was dark and sticky and smelled like copper. Buttons—her little mutt of a family dog—was in the middle of the floor, opened up like a grotesque blossoming flower, tongue lolling out, fur matted with blood. Siberian smiled in the corner, teeth white and perfect even as she chewed on entrails.

Bonesaw squeezed her eyes shut until stars burst behind them. When she opened them again, the room was clean. No blood. No dog. No Siberian.

The knock came again. A little sharper this time.

“Riley? You okay?”

This time she couldn’t contain her emotions, she had to see. Her feet moved before she could tell them not to. The carpet under her toes felt exactly like it had when she was six—cheap and thin, with that one wrinkle in the middle she used to trip on.

“Stop,” she hissed at herself. “Stop it. It’s fake. It’s fake.”

Her hand still reached for the doorknob.

It shook. Her fingers were so small around the cool metal it made her angry. But a single twist and this whole illusion would crumble. She could prove it wasn’t her brother and laugh at her captures for thinking they could fool her. All with a single twist. That's all it would take.

Her breath became labored, her hands shaking with uncertainty. Yet even so, she turned the knob and pulled.

And there, like she had hoped and dreaded. Evan, her older brother, stood there.

Same height difference. Same stupid dirty-blonde cowlick that defied gravity. Same faded T-shirt with some superhero logo on it that he’d worn until it practically disintegrated.

He smiled, and she remembered it was the same smile he always used when he wanted her to come outside or when he wanted to show her something cool. It hurt deep in her chest to see.

But his eyes were worse.

Those soft, stupid, kind eyes that had always looked at her like she could do no wrong. Even when she’d knocked over his stuff. Even when she’d cried and screamed and been difficult. Even when he’d been on the kitchen floor, guts spilling out, still trying to reassure her.

Now they just felt… wrong. Aimed at the wrong person. At somebody who hadn’t turned others into art and monsters on Jack’s order and for cruel fun. 

She didn’t deserve that look anymore. Those eyes didn’t belong on her.

His mouth moved, she realized after some time—he was talking about what they should do today—but the sound cut out in her ears. Reality stuttered again and all she saw was the way his skin suddenly drained of color, the way his eyes clouded over, the way something slick and dark threatened to spill from the corner of his mouth—then it was gone.

Her stomach flipped hard. She staggered back a step.

She had to get away or he’d see it. 

What she’d become.

She glanced down at her hands, and for a split second they weren’t bare.

Thick gloves. Red up to the wrist with blood. Warm and sticky, soaking the fabric, dripping off the edges and pattering on the tile. Her apron heavy with gore, white turned brown-red in patches that never really came out no matter how hard she scrubbed.

Then it was gone. Back to pajama sleeves

If he saw, he wouldn’t look at her like that when he did. He’d be disgusted. He’d hate her.

Evan kept talking despite her thoughts. She still could barely hear any of it. Something about the park. Or the backyard. Or a movie. All the normal things he should’ve gotten to do instead of dying in a sadistic initiation ritual.

Wait! If she was six again then that meant he would come soon for her. Then Evan would… Her mom would… Her dad and dog would…

Her breathing hitched and sped up, chest going tight.

No, no, no, no—

[HOST DETECTED]

[INITIATING RECONNECT SEQUENCE]

[ERROR: NO VALID PATH TO HOST]

[UNABLE TO RE-ESTABLISH CONNECTION]

By this point, It was all too much.

Riley’s legs just… stopped. Her knees folded and hit the carpet, hard enough to sting, but she barely felt it. The hallway tilted sideways. Evan’s outline blurred but she could still see him reaching out for her.

“The subject has been rendered unconscious. Vital signs are stable. Should I pause the simulation, Operator?”

The Operator stood in the Davis hallway, unseen, watching Evan haul Riley back to bed and scream for help.The mom rushed in, the dad right behind her, all panic and no idea what to do. 

“No,” he said. “This one’s off to a good start. Though that’s a pretty low bar.”

“Indeed,” Ordis said in affirmation. “In the last thirty-eight runs she either experienced a complete mental break, fled the home, or attempted familicide within the first week. Often within the first day.”

Mrs. Davis fussed over Riley, Mr. Davis was already talking about hospitals, and Evan hovered in the doorway looking scared and helpless.

“Operator,” Ordis said after a while, voice dropping a little, “I am not one to question your judgement—but is this not… cruel? Forcing her to relive this environment again and again. Why not simply use your Tenno powers? Take her to peace as you did for Umbra.”

A sigh escaped the Tenno’s lips before he could stop it.

“I tried, Ordis,” he answered with frustration. 

Riley’s head lolled as Mrs. Davis cradled it, murmuring soft reassurances. Evan reached out like he wanted to touch her, then pulled his hand back, unsure.

“But her hate for me is too strong,” the Operator went on. “In her head, I’m the monster that killed the only person who ‘loved’ her. So every time I reach out and offer peace, she rejects me. Violently.”

The Operator and Ordis stayed quiet as Mr. Davis made the call: hospital. They carried Riley down the hall and out the front door. The house fell silent, leaving only the Operator standing in the empty living room.

“So before I can do that,” he continued, “I need her to let go of him. Of that fake ‘family’ she built around the Nine. Because as long as she’s still worshiping Jack Slash, Riley Davis will never live again.”

The world flickered as Ordis shifted the simulation viewport. The house dissolved, replaced by the bland, too-bright misery of a small-town hospital room. Riley lay on a bed, monitors tracing out her heartbeat in green lines. Evan sat in a plastic chair nearby, swinging his legs, answering the doctor’s questions with a lot of “I don’t know.”

The Operator stood at the foot of the bed, watching the tiny rise and fall of her chest.

“But if this simulation therapy works and she actually latches onto her real family, even this reconstructed version of them… then she’s choosing Riley over Bonesaw on her own. Only then can I interfere.”

“…Understood, Operator,” Ordis said at last. “Ordis is sorry for doubting you. I will maintain parameters and monitor for deviation to ensure Riley recovers fully.”

The Operator gave a small nod, turning his eyes from the girl and the family clustered around her to the sky to the giant cracked hexahedron form of Ordis in the sky that only he could see. 

“Thanks. I know you will,” he said. “Now let's speed things up.”

Nearly a month had crawled by since Bonesaw woke up in this… whatever it was.

The past. A simulation. The last dream of a dying brain.

She still didn’t know which.

Right now, she mostly didn’t care. Whatever it was, it needed to stop before she snapped.

She was a mess. Worse than a mess. 

Because everything felt so real, so believable, so good. She couldn’t stand it.

It made her hope. Hope she could be Riley Davis again.

Her family didn’t help. Despite looking at them like a stranger, calling them fake, and threatening to kill them openly. They did anything they could to help her anyways.

Her dad took time off work to be home more. Her mom hovered, making her favorite snacks, fussing with blankets. Evan spent every minute he wasn’t in school glued to her side, asking if she wanted to play, if she wanted to watch something, if she wanted to talk, and cracking jokes that almost made her laugh.

They were the only reason she was still breathing as well.

She had tried hurting herself multiple times to induce a trigger after mental breaks didn’t give her any. The first time they caught her, she’d been mixing bleach, ammonia, and several other cleaning supplies to try to recreate the right kind of stress without killing her. 

If she could just trigger again, maybe she’d wake up back in the “real” world. Or get a power that let her see the seams in this one.

Her mom walked in, saw the cup, saw her, and screamed for her dad. The chemicals went down the drain. The cabinets got locked. Every bottle in the house with a warning label vanished.

After that, the baby-proofing went into overdrive.

No more knives in drawers. No more scissors left out on counters. No more cords dangling where a kid could wrap them around her neck and her dad walked the house like it was a crime scene and she was the suspect.

He wasn’t wrong.

Bonesaw tried again.

She sat at the top of the stairs one afternoon, staring down at the bottom until the edges of her vision shook. If she fell just right. If she landed on her neck. If she broke something important…

Buttons sat two steps below her, tail thumping, tongue out, like it was a game.

“Move,” she whispered.

He didn’t. Just wagged harder.

She stayed there thinking of ways to get him to move, most brutal and cruel but none ever implemented even as her legs went numb and enough times passed that her mom found her.

She kept thinking of new ways. New angles. New trigger events.

It didn’t work. None of it worked even when she succeeded in carrying out the self-inflicted torture.

And when the “wake up” plan started feeling pointless, her thoughts went somewhere worse.

If this was the past…

If this was really before the Nine came to her home.

Then Jack was coming.

Part of her was happy at that. The loyal Bonesaw part that still heard his voice when she closed her eyes. Jack, with his easy smile and gentle hands patting her head when she put people through her surgeries. Jack, who told her she was special and brilliant and love Bonesaw for all the art she made.

Bonesaw wanted to see him again so badly it made her shake.

But if he came, the house would end up like it had the first time. Blood on the walls. Buttons on the floor. Riley's dad’s arm in the wrong place. Her mother’s face—

She cut that thought off every time. To try not to think of that.

Because when she did, her mind started pulling in two directions at once. She wanted her family alive. She wanted Jack to come. Yet she knew she couldn’t have both.

Jack wouldn’t let her keep them. Not like this. Not as they were. The first time around, he’d made her prove herself using them.

He’d want that again.

So her mind, already cracked, fractured more and did what it always did when it couldn’t solve a problem cleanly.

It found a messier solution.

If Jack was going to take them from her, if they were going to die anyways, she should do it first. 

She’ll put them to rest peacefully, without any pain so they wouldn’t suffer like last time.

No more what-ifs. No more wondering if this was real. No more looking at those loving eyes which should never be directed at a monster like her.

Bonesaw would kill them tonight.

She waited until everyone went to bed. Listened to the entire house go quiet except Buttons who curled up on the rug in her room, snoring.

She hopped off the bed and despite landing softly, the dog woke up.

“Stay,” she whispered to him as she went towards the door.

He lifted his head, blinked, and then followed her anyway. Of course he did. He hadn’t really been trained much as a pup so it had always been 40/60 on whether or not he'd listen to commands. But that was okay, it didn’t change the plan.

The kitchen was dark, but she knew the layout even with only moonlight to help. They’d hidden the knives in one of the many locked kitchen cabinets. For a normal six-year-old, that would’ve been enough.

She dragged a chair over, climbed up on the counter and shakily picked the lock with her hair pins as Button watched.

When the cabinet finally opened with a click of the lock disengaging,her fingers closed around the handle of a carving knife. Heavy. Familiar in a way that made her hate herself and relax at the same time.

She hopped down. Buttons watched from the floor, tail wagging slow like she was going to give him snacks.

Her grip tightened on the knife.

“First you,” she told him, quietly. “Then Mom. Then Dad. Then—”

The words caught. Evan’s name stuck in her throat.

But If she started with the dog, it’d be easier. That was the logic. Warm-up cut. Build momentum. Get numb enough that by the time she reached the bedrooms she’d be able to do it without thinking.

Her arm lifted. Blade point wobbled.

Buttons’ ears perked. He stepped in so close his nose almost bumped the handle as he licked her hand.

He didn’t see it. He didn’t flinch from it. He just looked at her, eyes dark and soft and stupidly trusting.

Like Evan had.

Like her parents did.

Like Jack never had.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He didn’t listen, obviously. He never listened. He just stared up at her like she hung the moon, like she hadn’t spent another lifetime elbow-deep in people’s chests.

“Don’t,” she whispered, and she didn’t know if she meant him or herself. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not— I’m not—”

Good. Worth it. Riley. Any of the things those eyes said.

The knife shook harder. Her fingers slipped on the hilt, slick with sweat. She could see the angle. The depth. The way the blade would slide between ribs. She just needed to swing.

To kill this stupid—

The knife clattered when it hit the floor. The sound was loud enough in the quiet house to make her flinch.

She didn’t even realize it had slipped from her hands just as she barely registered that her vision got blurry and her cheeks wet.

She was crying, she realized. For the first time since she got here, her tears were flowing.

Like that, the wall holding back Riley Grace Davis broke.

Her knees lost strength and she barely registered them hitting the floor. Buttons was on her in an instant, whining with concern and licking the tears on face as she choked out small sobs that built into ugly ones.

Her arms locked around his neck as she buried her face in his fur like it was the only safe place in the world.

“I can’t,” she choked out, voice breaking. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

Buttons whined louder in concern, shifting closer, practically trying to crawl into her lap. 

“How am I supposed to kill them?” Riley sobbed into his fur. “How can I be Bonesaw when I can’t even kill you?”

The words ripped out of her, raw and real in a way nothing had felt since the Nine took her.

She stayed like that, kneeling on the kitchen floor, arms wrapped around a mutt who loved her for no good reason. Her throat burned. Her nose was clogged. Her eyes hurt. Yet she couldn’t stop crying.

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

“Riley?” her dad’s voice, panicked. “Riley!”

The kitchen light flipped on. She squinted against it, still clutching Buttons like a lifeline as her parents appeared in the entrance.

Her mom gasped at seeing the knife. “Oh my God—Riley!”

They were on her in seconds. Her mom dropped to her knees beside her, hands hovering like she didn’t know what to touch first—her face, her hair, her shoulders. Her dad crouched on her other side, one hand steady on her back.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?” he asked in a rush, eyes scanning for blood, for wounds, for anything.

Evan appeared a heartbeat later in the doorway, woken by the noise, hair sticking up from sleep. His eyes went wide at the sight of her on the floor and the panicked expressions of her family.

“Riley?” he said, voice small as ran close to her to do his own inspection. “You okay?”

She tried to answer them and just made a broken noise.

Her mom pulled her in, trying to hug her and failing because Buttons was wedged there, refusing to move. So she just wrapped her arms around both of them. Her dad did the same from behind, arms going around her shoulders and over her mom’s. Her brothers smaller arms also joined in.

Buttons, squeezed in the middle of all of it, didn’t try to break away. If anything, he wriggled happily, tail thumping harder, tongue still trying to lick any face he could reach. 

Riley let herself get pulled into the warmth. She clung to her mom’s shirt with one hand, to Buttons’ fur with the other, and sobbed until the worst of it started to burn out.

“It’s okay, baby,” her mom murmured into her hair. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

“We’re right here,” her dad said. “You’re safe princess, nothing bad is going to happen.”

Riley squeezed her eyes shut. The words hurt, because they were exactly the ones she wanted to hear and exactly the ones she didn’t deserve. She was Bonesaw, after all. She’d torn families just like this apart.

Even so, she wanted them to love her like they always had.

Her voice came out as a shaky whisper.
“If I was bad,” she managed, “really bad… would you still love me?”

Her father answered immediately, voice steady and certain.
“Always, Princess..”

Her mom kissed her head. “There is nothing you could ever do that would make us stop loving you. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

Riley tried to protest despite how much it made her heart swell with love. She wanted to tell them they were wrong. That if they knew, really knew, they’d run. But the words tangled and died in her throat. 

Evan bumped his forehead lightly against head.
“You’re my sister,” he said, like it was the simplest fact in the world. “And I’ll love my sister forever.”

Riley cried harder at that but managed to force out the words she’d been choking on since the moment she saw them.
“I love you guys. I love you so much. I missed you every day and I’m sorry for being a bad girl.”

Her family didn’t question her, didn’t push for any explanation. They just accepted it and whispered how much they loved her back. They stayed there longer than made sense—on the cold tile, under too-bright lights, holding each other while Buttons panted happily.

Eventually, her parents had to get her to bed. This time they all piled into the big bed in their room. Her mom and dad on the sides, her in the middle near her mom as Buttons curled against her chest, Evan lying right across from her next to dad.

The siblings whisper-talked across the blankets, her parents pretending they couldn't hear them. Eventually, Evan couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore and drifted off mid-sentence. Riley followed a few minutes later happily.

As the clock struck 12, a month had passed since Riley woke up in this place.
The past. A simulation. The last dream of a dying brain.

She still didn’t know which.

But whatever this world was… 

She didn’t want to leave.

Chapter Text

The Operator stood over the bed in silence.

Riley slept curled on her side, knees drawn in, Buttons pressed against her stomach. One small hand was tangled in the dog’s fur like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go. Her breathing was slow and even. No tension in her shoulders. No twitching fingers from old tinker muscle memory. No signs of a nightmare waiting to take her joy away.

For the first time since he’d started this mess, she was actually resting.

“…She did it,” Ordis said softly over the comms, his voice trembling with barely contained excitement. “Operator, Ordis is pleased to report neural stability across all monitored parameters. Emotional volatility is down. Stress response is normalizing. For the first time since intake, she is not in a constant state of internal crisis.”

Her parents realized she and her brother were finally asleep and began whispering to each other in low, exhausted voices. Words like school, doctor, therapy drifted through the room. 

The Operator made a mental note to see what strings he could quietly pull to put Riley into therapy faster. Nothing overt of course, direct manipulation of the simulation was against the rules.

“Finally,” he said quietly, relief threading through his voice. “I’m glad I didn’t kill this run early.”

“Indeed!” Ordis chirped. “Run thirty-nine has exceeded all previous outcomes by a statistically significant margin. Ordis would like to formally congratulate the Operator on this breakthrough.”

“You did good too, buddy,” the Tenno said aloud. Then, more quietly, to himself, “Now I just need to figure out how to dig myself out of this hole.”

Because it was a hole. A deep one.

He had given Riley the life she’d always wanted after joining the Nine. A loving family. Safety. Stability. A future that didn’t involve killing, screaming, or monsters wearing human faces. Even if she could intellectually accept that this world was artificial—as the Operator strongly suspected she already had—there was no version of her that would want to leave it now.

And that was the problem.

He had no intention of keeping her trapped in a gilded cage. Rehabilitation wasn’t meant to be imprisonment, and the line between the two was already starting to blur in ways he didn’t like.

Before he could sink any deeper into that thought, Ordis cut in, his voice sharp with urgency.
“Operator, we have an external development.”

The Tenno’s focus snapped away from Riley’s parents. “Report.”

“Shade, whom you assigned to monitor Ms. Hebert, has just sent a distress signal,” Ordis replied quickly. “She is currently engaged in active combat with the leader of the ABB.”

The Operator blinked, the words taking a second to land.

“…What?”

Taylor Hebert. Bug control. The same girl who, earlier that day, had been having a breakdown in a school bathroom because of a handful of teenage bullies. That Taylor was now fighting Lung—arguably the most dangerous parahuman in the Bay, a brute pyrokinetic whose powers hard-countered hers almost perfectly.

While disbelief was still catching up to him, Ordis pushed a live feed into his vision. The HUD overlay was unmistakable: Shade’s optics.

A rooftop filled the display. Night sky. Thick black smoke rolling across cracked concrete as fire licked and crawled along the surface. Lung dominated the frame, half-transformed—scales creeping up his arms and neck, jaw distended, flame bleeding from his mouth as he roared and swatted blindly at the air.

Then the optic dipped.

There she was.

A girl in black with familiar dark hair, wearing insect-themed armor, clinging to the hook-like appendages of Shade’s hovering form as it wobbled under her weight, descending toward the street in a desperate attempt to pull her out of Lung’s reach.

Below them, the road had vanished beneath a living storm.

Insects. Thousands of them. A churning, screaming cloud filling the street from wall to wall, moving with purpose, drowning the night in buzzing noise—no doubt meant to cover their escape.

The Operator swore under his breath.

“We need to move fast,” he said immediately. “Send Umbra now and get me out of here.”

“Yes, Operator,” Ordis replied without hesitation. “But what about Riley?”

The Operator’s form began to dissolve as Ordis started peeling him out of the simulation, layers of light and data unraveling around him.

“Maintain stability,” he ordered. “No deviations. No time acceleration. Keep everything exactly as it is.”

He spared one last glance at the sleeping girl.

“She’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “We can afford to look away for a moment.”

The world faded around him as the extraction completed, and the quiet of Riley’s room was replaced by the living room of his base, same as he left it with Ordis’s drone body hovering close nearby.

He cast a glance at his Isaac body the second it entered his sight, face contemplative. It lay slumped on the couch where he’d left it, breathing slow and steady. 

I’ll save that for another time.

Then he was gone without a word to Ordis. Speaking was unnecessary. They were both on the same page.

Void energy flared as he dashed straight through the wall, the roof, and into the open night while invisible and intangible under void mode. The house vanished beneath him in a blink. He climbed fast and high, the city shrinking away until Brockton Bay was just a grid of lights and dark water.

He stopped high above it all and hovered in the cold air.

Even from miles out, the Docks were impossible to miss. Fire painted the skyline in ugly orange streaks. Smoke spread and climbed into the clouds in thick columns. 

“Seems Umbra hasn’t finished this yet,” the Operator muttered. “Lung must already be deep into his transformation then.”

No more watching then, it was time to bring the Dragon down.

He reached inward and used Transference—not to Umbra, not to the body on the couch but to another warframe which he had available to him this week.

Khora Prime.

The Warframe coalesced in midair over the Operators form like a second skin.

Then a second call followed immediately before gravity could assert itself over her.

The Itzal Archwing deployed in a snap of energy, locking onto lower Khora’s back. Engines whined once, then screamed as thrust kicked in.

The city blurred as he crossed miles in seconds, wind screaming past as the Docks rushed up to meet him. Sirens wailed somewhere far below, drowned out by roaring flames and something much louder.

Lung roar.

The Archwing didn’t slow down as the Operator got eyes on the fight.

Lung stood nearly fifteen feet tall now, his transformation well underway. Spear-like wing stubs jutted from his shoulders, twitching uselessly as heat rolled off his body in waves. His frame was warped and stretched, muscle and scale layered together in a way that barely resembled human anatomy anymore.

His neck was long, thick at the base and tapering as it rose to a skull that had gone sharp and predatory. His face was almost feline now, the nose and mouth fused into a single X-shaped opening filled with jagged teeth that caught the firelight when he roared. 

Umbra’s work was obvious. One hand and a leg were gone, regrowing in uneven, twitching masses. His chest and stomach were carved open, half-healed wounds glowing red-hot. A deep gash across his neck was sealing itself in real time, scales crawling back together before the Operator’s eyes.

All of this registered in less than a second.

Then he focused on Umbra. 

He was no longer in a suit and tie, nor wearing a human face. He was all warframe again and facing Lung with Skiajati poised to strike again. No obvious injuries.

 Taylor was nowhere to be seen but from what he saw the map said of Shade’s location right now, she was still nearby. Doing what, he didn’t know but as long as she wasn’t dead, it didn’t matter.

Right now, the priority is Lung.

Despite knowing he couldn’t do it, the Operator still thought about how easy it would be to kill the gang leader if he used just his archwing weapons or abilities.

One miniature black hole with Gravity Crush or a volley from the Mausolon and the Dragon man would be reduced to less than ash. 

But there was no kill order on him, so the Archwing weapons stayed silent.

Done thinking about the easy way out, the Operator cut thrust and dove.

With the combined mass of Archwing and Warframe, Khora fell like a meteor, flames peeling away from her as she punched through columns of smoke and heat. Mid-descent, the Archwing disengaged and vanished into storage, leaving Khora to fall under her built momentum alone.

She arched her back smoothly, arms raised in the air.

Twin blades appeared in her hands as if they’d always belonged there.

Dual Keres Prime, Khora’s signature twin swords.

The blades flashed against the fire light as Khora came down hard, driving both swords forward with her full weight and strength behind them. They punched into Lung’s chest with a wet, brutal impact, bypassing scale, muscle, and bone like it wasn’t there. Sizzling, superheated blood sprayed across her armor in a hiss of steam as the sheer force of the strike knocked him flat.

Concrete exploded beneath Lung’s back as Khora rode him down, the impact crater spiderwebbing through the street pavement. He howled, the sound mangled and distorted by his half-draconic throat, flames still pouring from his body as he thrashed wildly. Claws scraped uselessly at melting asphalt, gouging deep trenches but failing to find leverage.

Khora ignored his wet, gurgling screams. She just planted a knee against his torso and leaned in. The blades were buried deep—deep enough to pierce his spine clean through his heart and lungs. She twisted them deliberately, grinding metal against bone and scales, tearing ruined flesh apart.

“Filthy mutt,” she snarled, voice cold and venomous. “You’ll pay for spilling your mongrel blood on me.”

She twisted again, harder and this time Lungs' roar of pain was followed by two massive, clawed arms bursting from the smoke and fire, slamming inward to crush her between them like an insect. 

Umbra moved when he did.

He surged forward so fast that his body seemed to blur, after images marking where he had been rather than where he was before both Lung’s arms detonated into meaty, metal-laced chunks before they could even complete the motion.

But Umbra didn't stop with just that.

He flowed up Lung’s writhing form, dismissing his exalted blade mid-motion and drawing Skiajati from his sheath in a reverse grip. Then in one smooth motion plunged the blade into the base of Lung’s neck, sliding between vertebrae and punching straight through his spine.

The dragon gurgled. Flames sputtered. His half-formed arms flopped uselessly to his sides as his body spasmed and locked.

Even then, he wasn’t defeated.

Lung detonated.

A shockwave of fire, pressure, and raw power erupted outward, blasting both Warframes away. Umbra was hurled through a nearby building, crashing through glass and steel in an explosion of debris. Khora smashed into the side of a rooftop, skidding through concrete and rebar before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Tsk,” she clicked in irritation, already pushing herself free from the wall. “Damn fire eximus. They follow wherever I go.”

As she finally pushed free, Lung was standing again.

He was bigger now—towering, over twenty feet tall. Wings were tearing free from the useless nubs on his back, wet and half-formed but growing fast. His arms were regrowing faster too, thick cords of muscle knitting together under scorched scales. More intense fire rolled off him in waves, the heat oppressive enough to warp the air.

Khora could see her twin blades were still embedded in his chest. A rookie mistake that Umbra hadn’t made because his nikkana was missing from Lungs’ neck. 

Aiming to claim her swords back, she kicked off the wall hard enough to cave it in, rocketing back toward him.

Seeing Khora coming, Lung leapt to meet her.

The jump was smooth and powerful, not only letting him inadvertently avoid Umbra right as the swordsman lunged low for his legs but it let him lash out midair with a kick. The impact hit Khora like a freight train, sending her crashing through another building, burning floors collapsing as she tore through them and slammed down hard on the ground floor.

Her shields showed it was near red, flickering dangerously low.

That kick had not been particularly fast or graceful. If the Tenno hadn't underestimated Lung’s mobility, damage could have been avoided with a simple double jump. But from this mistake, one thing became crystal clear to him. 

They needed to take Lung down fast.

The Operators Khora Prime wasn’t modified to take the kind of punishment a highly armoured warframe could. It was even purposely stripped of most mods to weaken it to the point the Operator wouldn’t have to worry about accidently killing someone.

 Even so, the fact Lung could damage her shield so much with just one hit meant letting him grow further wasn’t an option if they wanted to take him in alive.

So the Operator made the call to lessen the restraints on potentially lethal attacks. It was time to get messy.

As this was decided, the burning building on top of her began turning molten as Lung began bathing it in sustained flame, intent on burning her out completely.

But a howl tore through the docks, the sound followed—raw, furious, and unmistakably Umbra’s.

Another roar followed, this one Lung’s, twisted into agony as he was blinded by Umbra’s howl and forced to stop his attempt at cremating Khora in favor of clutching his snout of a face.

Khora escaped the rubble to see Umbra a few feet in front of the towering form of the now fully regenerated Lung, exalted blade raised with killing intent. He swung his sword and light flashed from its edge. The slashes flew, carving Lung apart with terrifying rage fueled efficiency—first they hit the feet, severing them at the ankles. Then his legs and abdomen were separated from his torso, guts spilling out as the dragon beat his wings to escape the swordsman's wrath. 

It didn't. 

Umbra swung again and Lung’s arms were chopped off, followed moments later by the wings being clipped. The would-be dragon came crashing to the ground after that, roaring and writhing as he intensified the heat and boiled the street. The only thing that stayed Umbra’s hand from delivering the finishing blow—for daring to harm his child—was the order to take the lizard alive.

And Lung, despite being reduced to little more than a torso crowned with a draconic head was still regenerating and growing. Exposed flesh writhed, desperately trying to rebuild itself, to continue fighting, to win no matter what.

The Operator would not allow that.

Khora strutted forward through fire and smoke with mocking grace. Her signature whip snapped into existence, living metal hissing hungrily as it scraped along the scorched ground, promising agony. She had tried to avoid using it—the torture it would soon inflict wouldn’t look good in the report to the PRT later—but she lashed it forward anyway.

“Heel beast,” she demanded imperiously, as if the world was supposed to bend to her every whim.

The Whipclaw cracked against his mutilated body, flaying him, and from the point of contact, serrated metal erupted outward, wrapping around his body and stabbing deep into his flesh. It ignored the flames erupting of Lung entirely, binding him tight as it anchored itself through muscle and bone.

Lung howled in agony as his regeneration went into overdrive against the living metal. Yet no matter how the flesh bulged, or blood sprayed, or how many scales it tried to layer, the bindings only tightened, causing even more pain. 

He tried exploding again but it didn’t help. Khora and Umbra were prepared this time and anchored themself to the floor to prevent themselves from being blown away by the intense waves of fire and pressure. 

And just like them, Lungs true target stayed hooked into him no matter how many times he tried to melt the chains.

“Are those your death throes mongrel?” She shouted mockingly over the booming roars. “Silence them. My ears grow weary of hearing it."

She cracked the whip again, this time into the air. A Strangledome bloomed into existence—a spherical cage of interconnected living metal rising overhead, crackling with arcing electricity. Barbed tendrils shot out, wrapping tightly around Lung’s elongated neck and snout like a sadistic parody of a muzzle while linking to the metal around his torso. The bindings constricted and electrocuted him relentlessly while lifting him off the ground.

But even armless, legless, wingless, and in agony, the dragon-man tried to fight. Yet the more he did, the tighter the bindings wrapped until roars of fire turned into choking gurgles. Then soon, even that stopped entirely.

Still, he didn’t revert.

So Khora held him there, unyielding and uncaring of the pain she was inflicting. Umbra stood beside Khora as they waited for the fight in him to give out, his blade of light raised and ready to kill Lung at the slightest notice.

But there was no need.

The Dragon had finally lost.

His neck and inhumanly broad torso shrunk as it went limp in his bindings, his scales receding. 

So Khora finally willed her metal to release him. The Whipclaw and most of the chains dissolved into energy, leaving the broken half-man to collapse onto the pavement, restrained now by simple, non-serrated bindings

His gory state was a disgusting sight for all but the most hardened of stomachs. The man looked like a mutilated corpse.

If the Operator had any pity for scum like him then he might have felt bad for putting him through such an agonizing experience. 

But he didn’t.

Right now, he had bigger concerns. Like finding his twin blades and putting out this fire.

Hiiiisssss.

As if the world was rewarding him for his efforts. A slow drizzle began, quickly building into a heavy downpour. Flames hissed and died under the rain, reducing the inferno around them into a soon to be dying blaze.

The sound of more first responders getting closer to the area was apparent now that the rain was dousing the loud flame.

Well.

At least that was one problem taken care of at least.

Chapter Text

’Twas the night before Christmas on a parahuman Earth,
When the capes were all sleeping, brooding, or worse.
The stockings were hung, the Christmas bells rung,
While Endbringers simmered and Kill Orders swung.
High over the bay, slicing through the clouds.
Floated Sleigh Prime, Santa, and one sulking elf.

“Behold, Operator! The gift Drifter and I have been preparing for you. The first ever Sleigh Prime! Isn’t it festive? Isn’t it magnificent? Ordis is sure even the Lotus would approve of this allocation of resources!” the Cephalon shouted over the wind, voice blaring from mounted speakers.

The main body was classic sleigh shape: high curling runners, tall back, low front, just enough room for two up front and a ridiculous amount of cargo in the back. It was painted a deep, rich red, but every edge was trimmed in Orokin gold—thin filigree lines crawling along the rails and sides like etched circuitry.

Instead of wooden runners, the bottom had smooth, curved metal skids humming softly as they hovered. As it flew, those skids glowed faint blue and left a trail of golden sparks in the air, like falling tinsel.

Five Duviri kaithe's galloped through the sky in front, hooves kicking up curls of golden light. The lead kaithe had a bright red light strapped to its nose, glowing like the imitation of Rudolph it was.

Drifter stood at the reins, long coat swapped for a deep red, fur-lined Santa suit. It fit annoyingly well, in the way that said “custom made” instead of “cheap costume.” A fluffy fake white beard was strapped over his usual scruff, and a pair of Christmas-themed aviator goggles covered his eyes.

“It’s perfect, Ordis. The kid loves it, despite what his face says,” Drifter responded.

If the delighted glitchy squeals that came over the comms were any indication, Ordis believed him.

Next to Drifter, sitting stiffly in the front seat, the Operator sulked in an elf outfit. Green tunic. Pointy hat. Little jingling bells everywhere that chimed with every tiny movement. All of it attached to the same unblinking, void-touched stare from pure white glowing eyes that had made Grineer fear a child more than they feared warframes.

“This is humiliating,” the Operator muttered, loud enough to carry over the wind.

“You look adorable,” Drifter said over his shoulder, genuinely delighted at seeing his younger self in something so stupid. “Embrace the bit, kid. ’Tis the season to be jolly, and we are supposed to be the jolliest of all.”

Lights appeared ahead. A commercial jet, big and slow compared to the sleigh, cutting through the clouds on its way to somewhere irrelevant.

Drifter’s grin sharpened. He flicked the reins and the kaithe's surged forward. “Watch this.”

“Oh Void,” the Operator cursed as the sleigh arced toward it.

He knew exactly what Drifter was planning and wanted no part of it. For all his age and trauma, he was still as prone to whimsy as any child his biological age, and so he’d worn a lot of outfits and gone through a great many phases. Some that made Ordis’ sensors bleed. Others that had made his siblings stare in awe at his sheer… what did people in this time call it? Drip. But the thought of being seen like this—in his real body, in this elf costume—made him want to crawl into a hole or just disappear into Void mode.

Regardless of his embarrassment, Drifter pulled up alongside the plane like it was a car on a highway. The lead kaith’s red nose glowed brightly as they came level with one row of windows.

Inside, a little girl sat between her parents, chin propped on her fist, zoned out and staring at nothing.

Until she saw them.

Her eyes went huge. Her mouth dropped open. She crawled over her parents and slapped both hands on the glass so hard her mom jumped.

Drifter let go of the reins, waved with both hands, and shouted over the wind even though she couldn’t hear him. “HO HO HO! Merry Christmas!”

The Operator lifted a reluctant hand and wiggled his fingers in what technically counted as a wave.

The girl bounced in her seat, tugging on her dad’s sleeve and pointing like her life depended on it. Her parents gave the kind of polite “sure, honey” nod adults gave when they wanted to acknowledge their children without truly engaging with them.

Seeing the parents weren’t going to look twice, Drifter whined like he wasn’t a grown man and hauled the sleigh away, banking back toward the city.

“Okay,” the Operator admitted as they broke through the cloud layer and the bay spread out beneath them in lights and dark water, “that was pretty fun.”

Seeing the kid’s face had made dressing like this feel just a little more worth it to the Operator.

“That’s the spirit, little elf,” Drifter cheered. “Now it’s time to cut the joyride and deliver presents.”

He pulled up and flicked his wrist. A holographic interface flickered to life in front of him—two lists, side by side. One glowing gold with white lettering labeled Nice, the other black with dark red letters titled Naughty. Names scrolled past with faces, alignment tags, and little naughtiness-versus-niceness bars.

“First stop: good kids,” he decided. “Then war criminals.”

The Operator sighed again, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Well, he thought, at least the night won’t be boring.

Through snug Brockton streets where the snow muffled sound,
Lay a house where the numbers never quite settled down.
Little Dinah on the sofa, fighting sleep with all her might,
’Cause her power swore Santa would come tonight.

Stockings by the fireplace, cookies on a plate,
One hundred out of one hundred he wouldn’t make her wait.
And high above the rooftop, sleigh runners skimming frost,
Santa and little elf drop in from the top.

The first stop on the Nice list was a cozy two-story house in one of Brockton Bay’s better neighborhoods. Lights in the windows. Plastic reindeer on the lawn. Just enough Christmas decorations to say “we care” without tipping into “we have a problem.”

And, most importantly to Drifter, a chimney.

Sleigh Prime drifted down onto the roof with barely a whisper, hover-skids humming softly as the kaithe's snorted and stamped at empty air.

Drifter stood, hands on his Santa-belt, and peered over the sleigh’s side at the brick chimney like he’d just discovered an argon crystal cache.

“There it is,” he breathed. “A proper entrance.”

The Operator followed his gaze, expression flat.

“You know we can just void dash straight into the living room, right?” he said. “In and out. No problem.”

Drifter waved a dismissive hand, offended at the mere suggestion. “Blasphemy. Santa uses the chimney. That’s the rule.”

“That’s a story.”

“That’s tradition,” Drifter shot back. “We’re doing it properly at least once.”

He hauled the big red sack of presents over his shoulder—it really did look like the classic Santa bag, just… heavier, with the faint jingle and stomped over to the chimney.

The Operator folded his arms and watched.

Drifter crouched at the edge, peered down the shaft, then swung one leg in like this was absolutely going to work.

“How tight can it—oh, that’s snug,” he muttered as his shoulders hit brick.

“You’re going to get stuck,” the Operator warned.

Drifter wriggled anyway. Bricks scraped cloth and under-armor. The sack bumped after him, catching on the rim.

“I am not going to get stu—” The bag snagged fully. “...okay. I might be slightly—” He tried to reverse and the sack didn’t move an inch. “—wedged.”

The Operator stared at the half-Santa sticking out of the roof like a ridiculous chimney ornament.

“…Ho ho help?” Drifter asked with a weak little chuckle.

The Operator pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are an embarrassment.”

He stepped up onto the sleigh rail, took one casual step into empty air, and dissolved into a shimmer of Void light.

A heartbeat later he reappeared in the dark living room below, boots sinking into carpet without a sound. Drifter was left grunting on the roof.

The house was exactly the kind of cozy middle-class Christmas humans in this era seemed to aim for. Tree by the front window, lights off but still faintly glowing from the street. Stockings on the mantle. A few wrapped presents already tucked under the branches. A plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the coffee table beside a handwritten note in big, careful kid letters.

He was halfway through reading the first line when Drifter phased out of the wall like nothing was wrong, stumbling a step as he reassembled.

“See?” Drifter said, dusting imaginary soot off his Santa coat with the hand not dragging the sack. “Perfect chimney entry.”

“You got stuck,” the Operator reminded him.

“I committed to the bit. There’s a difference.”

Drifter turned to admire the tree and immediately clipped a side table with the sack. A ceramic snowman and a scented candle skidded toward the edge.

The Operator flicked a hand and caught them with a tiny pulse of power, settling them back in place before they could fall.

“We’re supposed to be doing this quietly," he hissed. “Are you trying to wake everyone up?”

“It was an accident,” Drifter whispered back, which was not actually quieter. His gaze snagged on the cookies and milk. He drifted toward them like he was on rails. “Ooooh. These look good.”

His hand came up.

The Operator caught his wrist before he could grab one. “Those are clearly for Santa.”

Drifter looked down at his own outfit, then at the Operator’s jingling elf hat, then back at the plate.

“…Yeah,” he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’d be me. Don’t worry, the Elf Union requires I share with you.”

He tried to inch forward. The Operator’s grip tightened.

“We are uninvited guests in their home,” the Operator said, deadly serious in a green tunic with bells. “We should leave as little evidence as possible.”

“But cookies and milk are literally the two things the story says I’m allowed to take.”

“They’re for the idea of Santa, not a Void hobo in a crappy beard.”

“Excuse you, this suit is tailored, and I am the King of—”

A soft noise cut through their whisper-argument.

The rustle of a blanket. The faint squeak of couch springs.

Both of them froze.

On the couch, a small lump under a patterned throw blanket shifted, then sat up. Messy brown hair. Sleep-creased face. A kid in Christmas pajamas blinked at them through the half-dark, eyes trying to make sense of red coat, green tunic, and glowing white eyes.

She stared at them.
They stared back.

There was a long, silent heartbeat where both Tenno realized they absolutely should have gone into Void mode first.

Her gaze went from fake beard to elf hat to sack of presents and back again. Her mouth dropped open.

“I knew it,” she whispered, voice catching with awe as she pushed the blanket off her lap. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”

Drifter recovered first.

He straightened up, puffed out his chest, and dropped into the kind of deep, booming voice people paid mall Santas good money for.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he rumbled, softer than usual but still big. “You should be asleep, little one.”

The girl slid off the couch, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. She padded closer, bare feet silent on the carpet, eyes locked on Drifter’s face.

“My power said there was a one-hundred-percent chance I’d meet Santa tonight,” she said, full of wonder—but there was a crisp certainty under it that made both immortal boy and man go very still. “It’s never one hundred percent.”

Drifter’s eyes flicked to the Operator.

Parahuman? that look asked.

The Operator’s tiny frown deepened. He dipped his chin in the smallest of nods.

Yeah.

He opened his mouth to suggest they leave—her parents could be capes, could be PRT, could just be scared adults with guns. Two strangers in costumes standing over their daughter was not going to go over well.

But before he could say anything, Drifter gently pulled his arm out of the Operator’s grip and turned fully toward the girl.

“Smart power,” Drifter said. “Looks like it was right.”

She smiled at that. “I thought maybe it meant a mall Santa, or a dream,” she admitted. “But you’re actually here. And you brought a cute elf.”

She giggled at the last part, glancing at the Operator’s hat and jingling bells, then looked past them to the coffee table.

“There was an eighty-three-percent chance you’d eat the cookies before I woke up,” she added seriously. “So I wanted to be down here first.”

The Operator hummed under his breath. “Eighty-three, huh,” he echoed. “You really are a cape.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, like she was talking about the weather. “It went down a little when Mom stayed up to wrap things, but then back up when I made dad convince her to finish it tomorrow.”

The house creaked overhead—old wood taking someone’s weight. Dinah flinched, just a little, but her eyes never left Drifter. She was staring like she wanted to burn him into long-term memory.

“Are you really Santa?” she asked, quieter now. “Not just… someone dressed up?”

Drifter actually hesitated.

For half a second, you could see the conflict on his face: tell the truth and crush that look… or lie and keep the naive wonder in her eyes alive.

He picked the hidden third option.

He dropped to one knee so they were closer to eye level, stroked his fake beard like a wise old sage, and smiled.

“If you ask your power,” he said gently, “what does it say?”

She went still again. You could almost see the question forming behind her eyes.

“Is this the real Santa?” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Her lips moved as she counted along to something only she could hear. “Ninety-nine point…” She blinked. “No. One hundred percent,” she breathed, sounding genuinely surprised. “It says one hundred.”

“Well,” Drifter said, spreading his hands. “There you go.”

Her face lit up like someone had switched on a tree inside her chest.

The Operator watched, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders from trying to hold in a laugh. It figured that to a power that saw probabilities, Drifter in a Santa suit with a sleigh and a planet-wide present route probably qualified as “Santa” more than the storybook version ever could.

“Santa,” the Operator said pointedly to remind Drifter of their true goal here, “don’t you have something to give her?”

Dinah’s head snapped toward him. “Really?” she asked, hope blooming all over her face.

“Of course,” the Operator said with a smirk. “You’re on the Nice list, after all.”

Drifter let out a low chuckle at the Operator finally playing along.

“You’re right, Elf,” he said as he reached into the sack without looking, fingers brushing past a dozen shapes before closing on one. He pulled out a neatly wrapped box with Dinah’s name already written on the tag in looping gold script. “This one’s yours—for being a very good girl this year.”

She took it like it was the most precious thing in the world and hugged it to her chest.

“Thank you, Santa,” she said, earnest to the bone. Then, frowning a little in curiosity: “How do you know my name?”

“Santa knows everyone’s name,” Drifter lied smoothly. “Even the ones who ask very clever questions very late in the night.”

Dinah “ooh’d” at that, satisfied with the answer despite it not explaining anything. She squeezed the box tighter, clearly itching to open it but too polite to do it before Christmas.

Figuring their job was done, Drifter and the Operator both started to shift, ready to ghost out before anyone came down but Dinah's voice snagged them in place.

“Um. Santa?” she blurted. “Do you… know if things are going to get bad in the future?”

The words tumbled out faster now, like they’d been waiting behind her teeth for weeks. “Sometimes my numbers are scary. Especially when the weird snake man appears. And I don’t know how to make them stop or change them.”

The fear in her eyes made the Christmas duo freeze, realizing she wasn’t talking about some childish inconvenience. 

Drifter’s gaze softened. He reached out and gently ruffled her hair more.

“Things might get bad,” he replied without joking or sugarcoating. “This world is… complicated. Dangerous. Sometimes very unfair.” He let out a slow breath and then smiled brightly. “But don’t worry. Santa and his elves are watching out for you, and for all the good boys and girls. You’re not alone. That’s about all I can say without getting a lump of coal myself.”

Her shoulders loosened a little at that. Some of the tightness drained out of her face.

“My power says you’re telling the truth,” she whispered, eyes shining now for a different reason.

“Good power,” Drifter complimented again, voice warm.

A door thumped open upstairs.

All three of them looked toward the ceiling at the same time. A more awake voice drifted faintly down the hallway.

“Dinah? Honey?”

That got her moving.

She spun toward the couch, then stalled halfway, torn between staying with Santa and pretending to sleep.

“Duty calls,” Drifter said regretfully, pushing up to stand. “We’ve got a lot more houses to visit before morning. All the other nice kids are waiting too.”

“Can I ask one more question?” she blurted. “Just one?”

The Operator tilted his head, listening for the parents. He could hear their slippers on hardwood, getting closer to the stairs.

“Make it quick,” he warned, glancing between Drifter and Dinah.

Dinah swallowed, looked up at both of them, and whispered, “Will I see you again?”

Her eyes went unfocused for a beat.

Then she smiled with none of the earlier fear. “My power says… one hundred percent,” she said.

Drifter laughed quietly. “Seems like you’ll be a good girl next year too.”

“Now, back to bed,” the Operator added gently.

She nodded then launched herself at Drifter for a quick, fierce hug. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed back just as tight, then let go.

Dinah scrambled back onto the couch, dove under the blanket, and flopped over with her new gift clutched to her chest. By the time her father’s footsteps hit the top of the stairs, she had her eyes squeezed shut in the most exaggerated “totally asleep” pose either Tenno had ever seen.

“Come on,” the Operator murmured.

They dissolved into flickers of Void light—reappearing an instant later on the roof beside Sleigh Prime, kaithe's snorting softly in the winter air.

Drifter and the Operator shared a quick, quiet smile before vanishing in twin bursts of Void light, just as the hallway switch clicked and warm yellow spilled into the Alcott home.

They reappeared on the roof, cold winter air biting pleasantly at their faces. Sleigh Prime hovered where they’d left it, humming softly, golden filigree catching the moonlight as the kaithe's stamped and snorted, eager to run again.

Drifter blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “She’s a cute kid,” he said, climbing back into the sleigh and gathering the reins.

“And dangerously, painfully naive,” the Operator murmured, following after him. He adjusted his ridiculous elf hat, long pointy ears twitching, but there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Drifter chuckled. “Best kind of kid,” he replied. “Next house?”

The Operator glanced once at the chimney, then at the glowing lists drifting over Drifter’s arm, and grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like agreement as he sat.

“Then onward we go, little elf!” Drifter crowed, yanking the reins with theatrical flair. “HOOOO HO HO!”

The kaithe's leapt, Sleigh Prime skimming up into the winter night, Brockton’s lights shrinking to a glittering sprawl below.

And through a frosted window, if one happened to spy,
a girl watched the heavens, eyes bright and wide.
As her parents traded glances—half shock, half disbelief,
their child hugged her present with quiet, renewed belief.

Chapter Text

 “…the children, just shoot. Doesn’t matter your aim, just shoot. You see one lying on the ground? Shoot the little bitch twice more to be sure. We give them no chances to be clever or lucky, understand?”

Those were the horrible words that started this catastrophe.

They stuck with Taylor as she curled up and hoped someone—anyone—would distract Lung long enough for her to escape without being burned alive.

This was her fault. She knew it was. But in her defense—if there was one—things hadn’t started off this bad. At first, things had gone almost perfectly. Her insects had swarmed his men in a suffocating tide, crawling into sleeves, biting exposed skin, stinging where necessary. The ABB soldiers panicked, pain and fear breaking their discipline. Even Lung himself had been helpless at the start, his frustration amounting to little more than swatting at bugs and incinerating handfuls of them at a time.

The adrenaline rush had hit her like a drug. The rush of control. The grim, almost shameful thrill of organizing an attack and watching it work. It felt so good she’d had to actively stifle her giggles at the beginning of her attack.

Because this was exactly like she’d imagined escaping her mundane, suffocating life would feel like. It wasn’t just that either—this attack was proof that she wasn't helpless. That she wasn’t just a victim. That Taylor Hebert, wasn't everything the three bitches said she was.

Then Lung set himself on fire.

Everything spiraled after that.

What had been a one-sided fight turned into a desperate scramble to survive his wrath.

Now here she was, trapped on that rooftop with no clear escape, Lung growing larger and more monstrous by the second as he cursed at her, demanding she give him something to aim at while she cowered.

Then—impossibly—a small drone appeared above her curled-up form.

It came out of nowhere. A round, angular thing hovering quietly, no propellers or thrusters in sight. Before she could even process it, it opened fire.

Shots punched into Lung’s chest, tearing through silver scales and drawing blood. One shot caught the eye she hadn’t blinded, and Lung howled, raw and furious, as fire burst from his palms, flying wide and missing the thing entirely.

The drone didn’t stop. It kept shooting and dodging, methodical and relentless, dragging Lung’s attention away from her before going low and shooting him in the knee. He howled in pain, forced to stop firing to catch himself before he face-planted.

Then the drone turned toward her.

“Grab. Jump.”

Its voice was flat. Mechanical. No urgency. No reassurance. No command.

Desperate as she was, she didn’t question it. She staggered to her feet, fear making her movements clumsy, grabbed the hook-like protrusions extending from the drone, and jumped.

The drone yanked her off the edge of the roof immediately.

Taylor screamed before she could stop herself. The rooftop vanished, gravity seized her, and her stomach lurched violently as they dropped. Wind tore at her costume, the world blurring as panic threatened to overwhelm her. She clenched her jaw, forced herself to breathe. To focus.

Below them, she threw everything she had left into motion. Every remaining insect responded, funneling into a dense, buzzing cloud beneath them. She pushed them to make as much noise as possible—wings beating, bodies colliding—anything to confuse Lung’s enhanced hearing.

It didn’t work.

The second her feet touched the street, Lung followed the sound.

He hit the ground in an explosion of fire and force that vaporized the swarm instantly. The heat slammed into her like a wall. She was thrown clear, hitting the pavement and curling in on herself reflexively, eyes screwed shut, bracing for agony that never came.

When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t see herself.

For a heartbeat, she thought she was dead.

No—she could feel the pavement beneath her, the rasp of her breath, the frantic pounding of her heart. She was there. Just… not visible.

Something invisible pressed into her side—the drone, she realized—nudging insistently, trying to get her to move away from Lung. She froze instead, terror locking her in place. If she moved, if she made a sound, he’d hear her.

Lung stood taller now. Massive enough that she had to crane her neck to see his face. His body was broader, more heavily scaled, his silhouette warped into something barely human. His left eye—the one she’d blinded—was whole again, glowing with molten fury as he scanned the street.

The beginnings of a snout pushed at his face, teeth bared as he snarled.

“Coward,” he growled, voice echoing off the buildings. “Bitch. I’ll burn you out.”

Flames gathered in his hands, brighter and hotter than before.

Taylor was just about to say fuck it and run—

When something fell from the sky.

The impact shook the street like a bomb. Concrete cracked.

It happened so fast she barely registered it before it was over.

A black figure slammed into Lung feet-first, driving his head into the pavement with devastating force. The sound was sickening, and if she hadn’t nearly been set on fire by him, she would’ve been worried he was dead.

The figure straightened from his crouch and stepped away from Lung—toward her. Toward the place where she stood invisible and shaking.

Black armor. Gold trim. A silhouette burned into the public consciousness.

She recognized him instantly.

Who wouldn’t? His team had been dominating headlines for months now, spoken of in the same breath as the Triumvirate.

Excalibur Umbra.

He was every bit as tall and imposing as the photos suggested—somehow even cooler in person.

The little drone decloaked and zipped over to him. As he petted its head, it whirred and beeped like a parody of R2-D2. Umbra nodded as if he understood perfectly—then looked directly at her.

Taylor froze, unsure what to say. Maybe thank him—

Her perspective shifted.

She was suddenly in the air, rising past nearby rooftops as an inhuman roar echoed through the streets and fire washed over the block. Fear spiked as gravity reclaimed her, arms flailing as she screamed again—

Only to be held steady by an iron grip on her lower back.

The landing was surprisingly soft despite the height. She was set down and nearly stumbled as she backed away from her savior.

Behind Umbra and the drone, an inferno raged. Lung had gotten up, sprouting like a weed—growing faster and larger at a rate she hadn’t thought possible. Eight feet. Ten. Thirteen. Still climbing.

Umbra paid it no mind.

He looked directly at her and held out his hand, palm up.

She thought he was asking her to take it before light bloomed from his wrist.

A holographic message appeared above his palm.

Emergency Services en route now.
Evacuate civilians from surrounding buildings before fire spreads.
Shade will protect you while you do.
I will deal with Lung.
Do you understand?

Taylor swallowed hard.

Her heart was still trying to beat its way out of her chest. Her hands shook. But this—this was something she could do. This was what heroes did.

“Yes,” she said quickly, voice hoarse but steady enough. “Yeah. I—I can do that.”

Umbra nodded once.

Then he was gone.

One instant he stood in front of her, the next he was a blur tearing down the street, crashing into Lung with enough force to drive the dragon-man backward—deeper into the docks and away from the residential buildings.

Taylor stared after them for half a second as Lung tried to fight back and kept getting handled like an unruly child.

Then she remembered herself.

She turned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted as loud as she could toward the nearest buildings.

“Everyone get out!” she yelled. “Fire—there’s a fire! Evacuate now! Leave everything and go!”

Very few people heard her.

Car alarms blared nonstop. Windows rattled as the streets shook. The roar of Lung and the distant, thunderous impacts of Umbra beating him deeper into the docks drowned out almost everything else. Even when people did hear her, most didn’t listen.

They thought this was TV—that the fight couldn’t reach them all the way out here.

Some peeked out of windows. Others stood on balconies with phones raised, filming the glow of fire and whatever they could see of the fighting beyond.

Even as the fire Lung had set earlier began creeping outward—licking at building fronts, climbing fire escapes—people didn’t move.

Taylor’s chest tightened.

“Move!” she shouted again, hoarse. “Get out—now!”

Nothing.

She turned sharply toward the drone hovering nearby. Shade—she realized that was what Umbra had called it.

“Can you—” she started, then stopped.

The drone just hovered. Watching.

Umbra’s orders replayed in her head, and she understood.

It’s not here to save them. It’s here to protect me.

“Fine,” she muttered.

She reached outward.

Not to the street.

To the buildings.

And crawling things answered.

Spiders in basements. Ants in walls. Roaches under sinks. Centipedes in damp stairwells. She used all of them and more.

People screamed when the bugs came and she winced when it hit her ears. This was not heroic at all.

Even so she did it.

Insects poured into kitchens and living rooms. Out of bathroom drains and vents in writhing masses that sent residents bolting out houses and apartments into the street in blind panic.

When a few idiots stopped to film that, she redirected.

Bugs crawled up arms. Into collars. Across faces.

“GO,” she yelled again as people ran past her. “Get farther down the street—away from the fire!”

A motorcycle engine roared.

Taylor spun just as Armsmaster skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos, halberd snapping into his hand as his visor locked onto her.

“Stand down and remove your insects from the civilians” he ordered as he got off his bike. Halberd pointed at her. 

Her heart jumped at being threatened by Armsmaster of all people but she forced herself to answer fast before he attacked or got it into his head that she was an enemy.

“I'm not a villain,” she blurted out. “Umbra told me to evacuate civilians but they weren’t listening.”

His helmet tilted a fraction as if processing her words. “Umbra,” he repeated flatly. “As in, Excalibur Umbra of Ten-Zero?”

“YES!” She shouted in relief while pointing sharply at Shade, the drone's optics locked solely on Armsmaster. “That’s his drone. He told me to do this while he’s fighting Lung.”

Armsmaster went very still.

For a second, she thought he was going to call her a liar.

Then his visor angled up more as he focused on the drone.

“…I see,” he said finally. “You're telling the truth.”

But before Taylor could say anything else, a deep, concussive boom rolled through the street. The sound of something big giving way. She couldn’t tell for sure with all the smoke and fire around but if she had to guess what the source was…

It would be a building.

 Armsmaster instantly focused past her as the civilians were just beginning to realize that this wasn’t a safe place to be and began retreating further back even without the threat of bugs.

He took two steps forward, then added, “Stay here and keep civilians moving outward, try and avoid threatening them if you can. The PRT and fire fighters are inbound.”

Then he charged straight through the smoke and flames, vanishing into the inferno without another word. Taylor lost track of him almost immediately, her bugs couldn’t get close without dying from the fire, heat, or smoke.

Taylor wanted to listen to Armsmaster, she really did, but she couldn’t wait here.Not with the fire spreading.

So she kept moving—circling the edge of the fight, pushing bugs through buildings just outside the fire radius, forcing people out one block at a time while shouting and guiding with her voice as much as she was with her bugs.

By the time the rain really set in, Taylor was guiding an old couple down the sidewalk, her swarm stretched thin and watchful out of habit more than necessity.

They hadn’t actually been in danger. Their building was far enough from the docks that with the rain the fire would never reach it. But panic didn’t care about distance, and neither did the shaking in the woman’s hands as she clutched her husband’s sleeve and asked if it was really safe.

So Taylor walked them anyway to make sure they got somewhere safe.

Two blocks down, she brought them to a small deli with its lights still on and its doors propped open. A loose crowd had gathered there—neighbors, late-shift workers, a few people wrapped in borrowed jackets—waiting for this whole thing to blow over. Someone passed around towels. Someone else fiddled with the radio.

Sirens were everywhere now. Police. Fire. Ambulances. The city finally catching up to what was happening. She realized faintly that she couldn’t hear any more fighting so it must have been wrapped up by now. 

Hopefully Umbra was okay.

Once she was sure the couple was settled, Taylor stepped back outside and leaned against the brick wall beside the shop. Her legs felt hollow. Her arms trembled faintly, that deep exhaustion setting in now that the adrenaline was fading.

Rain slid off her costume in smooth sheets.

She blinked, then frowned slightly.

She wasn’t wet.

A faint blue distortion shimmered around her—barely visible unless she focused—like a warped outline hugging close to her skin. Shade. Some kind of protective field.

Useful.

Also a problem.

She looked up at her little companion, watching all around her like a sentinel.

How am I supposed to get home with a floating tinker drone following me around?

There was no way her dad wouldn’t notice. Then he would start to ask questions she couldn’t answer. And she was pretty sure Umbra had at least a dozen ways of tracking that thing. She'd practically be giving up her secret identity if she walked home now.

She slid down the wall a little, resting her head back, eyes closed a little.

Lightning cracked overhead.

Then suddenly, Umbra was there.

Right in front of her.

Taylor yelped, heart jumping straight into her throat as she tried to stand and nearly fell over, bugs flaring instinctively around her. She barely managed to stop herself from making this situation even more humiliating by attacking him.

Umbra didn’t react at all.

Rain rolled off black armor and gold trim without sticking and the smell of smoke still clung faintly to him.

He raised one hand.

Light bloomed above his wrist.

A holographic message hovered between them.

Good work.
Not bad for a debut.

Taylor stared at it, breathing hard.

“…Thanks,” she said finally. “And—thanks for saving me. From Lung.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. Then the message shifted.

Why did you engage him in the first place? 

You were clearly outmatched.

“I didn’t want to,” she said quietly, defensively. “I knew he was way out of my league. I wasn’t planning on fighting anyone like that.” Her jaw tightened. “But I heard him tell his people to shoot kids.”

Her hands curled into fists.

“I didn’t have a phone. I couldn’t call anyone. And I couldn’t just stand there. So I attacked.”

Rain filled the space between them.

Then the hologram changed.

You have a noble spirit, one befitting a hero.
I believe you made the right choice.

Something in her chest loosened at that, even as the praise felt undeserved.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It still feels like this is my fault. A city block burned. People could’ve died.”

The next message came slower.

Lung’s exponential growth did not begin until I arrived.
Your engagement alone would not have escalated him to that extent.

Taylor froze as she replayed their first meeting in her head. 

How Lung had exploded in power. How he’d gone from gaining a few feet over the course of the fight with her to gaining meters in less than a minute.

“…You’re right,” she murmured. “He didn’t start growing that fast until you showed up.”

The hologram flickered.

Correct.
The blame for this incident lies solely with me.
If I had not intervened, the conflict may have been resolved with less collateral.

She looked up at him sharply.

Was he saying he should have left her to chance?

“Do you regret it?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Helping me, she didn’t say.

The response came immediately.

No.
I would make the same choice again.

Another line followed.

And so should you.

The vindication hit harder than she expected.

Her shoulders sagged, eyes burning as tension bled out of her. Something warm bloomed in her chest to replace it.

He didn’t regret helping her. Didn’t even consider turning away because it would’ve been easier.

And she’d done the right thing.

Someone like him was telling her that.

The hologram changed again.

We could use someone like you among our ranks.

Her breath caught.

Under her mask, her eyes went wide. Exhaustion vanished for a heartbeat, replaced by a sharp, electric jolt of disbelief.

Is he inviting me to join?

Excalibur Umbra. One of the most talked-about capes on the planet right now. Inviting her to be a part of Ten-Zero.

Before she could choke out a response, the light shifted once more.

Do not answer now.
Tonight has been arduous. You need rest.

She swallowed the answer she wanted to give and nodded as exhaustion rushed back in.

“I—yeah. I do,” she admitted. “I have… a lot of questions, though.”

Save them.
There will be time.

She hesitated, wanting to push anyway. But a low rumble of thunder reminded her it was past midnight and still raining hard. Now wasn’t the time for a Q&A.

Still, she allowed herself one question. “Then… how do I get in touch with you? After tonight?”

Contact Ordis on PHO.
Use the phrase: “The Tempestarii is calling.”
He will know it is you.
From there, we can arrange a meeting.

Taylor’s mind scrambled to lock it in.

Tempestarii. Calling. Ordis. PHO.

She almost laughed. “I really wish I had a pen and paper.”

You will remember.

She nodded, trying to match his confidence in her with some of her own. “I will.”

The final message appeared.

Safe travels, young hero.
Get home. I will handle the PRT for us.

Before she could say anything else, lightning flashed again—and between one moment and the next, he was gone.

Taylor stayed where she was for a long moment. Then, slowly, she waved her hand through the space he’d been occupying, just to see if he’d gone invisible.

Nothing.

Then she noticed she still wasn’t getting wet.

Her eyes snapped upward.

The drone hovered above her.

“…Great,” she muttered. “He forgot his drone.”

It rotated slightly to look at her, as if offended.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

For the second umpteenth time that night, Taylor jumped, spinning around as bugs buzzed in agitation—

Umbra again.

He stood there holding out a plain black umbrella.

Her heart pounded before she forced it to calm.

“Thanks,” she muttered as her pulse slowed and the bugs retreated. She took the umbrella and opened it immediately.

He nodded.

This time, the drone drifted over to him. Rain splattered unevenly across the umbrella as it passed. Umbra patted its head. Shade beeped and whirred before flying upward, cloaking and vanishing into the night.

He gave her one last look.

Then he disappeared again.

This time, Taylor had a bug on him before he left. Hoping the man wouldn’t scare her another time if she could keep track of him. Her power barely registered movement before the bug she stuck on him was out of range.

She nearly whistled in awe, straightening under the umbrella as she walked home and thought about the future.

If I join, will I get cool armour like that?

Khora hadn’t needed to move far from where Lung had fallen to find her twin blades.

Lung’s regeneration had done something almost helpful. The blades embedded in him had been forced out during one of his growth surges, expelled into the boiling street. When the rain came and flash-cooled the pavement, the asphalt sealed around them.

Normally, finding them could have taken precious minutes. Time he had no desire to waste.

So instead, he brought up a scanner charge—normally reserved for Helios—to locate them. Once identified, the solution had been simple.

Khora straightened her fingers and stabbed down into the street. The asphalt cracked and split as she pulled them out. In her grip, they felt right at home. Satisfied, she pushed them back into storage before turning her attention back toward Lung.

The dragon was already mostly reverted to a normal human. What remained of his transformation was rapidly collapsing, his regeneration finally slowing now that the threat had passed. If the extensive damage to his body was any indication, he would still be very limbless and weak for quite some time.

So with Lung no longer a concern, the Operator had sent Umbra after Taylor—to check on her and plant the seed for a meeting later.

Which meant that staying on the scene to meet them the PRT was his job.

Ordis was explaining to the PRT console the situation and lying about Ten-Zero just passing through. So everything should wrap up smoothly.

All’s well that ends well they say but the Operator was annoyed that things had turned out this way.

Announcing Ten-Zero’s arrival to the Bay like this hadn’t been the plan. He also doubted PRT ENE would be pleased that he hadn’t even checked in before upsetting the city’s balance of power. 

Hopefully they wouldn’t be too upset. If they were, he could always redirect credit for Lung’s capture toward them as a conciliatory gesture. A move like that would also serve his long-term goals in Brockton Bay.

If word spread that Ten-Zero members were operating here, the rest of the ABB, Coil, the Empire, and any minor parahuman organizations would likely go to ground until they left. Making it more difficult to train up any future Echo Zero members in this city using them.

Over the months, Ten-Zero’s reputation had reached the point where mere presence acted as a stronger deterrent than even someone like Eidolon. After all, with the Protectorate, losing a fight didn’t mean your bank accounts got drained or your dirty laundry posted to PHO for the world to see. The public apology may have done its work to calm the regular civilians, but the smart criminals knew not to test their luck. After all, who was going to shed a tear for a group like the Elite? No one.

“Operator,” the Cephalon chimed suddenly, voice tight. “I have come to a worrying realization. Armsmaster, a member of the local Protectorate, is not present.”

The Tenno paused, performing the mental equivalent of raising an eyebrow.

“And that matters because…?” he prompted internally.

“According to Shade’s feed,” Ordis continued, “he arrived on the scene around the climax of the fight and rushed past Ms. Hebert to join it. However, he never engaged you in battle, and none of the—TRASH—suboptimal local surveillance equipment indicates that he exited the area. Ordis would have assumed he was performing search and rescue, but PRT communication channels are currently requesting that he check in.”

“That’s bad,” the Tenno murmured.

If a hero had been seriously injured—or worse—because he’d been prioritizing Lung’s survival, that was unacceptable. It didn't matter to the him if that was the job they signed up for.

“Yes, Operator. It is,” Ordis replied. “Especially since Umbra may be inadvertently responsible.”

He didn’t need Ordis to elaborate. Umbra’s howl had a wide area of effect. Even if Armsmaster had been a full block away, it could have hit him.

Sirens were growing louder.

“Which direction did he approach from?”

“Up this very street, Operator.”

Khora didn’t wait for him to finish. Her signature whip was already in hand, lashing out to connect with the living metal wrapped tight around Lung’s inert body. Once secured, she took off at a sprint, dragging the ABB leader behind her like a sack of rocks.

The Operator didn’t care how many bumps Lung suffered. Someone worth a damn might be dying.

Khora found Armsmaster seconds later.

He was face-down in the street, closer to the fight than expected. His armor sparked intermittently despite showing no visible structural damage—clear signs that Umbra’s ability was still interfering with its systems.

She skidded to a stop beside him and dropped into a crouch. Trying to roll him over proved futile; the armor was locked solid, its joints seized as though rigor mortis had set in. Forcing them would risk destroying the suit's joints entirely and injuring him.

So Khora simply lifted him and laid him on his back.

The lower half of his face bore superficial burns—likely from lying against superheated asphalt before the rain cooled it—but nothing life-threatening. His eyes were the real concern. She couldn’t see through the visor, but the likelihood of severe damage was high. Smoke inhalation only compounded the risk.

Khora leaned  closer, rain running down her frame as she knelt. Green light gathered in her raised palm, thickening into a swirling, cloudy mist that spilled downward. It flowed over Armsmaster’s armor, seeping into vents and joints, into his nostrils and mouth. It purged smoke from his lungs, repaired scorched tissue, stabilized oxygen saturation, and even reversed the damage Umbra’s howl had caused the armor—forcing locked systems to unlock one by one.

But as this was happening, something else registered at the far edge of Khora’s vision.

He didn’t turn her head. He didn’t need to.
Warframe perception extended far beyond human limits.

On a nearby rooftop—one that had escaped the worst of the fires—something large was moving.

Several somethings.

At first they were difficult to make out through rain and smoke, but the closer they crept toward the edge of the building, the clearer they became. Three creatures, each roughly the size of a van, crouched low in a parody of stealth. Their forms were wrong—vaguely reptilian, vaguely feline, but fully neither. Where skin, scales, or fur should have been, there were tangles of exposed muscle and bone, anatomy twisted into something functional but deeply unsettling.

For a heartbeat, he thought it was the Infestation.

Then he dismissed the idea.

This wasn’t the Origin System.

Chances were they were parahuman creations, and the figures riding atop the beasts all but confirmed it. Their silhouettes were barely visible through the darkness, rain, and smoke, making it hard to tell just how many there were.

Lightning cracked overhead, and for a single instant the rooftop was lit stark white.

That single flash allowed him to see them clearly—if only for a moment.

A blonde girl wearing a domino mask, staring keenly in his direction.

A figure in a motorcycle helmet with a skull motif, an unnatural darkness flowing around him like a living shadow.

Another girl, broader in the shoulders, auburn hair visible beneath a dog mask. Likely the parahuman responsible for the mounts.

A fourth presence lingered further back, indistinct even in the flash, but he caught the outline of a long object—some sort of staff—held at the ready.

Then darkness reclaimed the rooftop.

Khora continued healing Armsmaster, posture steady, attention seemingly fixed on the task at hand. If they were content to watch while she worked, she would let them.

“Ordis,” the Operator said over internal comms. “Can you identify them?”

There was a brief pause.

“Yes, Operator,” Ordis replied. “They visually match a relatively unknown group of hit-and-run teenage thieves. Designation: the Undersiders.”

“Thanks, bud,” he acknowledged.

If no further information was forthcoming, then they really were obscure. It was a shame they were villains. If they weren’t, he might have flagged them for recruitment next.

Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t dismiss them so casually. For all their vaunted honor, Tenno were not above theft—or even killing for profit. Even Maroo had been nothing more than a thief before she was folded into the Tenno cause.

But that was neither here nor there.

Wanted villains were right in front of him, and as a partner of the PRT, their enemies were his enemies. He would have to bring them in.

Besides, drawing further scrutiny from the PRT by attempting to recruit from the villain population would only impede his true goal. Better to capture them—both to soothe the PRT after operating in their stomping grounds and to keep Ten-Zero’s presence here quiet a little longer.

Khora’s hand dropped to her side. The green mist stopped flowing. Armsmaster was fully healed now, the damage to his suit repaired. He remained unconscious, but not for long.

Before he woke, she would Ensnare the entire group with her Whipclaw before they could react—and kill the beasts.

Khora slightly turned to—

“BITCH, GET US OUT OF HERE!”

The feminine shout tore through the rain, sharp with panic.

The beasts scrambled to turn as black smoke spilled out from the midst of the group, flooding over the rooftop and then pouring down into the street below. Not knowing what it could do, Khora chose caution. She tightened her grip on her Whipclaw, grabbed Armsmaster, threw him over her shoulder, and leapt clear of it, bounding down the street in a single powerful motion.

Behind her, Lung crashed unceremoniously into the pavement with a crack of bone—ignored like it was no more than the wind.

Damn.

It seemed these petty thieves were better than he’d thought. Or they’d simply gotten lucky tonight. Their head start put him in a difficult position. With Armsmaster still down, he couldn’t just dump Lung on him and give chase. And with no Liset in the sky tonight, Ordis couldn’t track them remotely. Umbra was occupied, and even if he abandoned his current task to search, his speed wouldn’t let him cover every possible escape route.

This was their perfect getaway.

Their win.

If he wasn’t a sore loser.

A deep, feline purr manifested beside Khora. Orokin gold armor and bioengineered, scale-like hide brushed lovingly against her leg. The Operator—and what little remained of the woman Khora had once been—returned the sensation of affection through their link as she looked down.

Her affection for the creature only increased as she gazed on it.

 Venari, her eternal companion.

As much as Khora had wanted to let her out earlier to fight side by side again, it had been too risky. If the PRT saw—or if Lung reported it—they’d know, or at least strongly suspect, that Ten-Zero was engaging in “bio-tinkering.”

But now, with Lung and Armsmaster unconscious and the black smoke cloaking the street, this was the perfect moment to let her stretch her legs.

Without words, Khora gave Venari her mission.

Avoid detection while tracking the Undersiders to their base.
If discovered—flee.
Do not engage.

The armored kavat stretched like a common housecat rather than a bioengineered machine of war, then straightened. She meowed softly at her master before dashing forward and up the building. The rain did nothing to hinder her tracking ability thanks to her modification, so she should track the group to wherever they went without issue.

Lightning flashed again as her armored tail vanished from sight—

—and Armsmaster began to stir.

Chapter Text

Taylor was still exhausted by the time she reached school that morning.

Not physically—though that too—but in the bone-deep, weary way that came from a night of adrenaline, fear, and too many thoughts to sleep. It didn’t help that she’d gotten up at six-thirty for her morning run, then had to lie to her dad about why she’d been out, or why the ends of her hair were faintly singed.

After all that, getting to school was just routine. Catch the bus. Sit. Stare out the window.

It still felt surreal that after everything that had happened last night—the fire, the fighting, the evacuations—she was back here like nothing had changed.

 But that was just the superhero life she supposed.

As the bus pulled to a stop in front of Winslow, she steeled herself for the day and sighed. The school building looked as drab as ever. Same concrete façade. Same chipped steps. Almost the same clusters of students lingering out front before the first bell.

But something felt… different.

She noticed it as soon as she stepped inside. Not in how people looked, exactly, but in the noise. The hallway was louder, more excited. Animated even. Voices overlapping with excitement instead of the usual groggy complaints and half-asleep muttering.

Something worth gossiping over had happened.

It was too early in the morning for anything new, which meant it had to be about yesterday. About last night.

Taylor didn’t slow down to listen.

She was curious, yes, and more than a little nervous, but no one was staring at her as she passed and no whispers cut off when she walked by. That meant it wasn’t about her. Or at least, not obviously.

Besides, she had more important things to focus on.

The Tempestarii is calling.

She repeated it silently as she slipped into the computer lab, the phrase looping in her head like a mantra.

She almost smiled as she powered up the ancient PC, then caught herself and forced her face back into something neutral. Drawing attention to herself right now would be a mistake.

Still, she almost couldn’t stop herself from showing her excitement.

After all, Ten-Zero was trying to recruit her. Her!

It felt about as real as someone claiming Alexandria herself had personally invited her to join the Triumvirate, but it was happening.

The plan was simple. Finish the class work as fast as possible, then contact Ordis. She had so many questions, and she hoped that he wouldn’t mind answering at least a few before she committed to meeting them in person.

After that, she’d check PHO. See what people and the PRT were saying about last night. 

The thought suddenly occurred to her then that despite everything she’d done, the reports might not even mention her. She hadn’t checked in with the PRT when they arrived and she hadn’t given her non-existent cape name to Armsmaster.

But Umbra had said he’d handle things and he seemed like the kind of hero who would treat her fairly.

She wasn’t expecting a medal or anything. She wasn’t even expecting praise. After all, despite what Umbra had said, she still felt partially responsible for the situation escalating like it did. But the idea that her part in helping the people might be minimized—or worse, ignored entirely—made something sour twist in her stomach.

Distracted with her thoughts, Taylor almost didn't notice when someone dropped into the chair beside her. She paused her mental chant the second she looked up and caught who it was.

Isaac.

He’d been standing near the front of the room when she had walked into class, talking to two other boys in the front she couldn’t name. Now he was here, leaning back in his chair completely at ease, showing none of the exhaustion or grogginess she and others felt at this time in the morning.

Her first thought was unhelpful and immediate.

He looks great today too.

Not in a runway-model way. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who belonged in glossy magazines or posed with hollow cheekbones, vacant stares, and jaws sharp enough to cut with. No, Isaac fit a different mold entirely, one she couldn't quite name. 

When he leaned back in his chair, the fabric of his shirt pulled tight around his arms, and Taylor’s brain helpfully—and traitorously—supplied the conclusion that yes, he was muscular too. 

If yesterday hadn’t been his first day, she would’ve assumed Emma or Madison had orchestrated this whole thing as a joke—him asking her to eat lunch, acting friendly for no clear reason. But he hadn’t pushed fast or tried hard to get close with her. He’d just… been normal. Nice even.

As her thoughts raced, he turned to her and smiled. It was casual and easy in a way that made him seem almost smug with how natural it looked. 

“Good morning Taylor.”

Her brain short-circuited when she realized she had been staring at him this entire time.

“G–good morning,” she muttered, turning back to her computer. She could feel heat creeping up her cheeks, a rosy warmth she hated and couldn’t stop. She hunched slightly, pretending very hard to be interested in the login screen.

“The Tempestarii is calling,” she told herself again, forcibly dragging her focus back where it belonged.

She knew she shouldn't be acting this stupid.

Even if Isaac was nice now, it wouldn’t last. It never did. Eventually, like all the other boys, he’d fall in with those bitches. They all did if it meant a smile or a laugh or a slim chance to be with them. Backstabbing Ugly frog faced Taylor wouldn’t be worth a second thought to them.

Still, she could feel Isaac still looking at her with an easy attentiveness that made her feel like he was actually interested in her reaction instead of just filling space or being polite out of obligation.

“So,” he said, stretching the word casually, “how’s the morning treating you so far?”

She hesitated before answering. The honest response tried to claw its way out but instinct and experience crushed it flat before it reached her mouth.

“It’s… I’m okay,” she said finally.

He hummed. “Glad to hear.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him roll forward in his chair, elbows resting on the desk as he glanced around the lab, like he was checking to see who might be listening.

“I heard something big went down last night,” he added, lowering his voice just a notch. “Docks, I think?”

Taylor’s fingers froze over the keyboard.

For half a heartbeat, panic flared hot and sharp. Her bugs stirred reflexively in the walls and vents, restless, coiling toward a threat that didn’t actually exist.

She forced herself to breathe. After all, there was no way he knew she was involved.

“Yeah,” she replied carefully. “I heard something about it on the radio this morning.”

“Crazy stuff,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “Fire everywhere. The Protectorate—and if you believe it, Armsmaster and a woman with bug powers—fighting a dragon.” He scoffed softly. “Can’t believe this is normal in the Bay.”

She nodded. A little too quickly. “That’s just how it’s always been here in Brockton.”

Mrs. Knott cleared her throat sharply, saving her from the rest of the conversation.

“Alright,” She addressed the class. “ Settle in. Today we’re continuing with spreadsheets. Instructions are on the board.”

Isaac leaned back again, stretching like a cat until his back popped a little. “Guess I’ll let you work,” he said. “But hey—if I need help, can you spare some time like yesterday?”

Say no. Say no. Say no, she chanted internally.

Any other day, she would’ve been fine saying yes. But she had cape business. Important cape business. And she really, really didn’t want to be interrupted or caught doing it.

She nodded anyway, eyes still glued to the screen. “Okay.”

Dammit, she cursed silently. Why did I say that?

His smile widened just a bit, perfect white teeth flashing. “Thanks, Taylor. I owe you.”

Her fingers paused again as her brain caught the sincerity in his voice.

Before she could think of a response—or even overthink it into nothing—he turned back to his own computer, the moment slipping past like it had never been there.

Taylor peeked over at him before quickly returning to stare at the spreadsheet template on her screen, numbers blurring together as the mortification threatened to suffocate her.

Get it together, she told herself firmly.

Time passed and class dragged.

Taylor checked the clock more times than she cared to admit, fingers tapping faintly against the desk as she completed her work.

Despite all her worrying, Isaac only asked for help once.

He leaned over, pointed at a formula he wanted to double-check, listened while she explained it, nodded—and that was it. 

What surprised her more was that he finished before she did.

She noticed it when the clacking of his keyboard stopped entirely and he leaned back, scrolling through something else while she was still wrestling with conditional formatting.

She frowned faintly, more confused than anything else. Did he even need help in the first place? The thought lingered, but she didn’t jump straight to suspicion. Yesterday had already shown her he picked things up fast—almost unnervingly so. Maybe he’d just studied hard to catch up last night.

Though unlike yesterday, he didn’t try to talk to her again.

He barely even glanced her way. Instead, he just pulled up videos—advanced coding tutorials from the look of them—and watched quietly, pausing and rewinding like he was actually trying to learn something instead of killing time until the period ended.

It was… oddly disappointing.

By the time Taylor finally finished her assignment and submitted it, the bell was still a few minutes away. The room settled into that strange limbo where everyone pretended to be busy while mentally checking out.

She opened PHO.

Finding the Slaughterhouse Zero thread was effortless. Even two months after the death of those monsters, clips, screenshots, frame-by-frame breakdowns, and people arguing who was MVP in the fight occurred.

She clicked it.

The very first post was by Ordis and the video links for the nine's death was the first thing she focused on.

She hadn’t watched the uncensored version—she wasn’t sure she ever would—but Ordis had linked a heavily censored edit beneath the original. Even through the excessive pixelation, it had been incredible. Terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.

Her favorite part had been Ivara’s fight against the Siberian.

The way she fought the Siberian—fluid, precise, always three steps ahead. It was beautiful. A display of skill and battle intelligence Taylor aspired to achieve as a hero. She briefly wondered if she would get to meet Ivara or at least get the same training as her if she joined Ten-Zero.

Taylor shook her head slightly, breaking her thoughts away from her fangirling.

She clicked Ordis’s username.

The options popped up immediately.

Create an account.
Sign in.
Send message as an anonymous guest.

Her finger hovered over the mouse, ready to pick the last option but she hesitated.

She could do it now. The phrase was burned into her memory from hours of repeating it. But…

Her eyes flicked sideways.

Isaac was still there, absorbed in his screen, and completely minding his own business. Still, all it would take is a single glance to her computer when she wasn’t paying attention for him to know everything. That was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. Not just just because it would expose her as a cape but also because it could make her look like a complete idiot to Ten-Zero if they ever found out that's how she got exposed.

So Taylor went back to the homepage.

Later, she told herself firmly. The library is safer.

That didn’t mean she was going to sit in class twiddling her thumbs for the rest of the time.

She searched for news on the fight last night.

According to the official narrative, an unknown “bug-themed parahuman” had engaged Lung after overhearing credible threats of violence against children in the area. The report claimed she’d delayed and harassed the ABB leader long enough for Armsmaster to arrive, where he deployed a new piece of tinkertech that suppressed Lung’s regenerative abilities. With Lung weakened, the situation had been “brought under control” by the Protectorate leader. It went on to note that she’d assisted with evacuation and search-and-rescue once it became clear her powers were better suited to moving civilians.

Taylor stared at the screen, visibly shocked yet happy despite herself at the way the article had framed her as a key player in bringing Lung to justice. 

Despite the article, not everyone liked her. 

That became abundantly clear when she clicked on the message boards.

There were complaints about her methods. People who’d been there complaining about insects pouring out of walls and the panic of feeling them crawling all over their body. One comment compared it to a horror movie. Another said it had been “traumatizing.”

But next to those were others.

Posts thanking her for getting people out. Parents saying that terrifying or not, they’d made it out unharmed because of her. Someone even mentioned seeing her personally escort an elderly couple down the street after the danger had passed, calling her a real hero for it.

A grin threatened to split her face open.

For a wild, reckless second, she wanted to grab the nearest person—Isaac—spin him around and jab a finger at the screen.

She wanted to scream, “That’s me. I did that!”

She didn’t, of course. She sat there, hands clenched lightly in her lap, shoulders drawn in, containing it. Pride fizzed through her anyway, warming places that had felt cold for a long time.

Riding that high, she kept reading—and that was when she noticed something strange.

There wasn’t a single mention of Umbra.

No pictures. No eyewitness accounts. Not even speculation about the black-armored figure. Even Shade—the drone that had followed her—was treated like a rumor rather than something confirmed.

That was… strange.

Taylor leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as she thought it through. There was no way no one had seen Umbra. When he’d pulled her out of Lung’s attempt to burn the block, people had been watching from windows. Someone should’ve caught something, even if it was just a blur.

Unless it had been scrubbed.

Or withheld.

Or deliberately excluded.

The bell rang for the next class, sharp and abrupt. Taylor closed the tab, gathered her things, and stood, moving on autopilot as she filed out with everyone else.

She couldn’t imagine the PRT doing this—stealing credit from an ally wouldn't look good—but she also couldn’t see why Ten-Zero would either. From everything she knew, they were nearly as image-conscious as the Protectorate. 

Unless they were stepping back and giving her the spotlight on purpose.

Or trying to build her up publicly so it wouldn’t look like they were recruiting a nobody.

Either way, it left her with more questions.

Isaac saw the hesitation.

The cursor hovering. The tiny pause in Taylor’s hand. The way her eyes flicked sideways—checking the room, checking him, checking the risk—before she backed out of the message option entirely and returned to something safer.

Good.

If she’d contacted Ordis in the middle of class, in plain sight, excitement overruling caution, it would’ve told him quite a few negative things about her ability to maintain secrecy.

Not that her position in Echo-Zero would be in much danger if she had made such a mistake.

Much to the Operator’s surprise, Taylor had Umbra’s seal of approval.

It seemed that after being informed of Taylor's importance to his plan of creating their own version of Tenno Operatives on Bet, Umbra took it upon himself to do a little more than just save her like he ordered.

It led to her getting front page with Armsmaster and honestly…

A bit sly of the old Dax, but the Tenno approved.

Her actions last night revealed more of her character to him than a chat over school lunch ever could. Because when put in a difficult situation and push came to shove, she had performed most admirably. Almost literally dragging people kicking and screaming to safety if necessary with her bugs.

He liked that. It was very Tenno.

The bell rang and the class snapped to motion. Chairs scraped, backpacks slid on, and the room emptied in a surge toward the door.

Isaac stood with everyone else, slinging his bag over one shoulder, and let Taylor leave first.

He stepped into the hallway after her and immediately got hit with noise. Lockers slammed. Shouting. Laughing. A dozen overlapping conversations bouncing off the walls. Taylor moved ahead of him, head down, walking with the intent of disappearing into the flow.

It was his second day at Winslow, and he was… oddly enjoying it. He could see the appeal Drifter was talking about. Exploring new subjects, plotting the downfall of the local power structure and rebuilding it from the ground up with him at the head. Recruiting new and interesting people like Taylor for him was also a bit fun too, like collecting crew members for his railjack. He could see why Drifter liked doing this normal stuff.

It was freeing in a way. A breath of fresh air without the weight of any true responsibility.

The two acquaintances he made yesterday drifted up beside him while he was in thought, tapping his shoulders.

 “Bro,” the taller one said, phone already out, “you gotta see this. I got videos of the fight  from like three different angles.”

“Yeah,” the shorter one chimed in, swiping through clips on his own phone. “I also got one from the top of the steps. You can actually see when you dropped down and did that breakdance move.”

Shorty shoved the screen toward him. The video was shaky—like the recorder had been in the middle of the fight despite just recording—but it still caught the moment he was talking about.

Isaac gave it a quick glance and a noncommittal hum. He wasn’t exactly interested in rewatching something Ordis had already captured from every possible perspective. Saved in an Ayatan Star for “safe keeping.”

“Man,” the taller one said in slight awe, reaching over to rewind the video and see the attack again. “It looks unreal. I’ve always thought moving like that was reserved for action movie heroes, capes, and anime characters.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” the shorter one added. “Where’d you learn to fight like that, Isaac? You do martial arts or something?”

“Or something and martial arts, all learned from the ancient school of hard knocks,” Isaac answered, a smirk curling his lips.

They laughed.

Then the taller one looked over at his shorter friend while pointing a thumb at Isaac. “Sounds like we have a real badass over here.”

Isaac smirk widened. “I thought humiliating the Empire on my first day gave it away.”

“And a humble one as well it seems,” Shorty commented dryly. “So much for getting lucky.”

The Tenno burst out laughing but quickly turned his attention mostly outward when he noticed students were looking at him.

Not all of them, but the fleeting looks he received spoke of recognition and/or curiosity. A few wary stares also followed. A couple of whispers that stopped the moment he turned his head. Someone even elbowed their friend and nodded toward him.

So the videos—or the news—had spread further than he thought, and fast.

Good.

That meant his name and face were circulating. And in a place like Winslow, being known was half the battle. Now he just needed to turn that recognition and wariness into respect.

Not just from regular students either.

The cliques, the wannabe gang kids, and the actual gang kids. He wasn’t here to just knock the “Three Bitches” off their little throne after all. That was ultimately small scale.

He realized he’d stopped actually listening to his two shadows somewhere in the middle of their excited rambling about some monks in a place called Tibet.

One of them noticed and drew him back in by asking about something new.

“So—uh,” the taller one said, bumping him with an elbow and doing a weird movement with his eyebrows, “how’d the ride home with Hess go?”

“Yeah man, spill,” Shorty said with a wide grin. “I know we said not to mess with the trio and all but what they lack in personality… well, you get it.”

Isaac didn’t, but he took on an exaggeratedly thoughtful look as he considered what to reveal.

There wasn’t much he was willing to say. Unlikeable as Sophia was, she had shared all she had in confidence with him. Spilling their private conversation wasn’t something he was going to do with people he could only consider acquaintances.

“It was okay. We had an interesting conversation,” he said finally. “Turns out she’s quite the philosopher.”

The last part came with a subtle edge of mockery.

The two guys either didn’t notice or didn’t care, if the disappointed looks from his answer were any indication. They tried fishing for more detail on the way into World Issues, but he playfully avoided saying anything meaningful.

One of the first things Isaac noticed after a quick scan of the room was a trio.

Three girls a few rows over—two he didn’t recognize, with Madison in the middle—leaning close together like they were sharing a secret. Madison’s shoulders kept bouncing with giggles, her hand half-covering her mouth despite clearly laughing for the world to hear.

Isaac tracked their gaze without moving his head to Taylor who was halfway to her desk.

She was heading to the desk with those same two boys from yesterday with—one with a bowl cut who always looked ready to talk at her despite her not even sitting down yet, and the other who looked permanently out of it. 

Isaac also moved toward his own seat with the two guys he’d been walking with, taking the spot that he had yesterday. Taylor turned to look at him again and in a repeat of yesterday he smiled at her. This time she shyly and subtly waved back before turning away.

He also turned away, content with the progress.

Tall dropped his bag and immediately started digging through papers. Shorty followed suit, pulling out his homework.

“Yo,” Tall said, flipping his page around so Isaac could see the header. It read, The Lasting Effects of Andrew Hawke. “What’d you do yours on?”

Shorty tilted his paper too, like they were showing off without wanting to admit it. “Yeah, man. I kept it simple. Mostly.”

His read, The Case 53 Phenomena.

Isaac’s eyes weren't focused on that though, they flicked over their names.

Brandon Kline, printed at the top of Tall’s.
Nate Weller, scribbled in darker pen on Shorty’s.

Finally! He figured out their names.

“Well Brandon and Nate,” Isaac repeated, like he’d known their names all along. “I—”

He paused.

Isaac realized that he didn’t know what his report was even about because Ordis had done it.

To buy time, he opened his bag like he was looking for his pages and sent the thought inward.

“Ordis.” The operator called.

There was an immediate, cheerful response in his head, bright enough it almost felt like a grin.

“Yes, Operator?” His cephalon companion answered back.

“What did you do for my World Issues homework?”

“Ordis made a short report detailing how the exploits of the Tenno have influenced the world stage, including the destabilization of multiple hostile organizations, the rise in public morale, and the—”

Isaac nearly sighed as Ordis rattled off more details he put in his “short” report.

A report about how great he was, written by someone who genuinely believed he was the best thing to ever happen to any timeline. It was probably well-written and perfectly formatted too. It was also… yeah. The height of vanity.

But he couldn’t be mad. He’d literally asked for this.

“Thanks, Ordis.”

“Anything for you, Operator!”

Isaac fished out the printed pages and slid them onto the desk like it had been his plan all along.

“...did mine on Ten-Zero,” he said casually.

Brandon’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s actually kind of cool. I figured most people wouldn’t, though. They’re pretty new despite everything they’ve done.”

Nate nodded like he agreed, then leaned in closer, voice dropping like he was about to share classified information.

“Speaking of… did you hear about Lung getting captured last night?”

Brandon made a face. “Who hasn’t? It was on the news this morning. My mom wouldn’t shut up about it.”

Isaac nodded once, wondering where this was going. “Yeah. I heard.”

Nate leaned in even more, forearms on the desk, eyes darting briefly around the area before snapping back.

“I got info that…” he whispered, “Ten-Zero was involved.”

Brandon scoffed immediately, loud enough that Isaac saw a couple heads shift their way. “No way.”

Nate flinched and shushed him fiercely, two fingers up like a warning. “Dude. Don’t blurt it out.”

Brandon blinked. “What? It’s not like—”

“It is like,” Nate hissed, glancing around again. “Think about it. If they were involved and it didn’t hit the news, there’s a reason. Whatever reason they got for keeping the name out? It’s probably serious. So don’t spread it around.”

Brandon’s scoff faded into uncertainty. He scratched the back of his head like he suddenly didn’t like the attention they’d drawn.

The Operator's eyes narrowed behind Isaac’s face.

Nate was suspicious.

Not because he knew. Knowing wasn’t the weird part—people talked, people saw things, and rumors traveled faster than truth.

The weird part was more how he knew.

The Operator had suppressed that information. Ordis had scrubbed phones, wiped uploads, and killed threads. Even the stuff that slipped through got buried under noise fast. It had been deliberate, and it had worked.

And sure, Nate could have a cousin who lived by the Docks, or a brother who had a friend of a friend in the PRT. That alone wouldn’t be enough on its own to flag him.

But Isaac remembered Nate talking yesterday. His casual warning about the Merchants.

The Archers Bridge Merchants weren’t the kind of gang most normal or even gang affiliated people even knew existed unless they lived in the right area or had connections with the homeless population. People talked about the ABB. Empire. Sometimes Coil, if they were the type to pretend they knew more than they did.

Merchants was only the kind of name that came up when you were closer to the dirt than you wanted to admit. 

Isaac didn’t get to press, though. He didn’t get to steer the conversation, or test Nate’s edges, because Mr. Gladly finally started moving.

The teacher had been in the room for a couple minutes already—quietly writing something on the board, watching the class settle in with that tired patience teachers had when they were already counting down to retirement.

He clapped his hands once.

The room snapped into that half-attentive silence.

“Alright,” Mr. Gladly said, voice carrying. “Groups of four.”

Groans. Chair’s scraping. Immediate shifting.

“You’ll share your homework with your group,” Gladly continued, pacing slowly, “and you’ll prepare to share the best points with the class afterward. The group with the most to contribute wins the prize I mentioned Friday.”

Isaac turned to Nate with an eyebrow raised with a question.

“Treats from the vending machine,” Nate whispered.

A nod of thanks was given as chairs scraped from people getting up to pair with their friends.

Isaac didn’t get up.

He stayed seated while the room broke into motion around him. Backpacks dragging across the floor, people calling out names and waving friends over like it was a cafeteria instead of a classroom. The noise spiked for a moment, then started to settle into pockets of conversation.

Taylor’s corner was one of the only ones that didn’t change. Isaac noticed that they only had three members and the next part of his plan clicked neatly into place. 

Since they were one down, he’d join them. 

He started to shift forward in his seat—

“Isaaac,” Madison sang, dragging his name out like they were already friends. “You should totally join our group.”

She came up in front of his desk, her two lackeys flanking her. She smiled bright and easy, hands clasped behind her back like this was a fun little favor she was offering him.

Isaac’s first reaction was immediate and blunt.

No.

His second reaction was the more analytical part of him.

Rejecting her outright—publicly, in front of her friends—was the kind of thing people like Madison were easily offended by and the last thing he wanted at this junction was her running around spreading lies. Not that Madison needed a good reason to start something like a smear campaign other than for her own cruel amusement. But his goals at Winslow weren’t helped by giving her one on day two.

Saying yes was worse though.

He couldn’t be seen buddying up with them. Not if he wanted the hallway recognition to turn into respect instead of “oh, he’s with them.” And certainly not if he wanted to befriend people like Taylor.

Speaking of her.

If he turned Madison down and immediately walked over to Taylor’s group, that would put a spotlight on Taylor. It would broadcast a message to the room: I picked her over you.

Even if that message helped Taylor in some ways, it might also invite harsher retaliation from her bullies. On the other hand… they already hated Taylor enough to sabotage her grades and pull a stunt like the locker. His presence—and new reputation—could act like a shield if he stood on her side. 

Still.

He didn’t know how Taylor would react to him stepping into that role. He didn’t know if she’d see it as help or as a new kind of attention she didn’t want.

So the cleanest move was the simplest one.

Isaac leaned back in his chair, relaxed. 

“Appreciate it,” he said, tone friendly. “But I’ve already got a group.”

Madison blinked then pouted. “C’mon. You can switch. I'm sure your friends wouldn’t mind.”

He smiled, small and apologetic. “Yeah, I know. Just trying to stick with the guys I came in with. They’ve been looking out for me since I got here. I’d feel bad just leaving them high and dry.”

For a second, it looked like she might push but Madison wasn’t stupid or desperate so she simply smiled again, tighter this time.

“Okay,” she said. Her lips pressed together, brows knitting as she straightened. Not angry. Not offended. Just… pouty. Like someone had told her she couldn’t get dessert before dinner. She really did remind him of his little sisters. “Suit yourself.”

Then she turned away, heels clicking softly as she walked back toward her desk cluster, the two girls following.

Isaac waited until she’d fully disengaged before he exhaled through his nose.

Nate gave him a look, eyebrows raised. 

Brandon leaned closer, voice low. “Dude. First Sophia, now Madison?”

Isaac didn’t even glance over. “What about them?”

Brandon made a face, halfway between impressed and nervous. “Nothing man. Nothing at all..”

Isaac rolled his eyes and finally shifted his chair inward toward Nate and Brandon again, committing to the group he’d claimed. 

Class was going by fast once Mr. Gladly got them into groups.

Brandon and Nate wasted no time launching into their reports like they’d been waiting all morning to show them off. Brandon’s on Andrew Hawke—aka Vikare—was more detailed than Isaac expected from a kid at Winslow. Dates, public incidents, a rough timeline, even a section about how the Protectorate had based some of their public relations practices on him. Brandon was proud of it, and honestly, Isaac could see why. It was thorough enough that if Mr. Gladly cared even a little about grading, it’d score well.

Nate's Case 53 report was also impressive.

He’d clearly put work into it, but Isaac could already tell it was going to be a problem. Not because it was bad writing, but because it was the kind of topic that was rife with theory instead of facts. A lot of “maybe,” “what if,” and “it’s not a coincidence” dressed up like certainty. Interesting, sure. But half of it was conspiracy theory stitched to real events, and teachers tended to punish that unless the student wrote it like a formal debate instead of a truth revelation.

He was halfway through explaining his own report when outside chatter caught his attention.

“Can I be in Madison’s group?” a girl asked Mr. Gladly.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Mr. Gladly said. “Greg’s group only has three people. Help them.”

The girl—Julia he realized thanks to Greg shouting her name earlier—stood near the entrance of the room, then angled toward the group with Greg.

Thanks to her asking Gladly to sit next to Madison and her general demeanor, Isaac realized she was a hanger-on of the Trio. She walked over toward Taylor’s group with that little expression that said she already hated being there. 

Then, just loud enough for people nearby to hear, she muttered, “Ew.”

Taylor’s expression after hearing her say that spoke to her feeling the exact same way about her.

Isaac watched it unfold and made a decision. He wasn’t letting Madison’s pawn drop into Taylor’s group and ruin her day. He raised his hand slightly.

“Mr. Gladly,” Isaac called, voice casual.

Gladly looked over. “Yes, Isaac?”

“She can join ours,” Isaac said, jerking a thumb toward Julia. “We only have three in our group as well..”

Gladly nodded once, then turned to the girl. “That works. Which group would you prefer Julia?”

Julia’s face tightened.

She’d just said “ew” about Taylor’s group. Now the choice was between sitting with the group she’d insulted… or sitting with the guy everyone was watching after yesterday.

It should’ve been obvious.

And yet she hesitated.

Her eyes flicked toward Madison like she was waiting for a silent command.

Internally, the Operator couldn’t help the dry thought: “What a well-trained kubrow.”

Madison looked annoyed with her but she gave the smallest nod.

Julia exhaled through her nose and dragged her chair over to Isaac’s group. She sat down with stiff posture and a look like she was doing community service.

Thankfully, Brandon and Nate weren’t like Greg even if they were a bit awkward. They played it cool. So Isaac played it friendly.

“Nice to meet you Julia,” Isaac greeted with a smile. “I’m Isaac,” he said, then gestured to his sides. “Brandon. Nate.”

Brandon waved awkwardly. Nate gave a quick nod.

Julia’s eyes flicked between them, dismissive when on them but evaluation on him. “Nice to meet you too.”

Isaac smirk grew as an idea came to him. 

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I noticed you haven’t pulled out your report. Did you do it?”

Julia scowled and her cheeks flushed instantly. “Shut up.”

Oh.

So she hadn’t.

Isaac tilted his head, pretending to consider her. “That’s a no, then.”

Julia was glaring now. “I did it. I just… didn’t finish.”

“Mm-hmm,” Isaac said, very unimpressed.

“Whatever,” she muttered, folding her arms and turning away.

Brandon and Nate both gave Isaac a look that screamed: “what the hell are you doing?”

Isaac ignored them.

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like he was letting her into something.

“Tell you what,” he said. “If Gladly calls you up to share for our group and you don’t have anything, you can read off mine.”

Julia blinked, suspicion flickering. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Because you’re in my group now. That’s how groups work and I'm not saying no to winning free snacks.”

She stared at him a second longer, eyes narrowed, like she was trying to catch him in something. When it became clear his easy smile wasn’t going anywhere, she huffed. Still, the tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.

“You know…” She started, leaning forward and batting her eyelashes up at him. “If I don't turn it in, I won't get the grade for it.”

Isaac's smile stretched into a smirk of amusement. “Then do the homework next time.”

She frowned in annoyance, seemingly mad at him for her failed attempt at charm.

“…Fine,” she said, quieter now. Then, after a beat, “Show me the report.”

Nate and Brandon leaned back in their chairs, clearly whispering behind Isaac’s back.

“How does he do it?” Nate muttered under his breath.

Brandon chuckled. “I don’t know, man. Dude might actually be Bruce Wayne.”

Isaac heard them. He didn’t react. He just kept the same friendly expression on his face as he slid his report over to Julia.

She took it with surprising care and started reading, eyes moving quickly down the page. No snide comment. No eye-roll. Just focus.

Good.

The plan was taking shape. If he could peel even one pawn out of Madison’s orbit—even slightly—that was leverage. Better yet if it caused friction. Favoring the lackey while ignoring the queen was exactly the kind of thing that bred resentment. And resentment could fester until Julia broke away from the group.

More time passed as Julia read their reports.Another group ended up winning the reward though.

Barely.

Gladly announced it with the faintest hint of disappointment, noting that Isaac’s group had come in a very close second. Close enough that it was actually a surprise to the class they hadn’t won. Nate leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, Brandon gave a small fist pump under the desk, and Julia—who had just finished presenting for her group like she actually knew what she was talking about instead of having read of others people's worlk—looked more relieved than proud.

“Nice job,” Brandon said quietly as she sat back down. 

“Yeah,” Nate added, nodding. “You actually sounded prepared.”

Julia rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway. “Shut up. And… thanks. For helping me out.” The last part was directed at Isaac.

He gave her a thumbs up and she didn’t linger after that. The bell rang and Madison was already gathering her things, so Julia followed her out with the rest of the group trailing behind.

Isaac slung his bag over his shoulder and stood with Brandon and Nate. The second they were outside the class, Isaac paused.

“You guys go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

Nate gave him a look. “You sure? The lunch line is gonna get pretty long if you're late.”

“Yeah.”

They shrugged and headed off toward the cafeteria. He leaned back against the wall outside the classroom, hands across his chest as he waited for Taylor to walk out.

For some reason, she hadn’t left class yet.

But what occupied his attention more than Taylor was a cluster of girls gathered a short distance away—too organised to be coincidence. The presence of Emma, Madison, and Sophia practically confirmed what they were gathered here for. 

Isaac, having no interest in letting Taylor walk into an ambush, decided to run interference. 

He straightened slightly and lifted a hand. “Hey.”

That made them pause their giggling and finally take notice of him.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting,” Isaac answered calmly.

“For what?”

“For Taylor. Just like you guys.”

The air shifted, confusion evident in some of the lackeys but Emma and Madison looked delighted at his declaration. He supposed they believed Sophia filled him in on the car ride she had with him yesterday and that he was now “in” on bullying Taylor.

Sophia didn’t buy it.

“What, you and Hebert friends now?” she asked, stepping closer.

Isaac kept his expression flat. “No. We’ve hardly even talked.”

She took another step, close enough that most people would’ve backed up. “Then what?”

“Well,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “being new to the jungle and all, I figured I’d start looking for more friends. She seemed nice enough.”

As brainwashed by her predator prey fairytale as Sophia was, she picked up on his body language instantly. The lack of tension. The calm in his face and voice. The implication that she didn’t rate as a threat by putting his hands in his pocket.

It pissed her off.

Her hands balled into fists. “Maybe you should find someone else to be friends with. We’ve got business with her.”

Isaac tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk touching his lips. “And maybe you’re standing too close. People might start talking if they keep seeing us like this, Hess.”

Her face flushed with fury. “You fucking smartass—”

She drew her arm back, ready to swing. Isaac didn’t move. He’d let her get one hit in before laying her out and going straight to Blackwell. Even that corrupt principal wouldn’t be able to ignore that, not after the generous donation he’d just given yesterday.

But the punch never landed.

Emma grabbed Sophia’s arm. Madison caught her other side, hauling her back before things could turn ugly. Sophia snarled and fought them for a second, then froze when she realized how many eyes were on them.

Emma turned back to Isaac, her tone smoother and more charismatic than her more violent friend. “Sorry about her. But she has a point. Why bother with Taylor? She’s a loser. A drug addict slut. Everyone knows it.”

Madison nodded along, arms crossed, piling on with practiced ease. Julia stood with the other hangers-on, quiet and pointedly avoiding his eyes.

Isaac half-listened while they talked. The insults blurred together, repetitive and pointless. For a moment, he wondered if all the social maneuvering he had done earlier had even been worth it. If doing things subtly had just dragged things out to this inevitable point of confrontation.

Probably still necessary.

At least this way, it wasn’t happening inside of a classroom.

“Listen,” he said, cutting through them. His voice was calm, firm. “I don’t care what you think of Taylor. Whatever your opinions are—whatever the truth is—I’ll let her actions and character speak for her. Not any of you.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

He looked over the group once, then settled his gaze on Sophia, deliberately baiting her one last time. “So. Are we done here, or do you want another shot at my jaw?” He stuck his chin out slightly, the smirk returning. “Fair warning—I’m something of a feminist.”

Sophia shook with restrained fury. It seemed that whatever comradery she felt with him yesterday had evaporated like water the second he stepped on her toes. Madison pulled her back again, harder this time. “Let’s just go. It’s not even worth it.”

But none of them moved until Emma did.

She looked at Isaac like she was both angry and disappointed, flipped her hair, and walked away without a word. Sophia yanked her arm free from Madison’s grip, nearly sending the smaller girl to the floor, and stormed off after her. Madison and the others followed soon after.

Isaac stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, watching them go—smirk still in place until the last of them rounded the corner.

Chapter Text

Isaac waited.

He counted it out in his head without really meaning to—one… two… three…—until nearly a full minute had passed since the trio disappeared around the corner. Only then did the classroom door crack open.

Taylor emerged slowly, like she expected something to jump out at her the moment she crossed the threshold. She leaned out first, head swiveling as she scanned the hallway, eyes sharp and searching. When nothing happened, she stepped fully outside—and then froze when she saw him still there.

Her surprise showed immediately.

“…You’re still here,” she said.

“Yo,” Isaac replied easily, pushing himself off the wall as he gave a small wave.

She narrowed her eyes at him, gave a guarded, “Hey,” and then looked past him, down both ends of the hallway again. Her shoulders were tight, posture coiled like she was bracing for a trap like Emma, Madison, and Sophia would appear any second now but nothing happened.

Isaac let the silence stretch, not saying anything more to give her time to realize that she wasn’t about to get jumped or humiliated. When her gaze finally returned to him, he answered the unspoken question.

“Sooo, I was just about to hit lunch,” he said. “You in?”

That made her frown deepen.

“…Do you know what you just did?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait.

“You don’t,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “You’re new. You don’t get it yet. Those three? They’re untouchable. They can say whatever they want, do whatever they want, and nobody does anything. Teachers don’t care. Students don’t care. Administration definitely doesn’t care.”

Her fist clenched at her sides, voice tight as she kept going.

“And now you just painted a giant target on your back. Congratulations! From now until we graduate or drop out of this hellhole, you’ll have to deal with them ruining your life.”

“I doubt it’ll be that bad,” Isaac said honestly. 

As annoying as it would be for Maddison and Emma to start getting the rumor mill running, it ultimately didn’t matter. Once the consequences of Sophia's actions came to bite, the fallout for the trio would be far worse than any believable rumour they could spread about him. 

Taylor didn’t know that though.

“It will!” she snapped, the word coming out sharp and loud enough to echo in the empty hall.

She flinched at herself immediately, eyes widening before she swallowed hard. “Sorry. I—” She took a breath, calming herself before continuing. “It will,” she repeated, quieter but no less certain. “You think just because you’re big and strong that nothing they can do will matter? They won’t fight you themselves. They’ll lie. Drag your name through the mud. Ruin your grades. Push buttons until you swing first or just get boys to jump you.”

She laughed, short and bitter from almost two years of constant defeat. “And the funny thing is, even if you got past all that? Emma’s dad is a lawyer. You lay a hand on her or her friends and he’ll make sure you never stop paying for it.”

She turned away, already moving to leave. “You shouldn’t have done that Isaac. And please don’t do it again if you want them to forget about you. I can handle my own problems.”

Isaac let her walk, annoyed at the Trio for messing up his opportunity to befriend her today.

While he certainly didn’t expect her to laud him as her saviour, he also hadn’t expected her to reject him so strongly or maintain her defeatist attitude, especially after the achievements she earned just last night.

She was now officially a hero. Not the polished, press-ready kind the PRT loved to parade around just because they had powers, but the real kind—the kind who would put her life on the line for strangers because it was the right thing to do.

So why hadn’t she changed, or more accurately, why had she stayed the same after last night? Compared to facing down Lung, whatever high school girls could do shouldn’t even make her blink. Yet she was still scared of them.

This gnawed at the Operator.

Baffled him really.

Was the reason she acted like this to maintain a divide in personality between her regular self and her cape identity? Ridiculous. Both her identities were not separate people or personalities, just two expressions of the same will. Yet she acted as though taking off the mask meant she was no longer allowed to be brave, or strong, or worthy of being protected in return.

The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it irritated him, a quiet resolve building with every thought until it settled into a single, unavoidable conclusion.

He couldn’t let this continue.

On his honor as a Tenno, Isaac would not allow her to live like this any longer.

“I will,” he said before she had gotten far down the hall.

She stopped dead and spun back around. “What?”

He walked steady and fast with purpose as he closed the distance between them. Getting as close as possible without entering her personal space.

“I will,” he repeated, calm and resolute as if the matter was already decided.

“Did you hear anything I just said,” she demanded angrily. 

“I did,” he replied. “All of it. And none of it changes anything.”

She stared at him as if she were looking at an alien.

“Why?” she half shouted. “Why won’t you just stay out of my business!?”

“Because you matter to me Taylor,” he said bluntly, looking her directly in the eyes to get his point across.

Taylor went still as a faint flush crept up her cheeks. Isaac had the brief, distant thought that maybe he’d phrased that wrong—she was clearly embarrassed by it—but he didn’t take it back. Backtracking would weaken the point.

“Y-you—,” she stammered, blushing more before readjusting herself to speak clearly. “That's ridiculous. We just met yesterday.”

“Yes,” he agreed, without hesitation. “And yet I like you.”

“But you barely know me! You can’t just—” She tried to argue.

“That’s true,” he cut in, smiling. “But you can tell a lot about a person by asking them for help. And you helped me even when you thought that no one in this school would bother lifting a finger to help you. That tells me more than enough to make me want to know more.”

She faltered.

The tension in her shoulders eased by. Her hands, which had curled into fists during her tirade, loosened.

Isaac saw it immediately and continued speaking before she could rally again.

“So even if you dislike me for helping,” he said calmly. “Even if you really can handle them on your own. I won’t back down. So you’re just gonna have to deal with not carrying your burdens alone anymore.”

Taylor stared at him.

Really stared this time, like she was trying to decide whether he was truly genuine or just another Trio lackey trying to trick her again. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Whatever retort she’d been gearing up for didn’t come. 

Instead, her eyes went glassy for a second. She scrubbed at them with the heel of her hand, turning her face away like she was embarrassed to have let it show. Isaac stayed where he was, saying nothing, giving her the space to get herself under control.

When she turned back, she looked steadier. Still tense and wary. But she didn’t look like she was going to tell him off.

“Fine,” she said, almost glaring up at him like she was daring him to mess this up. “Don’t make me regret this, Isaac.”

He had to bite back a sharp grin at that. There was something in her eyes now that hadn’t been there before—hope mixed with a very clear promise of consequences if he betrayed her. It suited her far better than the downcast, guarded look she usually wore.

“Wouldn’t even dream of it,” he replied easily, extending a hand toward her. “Friends?”

Her gaze dropped to his hand instead of his face. She hesitated for half a second, then reached out and clasped it, her grip firm despite how small her hand felt in his.

“Friends,” she echoed.

Isaac gave her hand a single shake before letting go, then tilted his head slightly, voice softening as he asked the earlier question again like nothing heavy had just happened.

“So, friend,” he said, “since we’ve still got lots of time before next period… wanna join me for lunch?”

He waited for her answer.

She huffed despite herself, then caught it and tried to look serious again. It didn’t quite stick because of the small smile she was sporting.

“I don’t like the cafeteria,” she said bluntly. “Emma and her friends are usually there, and they’ll definitely try something if we show up.”

Isaac considered that for a moment, gaze flicking down the empty hallway to see Gladly leaving his room before returning his sight to her.

“I doubt they’ll regroup fast enough to try anything else today,” he said. “At least not before we’re done eating.”

“And what makes you so confident you can predict them?” she shot back. “You’ve been here for two days.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Isaacs mouth as he remembered that she had left school earlier yesterday.

“Well,” he said, tone mirthful, “funny thing about yesterday…”

Taylor stared at him as he finished talking, her tray balanced awkwardly in her hands as they stepped off the lunch line and paused just past the bottleneck of students shuffling forward. The noise of the cafeteria pressed in around them—voices, laughter, chairs scraping—but she barely seemed to notice.

“You’re serious,” she said finally.

Isaac shrugged, casual as ever. “About as serious as I get, yeah.”

He hadn’t embellished anything. He’d told her what had happened in the lunchroom yesterday—how things had escalated after school and a full on free for all brawl broke out. He’d even filled her in on how the situation had ended with him being let off easily instead of suspended and how he ended up giving Sophia a lift to the boardwalk. He once again didn’t bother to mention her predator-prey nonsense. 

That hadn’t saved him from the stink eye she was giving him now.

“I can’t believe you gave her a ride?” Taylor hissed, lowering her voice only because they were in public. 

“It’s not nearly as personal as it sounds,” Isaac explained calmly. “I didn’t offer the ride to her in particular. I offered it to anyone in the room at the time, even that E88 kid, and he tried to jump me.”

That earned him a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Unbelievable.”

He smirked. That was a word that described him far more than she could likely comprehend so he took it in stride like it was a compliment.

If anything, he’d expected a worse reaction considering he’d blatantly admitted to bribing the principal. But he suspected that it hadn’t shocked Taylor much because she already believed that Blackwell was corrupt. The Principal taking bribes to look the other way would just be par for the course to her.

Isaac's eyes watched her as she shifted her weight, gaze flicking past him toward the far end of the cafeteria. He followed it instinctively, scanning the tables until he spotted who she was looking for.

Emma and Madison were clustered with their usual crowd near the corner. Sophia sat with them too. She wasn’t talking or laughing with them though. She was watching. When her eyes met Isaac’s and she saw who he was with, her mouth twisted into a familiar scowl.

Taylor quickly looked away.

“Well,” she said quietly, bitterness creeping into her tone, “I can see why you were so relaxed about stepping in earlier. The system’s already on your side.”

Isaac glanced down at her, then gently nudged her elbow with his own. “It’s on yours too.”

She snorted. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday,” he said. “And since today. From now on, you and any one else they mess with won’t be ignored.”

“Fat chance,” she replied, shaking her head. “You can’t know or vouch for everyone they decide to go after.”

“I won’t need to.” 

She looked at him, skeptical so he opened his mouth to answer —but didn’t get the chance.

“Uh—big bro?”

The voice was hesitant but clear. Isaac turned just as a boy stepped into their path. He looked familiar, so it only took Isaac a second to place him without the blood and swelling.

Same kid from the principals office yesterday, Bloody Nose.

Up close, he looked a little older than Isaac had initially thought. Cleaned up, the bruising around his nose was faint and yellowing, no longer angry red. His skin tone and facial features suggested mixed heritage—Latino and Asian—and his black hoodie sported a faded Batman logo stretched across the chest. Cargo pants, scuffed sneakers. He stood a little hunched, like he was expecting someone to yell at him for being in the way.

“Hey,” Isaac said, surprised. “What’s up?”

The kid swallowed. “Uh. I—I just wanted to say… your seat is ready. Nate and Brandon are already there.”

Isaac blinked in confusion, a single brow raised. “My seats?”

The boy nodded quickly, then glanced at Taylor before looking at him again.

“This is my friend Taylor,” Isaac said, filling the silence.

“Oh,” the kid said, like that confirmed something important. “Yeah. I—hi.”

Taylor, caught off guard, just meekly said hi back.

Isaac tried to think of his name before realizing he never got it. “What’s your name by the way? I don’t think I caught it yesterday.”

“Carlos,” he said immediately. “Carlos Diaz.”

“Good to meet you, Carlos,” Isaac replied. “And… big bro?”

Carlos flushed. “S-sorry. It’s just—Nate said to call you that.”

Taylor shot him a look, equal parts confused and incredulous.

Isaac lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. He was just as clueless as her on this matter. He didn’t exactly tell Nate and Brandon to do all this.

Carlos shifted from foot to foot. “So… yeah. They’re waiting.”

“Lead the way,” Isaac replied easily. The sooner he found those two, the faster answers would come.

Carlos nodded and turned, weaving confidently through people and tables.

Taylor leaned closer as they followed. “Isaac, is there something important you want to tell me? Maybe something you left out of your story?”

Isaac shrugged again. “Nope. Why do you think I'm confused?”

She didn’t question him for the rest of the walk.

When they reached the table, Taylor’s steps slowed almost immediately.

There were a lot of people there.

More than a normal lunch table could reasonably justify. Some were sitting, trays balanced on their knees or pushed aside to make space. Others stood behind them, sitting backwards on the benches nearby or hovering just close enough to be included. When Carlos led Isaac up from behind, the quiet hum of conversation dropped into whispers almost instantly.

Eyes turned.

Taylor stiffened beside him.

Carlos, blissfully unaware or simply unbothered, continued to weave through the gathered students and stopped at a very specific gap at the table—one deliberately left open between Brandon and Nate.

“Here big bro,” Carlos said, gesturing like this had always been the plan. “Your seat.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow but went to sit.

Nate and Brandon spotted him with Taylor almost immediately and both sighed at the same time, the sound long-suffering but not hostile.

“Called it,” Nate muttered.

“Yeah,” Brandon added, rubbing his face. “This tracks with Mr White Knight.”

Someone at the far end of the table stood without complaint, tray in hand, shifting to make room for Taylor.

She stopped walking.

Her shoulders were tight, her grip on her tray just a little too firm. She leaned toward Isaac, voice low. “Why are there so many people? Is this a gang?”

Isaac didn’t answer right away, because he didn’t know. Instead, he tilted his head toward her and said quietly, “I don’t think so but sit with me and you’ll be fine.”

That didn’t immediately convince her.

She scanned the table again and he did the same. The looks weren’t hostile but they were intense, curious and focused. 

I don’t think—”

“Taylor,” he said, gently. “Trust me.”

She hesitated another beat, then exhaled and sat.

The tension in her posture didn’t disappear, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Isaac took the seat beside her, placing himself squarely between Nate and Brandon, with Taylor tucked in close on his other side.

The whispering picked up again, quieter but more animated now that he was seated.

Brandon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Sooo,” he said, dragging the word out. “We figure you’ve got a few questions.”

Isaac made a thoughtful sound. “I wonder what gave it away. Anyways, what’s with the gathering?”

Nate took over. “These guys?” He thumbed over his shoulder at the cluster of students. “They’re your fan club.”

Isaac's brain stuttered as he took that in. Then he looked at him. “I’m sorry—my what?”

Nate just shrugged like he was saying the sky was blue. “Fan club.”

Isaac glanced between Nate and Brandon. “You guys set this up?”

“Nope,” Brandon answered immediately. “Not us.”

Nate shook his head. “I mean, I thought something like this might happen eventually. Just… not this fast. And not without me knowing first.”

“I see,” Isaac said mildly.

He looked over the crowd properly now.

There were a lot of boys. A few girls. Most of them were what anyone could call nerdy. A lot of hoodies, graphic tees, and backpacks with frayed straps. Several had visible bruises—knuckles scabbed over, a split lip, a fading black eye. Injuries that looked fresh.

Yesterday fresh.

“Alright,” Isaac said aloud for them to hear him. “Who started it then?”

Carlos, who was behind him, straightened like he’d been waiting for the question.

“I did big bro,” he answered.

“And why did you do that?” Isaac asked as he twisted his body to look at him.

Carlos swallowed, then squared his shoulders. “Because I admired that you stood your ground.”

Low incoherent murmurs spread out in the group as he spoke.

“You were surrounded by E88,” Carlos continued, voice gaining confidence. “Outnumbered with an easy way out and you didn’t take it. You fought back against them and you won.”

Isaac stayed quiet, making sure his face betrayed nothing.

“And you didn’t just beat them,” Carlos went on. “Even if unintentionally, you gave everyone a chance to fight. And then—” He hesitated, then pushed on. “You pulled strings. You got us out of trouble. Even that Empire kid.”

Someone muttered, “Shouldn’t have done that in my opinion.”

He was ignored.

“And you didn’t rub it in or gloat about it,” Carlos finished. “You just… let it be over and I thought… I thought that was really cool.”

A general noise of agreement came from the group.

“So I figured that since you’ll definitely become a target in the future, we should make a group to support you. Force them to back off with big numbers. Everyone here are the people that would join us on short notice,” Carlos explained. “But it's not all of them. Some just didn’t want to skip class to show up.”

Isaac turned from him to look over the faces of the group, picked up his fork, and nudged his food around, buying himself a moment.

Internally, he was practically vibrating.

This was just what he needed and everything was falling into place faster than he’d planned. He’d expected to have to put way more groundwork and time into getting to know people and winning them over. Instead, Carlos had done the heavy lifting for him. 

He could almost hug the kid right now!

All he needed to do now was seize the opportunity presented. 

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he said, voice level and unforced. “And I appreciate the intent behind forming this group. Really. But I want to be clear about what this is—and what it isn’t.”

He shifted slightly, forearms resting on the table, posture relaxed but deliberate.

“I don't want a protection detail and I’m not handing out orders like some wannabe gang leader.” His gaze moved across the group, steady, making sure the message landed. “I don’t want anyone starting fights in my name. I don’t want people throwing themselves into trouble because they think I expect it, or because they think I’ll back them no matter what.” 

A few people visibly relaxed. Others stayed tense, waiting to hear the rest.

“What I am interested in,” he continued, “is making sure nobody here gets isolated. This is only my second day, and I’ve already seen how this place works. People get singled out. Cornered. Picked off one at a time. And everyone else pretends not to notice because it’s safer that way.”

He didn’t call anyone out by name or even look at them. He didn’t have to. Shame turned the head of the guilty.

“But If you’re here because you’re tired of that—because you don’t want to watch someone get picked on and think, ‘At least it’s not me’—then we’re on the same page.”

A few heads nodded. Slowly. Carefully.

“Now, I get that not everyone can be strong or fearless,” Isaac went on. “If we were, none of us would be sitting here. But this—” he gestured around the table, “—this is how you start fixing that. Look out for each other. Speak up when someone’s being pushed. You step in when it’s safe, and you get help when it’s not.”

He spread his hands slightly, palms up.

“And if someone won’t back off or tries to make an example out of you for doing the right thing?” His eyes hardened. “Then I’ll stand with you. I’ll speak up for you. I’ll fight for you. Every day and every time.”

He let silence reign for a short time as he looked around smiling one last time.

“You with me on this,” he finished. 

The cheers that followed were a bit too enthusiastic but it was fine. Everything was going according to plan.

Chapter Text

Taylor stared at Isaac like she was seeing him for the first time as the last of his words faded into the embarrassingly loud cheers around the table.

Growing up with a mother who taught English—and inheriting her love of books along with it—Taylor had been exposed to more speeches than most people her age. Fictional ones, historical ones, and plenty delivered by real people with real power. That wasn’t even counting the countless speeches she’d heard over the years on the radio, online, or on TV from capes she admired—Alexandria, Armsmaster, Legend. If anyone tried to tell her she couldn’t recognize a good speech when she heard one, she’d argue them into the ground.

And Isaac’s had been good.

He hadn’t raised his voice like he was declaring victory or tried to loom larger than life. He hadn’t even played to the crowd or fed off their attention. If anything, he’d seemed almost indifferent to how enamored they already were.

Instead, he’d done something far more effective.

He’d set boundaries before ever claiming authority.

He’d offered solidarity instead of control.

And most impressively—at least to Taylor—he hadn’t positioned himself as the solution to everyone’s problems. He’d made it clear that his support depended on people looking out for each other, not just hiding behind him.

The confidence with which he said all of that was the same sureness and sincerity he had earlier, outside Gladly’s classroom, when he boldly declared he liked her. That he valued her. That he wanted to know her more. That he wouldn’t leave her to deal with the trio, even when she’d been suspicious and openly hostile toward him.

Hearing him say all that with his annoyingly charming smile had been almost as embarrassing as it was touching. Because Isaac, for all his way with words, seemed intent on choosing the most blunt and easy to misinterpret way of saying what he meant then. 

That he liked her as a person and wanted to be friends.

Still, regardless of his shortcomings, his words had reached her. Maybe even more than Umbra’s had.  Because while Umbra’s words last night had been directed at a hero. At someone who’d proven themself as exceptional in a literal trial by fire.

Isaac’s weren’t.

They’d been meant for just Taylor Hebert.

The bullied nobody. The unwanted girl. The one people looked past or stepped on without thinking.

It made her earlier doubts about Isaac—about whether he was just playing some long joke, or positioning himself to hurt her later—feel thin in the face of that sincerity. Embarrassingly so. 

Yet still—she couldn’t stop new ones from forming.

Something about Isaac didn’t add up

He was strong. Abundantly so considering almost everyone at this table carried some injury from yesterday's fight, except him. Smart too—she’d seen it in how fast he picked things up and in how he talked. Charismatic enough that people gravitated toward him after just two days here. And wealthy enough that his father could apparently bribe the principal without blinking. 

That alone should have put him at or near the top of the food chain anywhere else.

A good high school like Arcadia or Immaculata would've snatched him up instantly if he applied there.

And while Taylor didn’t hate Brockton Bay, despite everything it put her through, she wasn’t blind to its problems. Most of it was a dump on the edge of collapse and it was overrun with villains. Any parent with money, options, and a sense of self-preservation—especially with a Black son—would’ve looked at the city’s neo-Nazi population alone and kept driving.

Yet his dad had chosen to move them here and put his son in Winslow.

It didn’t make sense.

Then there was the way he’d handled the crowd. His initial surprise at his ‘fan club’ seemed genuine—but the moment he realized what was happening, he hadn’t shown uncertainty or hesitation. He’d stepped into leadership like it was familiar territory.

In short, he was suspicious. Deeply so.

He had to be hiding something. Taylor just knew it. Could feel it in her gut.

And yet… as he laughed quietly with the others, asking names, listening, making an effort to remember faces—faces that would soon be depending on him—she realized she was smiling.

Just a little. So subtle she barely noticed it herself.

Because for all her doubts, for all the unanswered questions piling up around him, Isaac had stood up for her. Publicly. Without waiting for her to get humiliated by the trio before stepping in and without asking for anything in return beyond her company.

Looking back on that moment with the perspective of him she had now, she was sure that even rejecting his offer of friendship and brushing him off wouldn’t have stopped him from defending her later on anyways. 

So she told herself she could figure him out later. That she could keep her guard up and still enjoy this small, little friendship for what it was. That poking too hard right now would only ruin it.

Taylor felt an elbow nudge her lightly, just enough to pull her out of her thoughts.

“Hey,” Isaac said, pitching his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Need your input.”

Taylor blinked in confusion. “On what?”

He gestured vaguely toward Nate, Brandon, Carlos and a few others, who were mid-argument. “A name. For the cla—” He paused, catching himself. “—group.”

She wished she missed the near-slip.

He’d meant to say Clan. 

The word and all the insinuations that it brought bounced around in her head and she had to bite down on a reaction before it showed on her face.

“Oh,” she said instead, carefully neutral. “Right. The… group.”

“Yeah,” Isaac continued, rubbing the back of his neck like this was suddenly awkward. “Calling them my ‘fan club’ feels… demeaning. Also like I’m one ego trip away from being some stuck up movie star.”

Despite herself, she snorted.

That earned her a grin. “See? That's the reaction I want to avoid. No one will take them seriously if it's called that.”

“So what are the options?” she asked.

“Well,” he said smugly, like he was impressed with himself, “my first thought was ‘the Outsiders.’”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s… actually not bad.”

It was certainly better than anything she could think of on a first try.

“I thought so,” he preened, smile going from smug to just pleased. “Kind of fits, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “ Yeah, so why the argument?”

Nate, overhearing them, turned from the argument to face her. “Because it sounds way too close to the Undersiders.”

Taylor frowned in confusion, not knowing what group he was referring to. “The what?”

“Local villain crew,” Nate explained flippantly. “Thieves, mostly. They hit other villains sometimes, too.”

Taylor absorbed that quietly, filing the name of the villains away for later research. “Thanks for telling me. I can see why that’d be a bad idea.”

Isaac groaned in annoyance at her agreeing with him.

“Right?” Nate said happily. “Last thing we need is people thinking we’re trying to copy a villain gang, or worse, be part of it.”

She nodded, already thinking of the many ways that could go poorly for them in a school filled with the gangs they rob.

“Well,” Isaac chimed in, “got any ideas? Because we’ve been talking for a while and at this rate we’ll be stuck on this all period.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. Names weren’t exactly her strong suit. She knew that. Every time she’d tried to name her hero persona—they’d come terrible or too villain-like.

Still… he’d asked for her help.

“What about something descriptive instead of cool or catchy?” she offered. “Like… I don’t know. ‘Peer Support.’ Or ‘Lookout.’ Something that says what you actually do.”

There was a pause in most conversations around her as she gave out her answer.  Just about everyone was waiting to hear how the idea was received.

Nate made a face. “That sounds like a school club.”

Brandon nodded his head in agreement before giving his own two cents. “Or a hotline.”

“Yeah,” Nate added. “Like, ‘press one if you’re being bullied.’”

Her shoulders tensed, embarrassment and fear creeping in as others around chuckled at what he said, but she forced herself not to withdraw. She took silent breaths and reminded herself that they weren’t laughing at her. They weren’t making fun of her. They just found what Nate said funny.

“I’m just saying,” Taylor continued, pushing through the stirring anxiety, “names that try too hard to sound cool usually end up doing the opposite. If this is about people not being isolated or anti-bullying then the name should reflect that. Not… posturing.”

She took a glance at Isaac, his expression thoughtful and impressed.

“Huh,” he said slowly. “That’s a good point Taylor, I agree.”

Brandon glanced between them. “You saying we should name ourselves something boring on purpose?”

“I’m saying,” Taylor replied, meeting his gaze, “that us sounding cool matters less than sounding honest.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then a chorus of agreement passed over the group.

Nate sighed, realizing that the decision was as good as made. “We can workshop it later but I think for now, Lookout as a place holder name will do just fine. All in agreement, raise your hand and say "I.””

All around the table people raised their hands and Isaac smiled at her as he raised his.

 “I,” he said loudly before saying quietly. “See that’s why I wanted your input.”

“Thanks,” Taylor murmured as she looked away, heat creeping into her cheeks, but this time she didn’t try to hide the small, pleased smile that followed. 

“I should be the one thanking you,” He whispered as I sounded out around them. “Names two through thirteen would have made this name business take much longer to get through.”

She briefly wondered what those names were but before she even thought to ask him, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. “Looks like this period’s almost over. We’ll continue this later.”

Isaac pulled a pen from his bag, tore a strip from a notebook, and scribbled something down before turning to hold it out to Carlos behind him.

“Hey Carlos,” he said.

Carlos leaned in immediately. “Yeah, big bro?”

Isaac handed him the paper. “This is my number. Start a group chat or add me to one everyone is in.”

Carlos took it like it was something important, nodding seriously. “Got it.”

Behind them, Nate and Brandon were very obviously trying not to laugh.

Taylor frowned at that, a flicker of irritation rising. It felt mean-spirited, like they were making fun of Carlos for the nickname when they were the ones who told him to say it.

But Carlos didn’t seem embarrassed and Isaac didn’t react at all. So she let it go.

What mattered more was the sudden reminder she didn’t have a phone. 

A tight, uncomfortable feeling twisted in her chest. After her mom died in a car crash while on the phone, she and her dad avoided the devices like they were a curse. They thought they didn’t need them. That they were safer without them.

Except now that wasn’t true. At least for Taylor.

Not having one had forced her into confronting Lung instead of calling for help. And now it meant she couldn’t stay connected with her new group.

A realization made her pause.

When had they become we? 

Isaac continued talking, oblivious to her internal thoughts.

“If you can’t text for whatever reason,” he added, “I’ll go over everything with whoever shows up here tomorrow. No one should skip class for this. I’ll make sure the important stuff gets passed along.”

Her shoulders loosened just a little at that. Relief followed quickly—but it didn’t erase the conclusion forming in her mind.

If she didn’t want to be stuck reacting to whatever circumstances boxed her in, she needed to be better prepared.

She needed a phone.

If nothing else, then for her hero work.

The bell rang, sharp and loud, cutting through the cafeteria chatter.

Chairs scraped. Trays were gathered. The group started to break apart, voices overlapping as everyone said goodbye, moved toward their next class or lingered because it was finally their actual lunch period.

Taylor stood beside Isaac as the group thinned, adjusting her bag strap and quietly hoping that they were headed to the same class next.

After lunch, people scattered in a dozen directions. Isaac and Taylor Both had art class next so stuck together while Nate and Brandon peeled off toward their own classes with matching looks of mischief.

“Have fun Bruce Wayne,” Brandon called over his shoulder.

“Why do you keep calling me that,” Isaac shot back.

That only earned a laugh from both of them before they disappeared into the crowd.

He looked to Taylor for an answer and she just shrugged before walking ahead of him to the next class. He quickly let it go and followed up behind her.

A few of the Lookout kids trailed ahead or behind him and Taylor, also having the same class. Yet they kept their distance.

He appreciated that.

Isaac wouldn’t mind if they wanted to get closer to him later, but right now he was with Taylor and wasn't certain how she'd react to them trying to get closer to her like he had.

When they got to their next period class, Isaac took a seat beside Taylor, dumping his bag under the table and pulling out a plain pencil and sketch book. Taylor glanced at it, then at him, then back to her own neatly arranged supplies.

“You didn’t bring much,” she commented. “Need to borrow anything?”

He shrugged and smirked. “Nah, I'm good. Skill is my primary tool. Thanks though.”

He could see she wanted to roll her eyes at his response.

Mrs. Porter wasted no time once everyone settled in and launched into instructions—they’d be doing something called still lifes, basic shading, and weren’t allowed to talk during the first ten minutes. After that, the room settled into that soft scratch of pencils against paper.

Isaac stared at the arrangement on the table: a chipped mug, an apple with a bruise on one side, and a length of fabric draped like it had been tossed there without much thought. He squinted at it, tilted his head, then set pencil to paper.

Drawing by hand wasn’t something he did. Every time he designed things, it was by visualizing them in a simulation program—the components, the resources needed, the structure, the way everything should fit together until it was complete enough to be made real. That kind of work didn’t involve hand drawing.

Still, yesterday’s class made one thing clear.

While this wasn’t a perfect translation of how he normally worked, the instincts of a Tenno could be applied. Like swordsmanship, art required control, precision, and steady motions. 

His pencil moved smoothly, shading falling into place as he blocked out the rough forms before refining them. It left him with a half-way decent sketch.

Eight minutes in, Taylor leaned over, eyes flicking between the still life and his paper.

“…Huh.”

He glanced sideways. “Something wrong with it?”

“No,” she said slowly. “Just. I thought you’d be better.”

He kept his eyes mostly on his sketch as he scoffed like he’d been offended. “How brutal.”

Taking his comment too seriously, Taylor rushed to explain herself.

“No! I mean—” She flushed a little. “Sorry, it’s just that with how fast you learn I kind of figured you’d be perfect at this already.”

Isaac snorted then clicked his tongue as when he shaded too hard and smudged the paper with his thumb.

 He supposed he could understand where she was coming from. Looking at him from the outside, his confidence, skills, and education could be interpreted by those who didn’t know the truth as being an aloof genius type. Someone who never had to try when doing anything because everything came natural to them.

But that could not be farther from the truth. It was all mostly experience. 

“Trust me Taylor, if I were good at everything, this mug wouldn’t look like it’s melting.”

She studied his drawing more closely, then giggled softly. “It does kind of look like a sad ghost.”

He squinted his eyes at the drawing, realized she was right, and scowled. Hand already moving to begin erasing.

 “Great,” he grumbled, “Gonna have to start again.”

Her hand shot out and caught his wrist just before the eraser touched the page.

“Don’t erase it,” she said. “You can fix it. Just—adjust it like this.”

She released him and turned back to her own sketch, angling her paper slightly so he could see. Her pencil moved with careful intent, lines layered and refined instead of replaced. She paused before each stroke, considering, then committing.

Isaac watched her work. The patience in it. The control. And he learned.

After seeing the full design of her costume, the clean lines and purposeful choices, it wasn’t surprising she was good at this.

“Thanks,” he said after she finished her demonstration. “You’re pretty good.”

She shrugged without looking up. “I’m okay. I’ve just had a lot of practice.”

“You know that still counts as being good right?”

She huffed at that and he smirked.

They fell into an easy rhythm after that. A quiet comment here. A shared glance at each other's work there. Long stretches where neither felt the need to speak. It was… nice. 

When Mrs. Porter did her rounds, she paused behind Isaac, humming thoughtfully.

“You need to work more on your shading,” she said. “But you have quite the talent Mr Isaac. Compared to your work yesterday, this is a marked improvement. Keep at it.”

“Will do teach,” he responded as she moved on to critique Taylor.

Internally, he sighed—not in frustration, but in idle thought. He briefly wondered if there was a Warframe somewhere in Orokin memory whose purpose revolved around art and aesthetics. Thinking about it more deeply, it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest that there was. Still, learning something from scratch, without borrowed instincts or muscle memory, also felt… nice. So he dismissed the thought  of cheating like that.

The bell rang not long after, and they packed up together.

Math followed.

Isaac had expected it to be quieter, but somehow it turned into the most conversation-heavy period of the day. Maybe because by then Taylor relaxed a little more around him.

They sat at the back, notebooks open, teacher droning on in front about functions while he spent time completing the entire section of the textbook dedicated to the subject with ease. When he finished Taylor glanced sideways at him, not even surprised.

“You’re done already,” she asked quietly.

“Yep, perks of being friends with calculators in another life,” he said jokingly.

There was a brief, indignant crackle in his head.

“OPERATOR,” Ordis shouted, offended. “Ordis is NOT a calculator. Ordis is a highly advanced Old War era Cephalon with—”

“Sorry Ordis,” Isaac thought back, unable to help the amusement he felt. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

More time passed after that and silence reigned between the two again. Taylor kept looking between her textbook and him, hesitating to say something before finally working up the courage. 

“So,” she said quietly. “You like… reading?”

He turned to her, interested in the non sequitur. 

“Not much of a casual reader but I do like stories,” he responded.

That seemed to be the right answer. Her posture eased, shoulders loosening, and excitement flickered across her face. From there on she talked—about authors he’d never heard of, about symbolism and themes, about how some stories felt less like entertainment and more like conversations with the person who wrote them.

He listened. Quietly asked questions when he didn’t understand something and nudged her to keep going when she trailed off. She noticed. It showed in the way her voice grew steadier and more confident in expressing her love for literature. She didn’t even seem bothered that he didn’t recognize any of the classics she mentioned. 

When Taylor asked him about stories he knew, he thought about just retelling an adventure he had but that didn’t feel right. Like he was secretly bragging instead of truly engaging with her interest.

So instead, he told her about the story he knew best, the Tales of Duviri.

Not the conceptual embodiment of the kingdom or his counterparts journey through it. But the story book made by Mother. The Orokin who used to be more widely known as Euleria Entrati.

He whispered to her about the child like Mathila—Duviri’s Harbinger of Joy. A naïve woman who tried to solve every problem by making it simply “go away.” She believed happiness was the only acceptable state of being, and that if unhappiness hurt, then the answer was to forbid it outright. Her plan failed, of course. So did the many that followed—each more illogical than the last. For no sane person could look at what she had done, and feel happy. So, Mathila abandoned reason altogether, and jumped from happiness to madness.

Taylor didn’t interrupt. She looked like she barely even breathed, eyes fixed on him.

So Isaac kept going.

He told her about Lodun, the king’s executioner—the Prince of Fire. A title soaked in irony, because Lodun ruled nothing. Not his station. Not his fate. Not even himself. He described the fury that lived inside Lodun, how the smallest spark could set it alight. How every flare of anger fed his sense of injustice until it drove everyone away. Eventually, Lodun realizes that the source of his anger was his own shortcomings and powerlessness. But even knowing this, he was unable to contain his own fire, so was consumed by it.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped being a conversation at all. He became a storyteller without meaning to. And Taylor stayed with him through every word, eyes bright, chin resting in her hand like she was afraid to miss something important.

The bell cut through the room, sharp and sudden, and Taylor jumped like she’d been pulled out of a dream.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then chairs scraped and voices rose, the classroom dissolving into motion. Taylor gathered her books quickly, fingers fumbling before she caught herself and slowed down. Isaac chuckled at that but otherwise did not comment as he did the same. Once they were both packed up, they slipped into the hallway together, swept up in the current of students heading for the exits.

“Is there… more?” she asked.

The question came out eager. She was looking at him with eyes bright and focused in a way that made it clear she’d been hanging onto every word.

“To the story, I mean.”

He smiled at that. “Yeah. There’s more.”

She nodded immediately, like she’d expected that answer. “I thought so. It didn’t feel finished.”

“Indeed,” he agreed easily. “There’s even a couple of spin-offs. One about a Drifter. Another with an evil witch.”

Her eyes widened just a little. “That reminds me—who wrote it? And where did you even find it? Is it something I could pick up? Like… at a library?”

Isaac slowed half a step so they wouldn’t get separated by the crowd, almost laughing when he heard the flurry of questions. “The author used a pen name. ‘Mother.’ So I can’t say I know who she is.”

It was a lie, but a necessary one. Spreading the Entrati name as Isaac was a big no because the Operator would be informing Echo-Zero, whose first member might be Taylor, of Albrecht Entrati. Just in case that time hopping old man was on Earth-Bet or somehow involved in him winding up here. 

“As for finding it,” he continued, “I doubt you’ll have much luck. She wasn’t famous. Her book isn’t widely published, or digitized. So it was probably more… personal than commercial. If there’s a copy anywhere around, I’d be surprised.”

She nodded, disappointment clear on her face even as the interest refused to fade. “That’s a shame.”

“It is,” he agreed.

Then he remembered that Drifter had handed him his copy offhandedly, muttering something about not needing it anymore because he’d already lived it. If the Operator rummaged through the Orbiter, there was a good chance it was still there. Since he wasn’t using it, he could give it to her.

Isaac kept that thought to himself. No sense making promises before he knew he could keep them. 

“Still,” Taylor said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “if you ever feel like telling me the rest… I’d like that.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he responded without hesitation.

They finally stepped outside, and the afternoon sun washed over him like a warm caress. Near the front of the school, Umbra waited by the car, leaning against it with his arms crossed. 

Isaac turned to Taylor once more. “By the way, you want a ride?”

She shook her head after a bit of consideration. “No, it’s okay. I usually take the bus.”

“Alright, what about you two,” he asked the pair trying to sneak up behind him.

Nate and Brandon groaned, muttering nonsense about Batman again before coming up on his flank.

“We’re bussing too,” Nate answered. “Got some business I want to discuss with Carlos about Lookout.”

“Plus,” Brandon added, smirking, “public transit builds character. You should take it with the rest of us plebians, Prince Charming.”

Isaac snorted as he faced toward Umbra. “Maybe another day. My dad is already here.”

Taylor followed his gaze and saw Umbra in disguise. 

“He’s your dad,” she asked with mild surprise.

“Yep,” he said as they reached the curb. “See you tomorrow?”

Affirmatives and goodbyes came from the two guys before they broke off to catch the bus, leaving just him and Taylor again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” She said with a smile before turning to go, she hesitated though. “And Isaac. Thanks for everything you did today. It made school… fun.”

Then she turned to jog and catch the bus before it could close on her.

Chapter Text

The ride home passed in a low, steady hush. Isaac leaned back in the passenger seat, posture loose, eyes unfocused as Brockton Bay slid by in streaks of concrete and signs. Umbra drove without comment, hands steady on the wheel.

The Tenno liked this, just existing. Watching as the world went by. It was almost meditative. Especially when the faint feeling of loneliness crept in. He wished, distantly, that the Lotus were waiting for him at the end of this drive. That his brothers and sisters were here too, scattered through this strange new world, sharing it with him.

Making odd friends, experiencing high school, and exploring a new world. It was fun, but it could never compare to being with the people who truly mattered to him.

Before his mood could be soured, he pushed the thought aside and refocused on something more immediately relevant. 

Taylor.

More Specifically, his recruitment of her.

On paper, he was already well past the opening moves. Ten-Zero’s reputation alone carried weight—enough to make most capes eager at the mere suggestion, even if half of that eagerness came from misguided fantasies about gaining their own Warframe armor. Showing up last night to save her from Lung, and getting her on the news as a hero sufficiently increased those odds.

But Isaac wasn’t interested in just aiming for sufficient.

Taylor was too cautious to take chances with. She’d tried to hide it around him after accepting his friendship and, to her credit, she’d done a decent job. Still, the moment he’d almost said clan, he’d seen the way her expression flattened from confused to deliberately neutral.

So he wanted to do something grand. Something dramatic. Something cool to wow her doubts of joining Ten-Zero away.

The problem was Taylor didn’t seem the type who reacted well to surprises. So finding a way to impress without overwhelming her seemed like it wasn’t going to be able to include his favorite exotic displays. 

Which was… annoying.

Because spectacle was fun.

He’d already half-constructed a dozen dramatic introductions in his head. One including remote-piloting an Atomicycle to pick her up. Letting it invisibly drive through the city. Wall-riding up the side of a building, hopping rooftops, maybe even a brief glide over the boat graveyard.

Effective? Absolutely in his opinion.

Terrifying? …Probably.

And scaring Taylor was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He was still chewing on that dilemma when Ordis chimed in, voice bright and curious in his head.

“Operator! How was your day?”

Isaac smiled softly. “Good Ordis. I had fun.”

“Oh?” Ordis perked up immediately. “Did you succeed in destabilizing the local hierarchy as planned?”

“Still working on it,” Isaac replied. “I’ve gotten one step closer though. Plus, I managed to befriend Taylor.”

“That is delightful!” Ordis said, warmth bleeding into his tone. “Ordis is happy that Miss Hebert and the Operator are now friends. The school is surely on its way to better days with your guiding hand.”

Isaac smirked at his Cephalons praise. “No dou…”

His voice cracked.

The sound was small. Barely audible. But it made him go still.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “No doubt...”

It cracked again.

That shouldn’t have been possible.

This body wasn’t supposed to do that.

While it was anatomically a near-perfect match for a teenager—if you ignored the fully developed brain and adult musculature—it lacked the hormonal fluctuations and biological quirks that caused voices to crack. There was no puberty curve to blame. No mundane explanation.

“…Ordis,” Isaac said slowly. “Run a diagnostic on me please.”

There was a brief pause. 

“Oh,” Ordis said, his tone shifting, cheer draining out of it. “Operator… the current body is exhibiting signs of structural degradation. Microfractures along the skeletal lattice. Neural strain. Early cellular instability. Nothing immediately fatal, but the trend is…concerning.”

Isaac exhaled, long and controlled.

It had been a little over two months since he’d started wearing Isaac—but only two days since he’d begun using the body for more than just brief stints. He’d done everything right. Suppressed his Void energy output. Avoided unnecessary exertion. Kept his presence as light as possible, careful not to stress the vessel.

Even so, it wasn’t enough.

This body wasn’t a warframe. It hadn’t been built to house a Tenno.

Isaac sighed again, and the sound came out thin, strained in a way that made his jaw tighten. “We’ll need repairs tonight.”

“Understood, Operator,” Ordis replied immediately, professionalism snapping back into place. “Preparations will begin as soon as you arrive at your current domicile. And Operator?” He paused. “You still have not informed me of your plan should Ms. Hebert contact me today.”

Isaac leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling as he considered his earlier plans again before dismissing them and making new ones. Bringing her to his Isaac house was out. Too risky. He wanted to keep identities separate for now. And a random rooftop or alley where anyone might spy them was out.

Which left…

Manhattan.

The so-called main base.

He snorted quietly at the thought. Calling it a base was generous. It was a glorified, half-finished dojo—a skeleton of a true Tenno structure masquerading as something important. No shields for the building. No automated defenses. No turrets. No trading station. Not even a duel room.

 Barely even a dock for the liset on the upper floors.

A failure of a dojo by any Tenno standard.

All it really had going for it were a few social spaces—like the stone garden and the anti-gravity chamber. There were a few specters tasked with looking good for the cameras and guarding the place. Pretty, but overall it was a functionally useless place.

Still… it was something. 

“Maybe,” Isaac murmured in thought, “I could use Captura to—”

He stopped himself.

Riley’s therapy was still ongoing, so Captura was currently spoken for.

The thought dimmed his mood again immediately. He hadn’t gone back to deal with her yet. Hadn’t decided what fixing that mess even looked like. Avoiding it didn’t make it go away, and he knew that, but rushing into fixing it would just result in another simulation reset.

He swallowed back a sigh and answered Ordis. “Never mind that. For now, be ready to deploy the Liset. We’re bringing her to New York.”

“An excellent choice Operator,” the Cephalon praised as Umbra pulled into the driveway, engine humming softly.

“Thanks, and while we wait,” Isaac added, tone sharpening with his grin, “I’m going to see if I can deal with a small thief problem.”

The Undersiders may have eluded him last night but—

“I would advise against that, Operator,” Ordis said, interrupting his thoughts.

Isaac blinked. “Huh?”

“While you were at Winslow,” Ordis began, “Umbra tracked Venari to the base of those teenage miscreants. Their civilian identities are now known to us and the Kavat is still monitoring them. However, acting against them while they remain unmasked would constitute a blatant violation of the unwritten rules.”

Isaac clicked his tongue in irritation but didn’t argue.

 Those dam rules again. The kids were lucky he had to pay lip service to them. But the second they slipped on the mask…

“Don’t worry, Operator,” Ordis continued, voice brightening. “Our secret is still safe. I have already tapped their electronic devices and prevented the one known as Tattletale from informing their mysterious benefactor of our presence.”

Isaac paused halfway out of the car. “…Their benefactor?”

“Coil,” Ordis replied promptly.

Isaac shut the car door and walked toward the house a step behind Umbra, frowning. 

Coil. The supervillain who successfully held territory and fought off the other gangs with normal humans armed with tinkertech. A man who hid so well there was almost nothing concrete on him. A snake in the grass with resources, soldiers, and now a private team of parahuman thieves.

Why keep them hidden?

Deniable assets, maybe. Tools to probe the gangs without exposing himself. Regardless of the reason, he was clearly far more sly than a group like the ABB or Empire, who made no effort to hide the true nature of their organization or their parahuman power. What else was the Snake hiding?

“Dig into him and get back to me on it later,” Isaac ordered. “I want to know what other assets he may have. How many mercenaries, what his finances look like, patterns in his operations. Everything.”

“Yes, Operator.”

Inside the house, Isaac’s body collapsed onto the couch the moment the front door shut.

Ordis drifted in not long after, his Sentinel chassis humming softly as he approached. Without ceremony, the Tenno slipped free. Isaac’s body went slack, eyes dull as Ordis caught it in a gentle suspension field.

The Sentinel glided away down the hall, Isaac’s form hovering inches from the floor as they disappeared from view.

The Operator remained behind.

He threw himself back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what to do next while he waited. Then the Tenno sensed movement before he fully processed it. Something cut through the air toward him. His hand snapped up on instinct and closed around the object mid-flight.

A wooden practice blade.

He lowered it slowly and looked up.

Umbra was already turning away, another sword resting across his shoulder as he walked toward the hall. His steps were unhurried. No gesture or explanation given.

Just expectation.

The Operator exhaled through his nose, pushing himself up from the couch.

There was no point pretending he didn’t understand. Losing his blade in the middle of a fight—however chaotic the battlefield—had been sloppy. He could blame the suddenness of the deployment, Lung’s regeneration, or rust from not being properly challenged during his time on Earth Bet.

But Umbra would not accept excuses.

They passed through the house in silence, footsteps echoing faintly as they descended into the basement. Then past the false wall Ordis had installed. Down into the sub-basement.

And further still.

The hidden chamber beneath it opened up into a wide, cavernous space. Ceiling lights flickered on in sequence, illuminating concrete, support pillars, and reinforced flooring scarred with faint marks from Umbra’s past sessions.

Near the entrance, the available Warframes from the most recent rotation knelt in a neat row.

Khora Prime.

Grendel Prime.

Dante.

The Operator’s gaze lingered on Grendel. The frame's raw power and armor would even the field even if it couldn’t match Umbra’s speed. No, more than even it with its abilities taken into account. He stepped toward the massive frame—

A hand fell on his shoulder, firm and unyielding. He glanced sideways to see Umbra look at him before the old Dax shook his head once.

The implication was clear.

No Warframe.

The Operator grimaced faintly. 

Fighting Umbra with just a sword under these restrictions felt more like a punishment than training. Even so, he exhaled and stepped away from the frames. Because while a Tenno may be less physically capable than a warframe, they were undoubtedly stronger and just as skilled.

Not that he would be putting many of those Tenno powers to use. This was a sword duel. Shooting out reality unraveling void beams or trapping Umbra in an area of slowed time would defeat the purpose of trying to resharpen his sword skills.

So wordlessly, he void-dashed to the center of the chamber, appearing in a ripple of displaced air. He knelt into Seiza, placing the practice blade on the ground at his right side.

Umbra approached at a measured pace. He lowered himself opposite the Operator with the same composed precision, placing his own blade beside him.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another.

A challenge was issued and a challenge was accepted.

The two moved at the same time, blades in hand as they rose fluidly into stance.

The Operator settled into Swooping Falcon—light on his feet, blade angled forward, posture slightly lowered to allow quick lateral movement. It favored speed, momentum, fluid transitions between offense and evasion. 

Umbra adjusted his grip on his sword into a two handed stance with a high guard. 

Decisive Judgement.

The Operator’s stomach tightened.

That stance was about impact. Controlled brutality. It traded flurries for crushing force that the Tenno had no interest in trying to block. 

When the moment for them to analyze each other passed and without signal or countdown, the fight began.

One heartbeat Umbra stood across from him.

The next—

He was a blur of motion, closing the distance instantly, blade raised overhead and descending like an executioner’s axe for his skull.

The Operator void-dashed backward at the last possible second.

Concrete ruptured beneath the strike, stone and dust exploding outward in a thunderous crack that shook the chamber. A small crater formed in the reinforced floor—practice blade perfectly intact, vibrating faintly from the shockwave it had generated.

The Operator rematerialized several meters away, boots skidding slightly as he absorbed his own momentum. He kept his stance and did not blink or break eye contact with Umbra’s last known position as his perception sharpened, the world stretching thin and slow under the pressure of void-augmented awareness.

Dust rolled through the chamber in thick waves, sluggish in his heightened vision.

Umbra stepped forward through it at an unhurried pace.

His suit and tie fizzed away in golden light, unraveling into motes as his true form asserted itself. Fabric became armor. Skin shimmered and hardened into living metal. His face vanished beneath the sculpted helm as the horn and gilded crown manifested. The scarf materialized around his neck in a silent cascade of energy.

When the dust thinned enough to see clearly, Excalibur Umbra stood revealed in full.

The crater behind him marked exactly where the Operator would have been.

A warning that he would not be going easy on the Tenno.

Umbra advanced again.

The Operator shifted his weight, blade flicking outward in a testing slash.

Umbra met it with his own.

The clash rang through the chamber—wood cracking against wood with enough force to numb the Operator’s hands. He pivoted immediately, letting Umbra’s blade slide along his own to bleed off impact, then flowed into a lateral cut aimed at the warframe’s neck.

Umbra backstepped with a precise economy of motion, just outside the Operator’s reach.

And countered instantly.

The Operator void-dashed backward again, the horizontal sweep that followed carving through the space his torso had occupied. The air itself split around the strike.

Umbra pressed him the moment he rematerialized.

The Operator ducked beneath another horizontal sweep and rolled, coming up behind Umbra with a quick lunge aimed at the lower back—

Umbra pivoted mid-swing as though the attempt had been expected, intercepting the thrust before it could land.

Their blades locked.

For a fraction of a second they were face to face—helm to bare flesh.

Umbra leaned forward slightly.

It was subtle.

But the Operator felt it like being crushed beneath a collapsing structure. His feet skidded backward despite flawless footing, stone cracking under his heels. He twisted away before the pressure became overwhelming.

Umbra flowed with him and jumped into a kick.

The Operator barely saw it but brought his blade up with both hands just in time to block.

The impact rattled him and sent him spinning through the air in a tight arc. He would have smashed into a support pillar had he not arrested his momentum mid-flight with levitation, boots touching down lightly as he forced the spin to stop.

Umbra was already there.

An overhead strike came down.

Slower this time.

Deliberate.

The Operator lunged forward with a direct thrust to counter—

And realized too late that it was bait.

Umbra shifted his grip mid-swing, twisted his torso, and allowed the thrust to pass. The flat of his blade smashed into the Operator’s side instead.

The impact nearly shattered his shields on contact.

He skidded across the floor, tearing a shallow trench through stone before crashing into the far wall hard enough to fracture it.

Dust rained down.

Umbra stood in the center of the chamber, blade resting against his shoulder, waiting.

The Operator rose smoothly.

Despite feeling that strike bleed through his shields, he did not stumble. Did not grimace. He simply reset his stance.

Not that stance alone would compensate for the gap.

Without augmentation, he lacked the raw speed, the overwhelming physicality, the inexhaustible endurance to keep up with a warframe. Every exchange so far had demonstrated the disparity clearly.

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

So no more warming up.

Void energy flared around him, invisible to ordinary sight but undeniable in presence. It twisted and reshaped, weaving through muscle and bone.

He channeled the Unairu way—using Phoenix Talon to reinforce his strength.

Then the Madurai way—Stone Skin hardening flesh and armor alike. Poise to anchor him, rooting him to existence itself, a sense of immovability settling into his frame.

The chamber hummed faintly with the pressure of it as the void glow from his eyes intensified.

Umbra did not interrupt.

He anticipated.

The Operator stepped forward once.

Then vanished.

Void-dash compressed the distance in an instant, and he reappeared directly in front of Umbra.

The Dax had already adjusted.

His blade was there to meet the opening strike.

Clang.

The sound was sharper now, the shock reverberating through the room like a struck bell.

The dance resumed.

The Operator kept his footwork light despite the added weight of power coursing through him. His blade began probing instead of committing.

A feint left—Umbra did not bite.

A low cut right—blocked cleanly.

Momentum reversed mid-strike into a rising vertical slash that forced Umbra to shift his stance to absorb it.

There.

A sliver of an opening.

The Operator pressed into it.

His sword accelerated, Swooping Falcon coming alive in full rhythm. Slash. Pivot. Lunge. Backstep. Cut. Feint. Riposte. The sequence blurred, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next.

Umbra’s guard held, but now he was forced to keep blocking or he’d let a strike through. He disengaged with a leap backward. His blade extended behind him in a two-handed grip, body coiling with unmistakable intent.

The Operator’s eyes narrowed.

Umbra surged forward.

The heavy strike carried a wall of compressed air with it, a shock front visible even before impact. When it met the Operator’s guard, it was like a bomb detonating in his face.

The blast rippled outward, cracking the floor in a widening ring. Dust erupted again.

His shields drained violently under the force.

His arms burned.

But when the dust cleared—

He had not moved.

Not an inch.

Poise rooted him and Stone Skin plus Phoenix Talon allowed him to absorb the worst of the damage. 

The Operator smiled, and although he couldn’t see it, he knew Umbra was smiling too.

Ordis was, as always, busy.

He monitored Riley’s simulation first and foremost. The girl was currently seated in a park rendered with painful accuracy—sunlight filtering through digital leaves, wind brushing across perfectly coded grass. Her parents sat nearby on a bench, smiling, speaking softly to her as she kicked her feet and fed crumbs to simulated pigeons.

Ordis kept multiple contingencies running in the background in case her psychological state deviated even slightly.

At the same time, he was repairing Isaac’s body—purging trace amounts of void energy remaining within it, patching what he could repair, and replacing what he couldn’t.

Simultaneously, he maintained surveillance on the Warframe specters guarding the dummy base in New York City, played three separate online video games across different platforms—dominating all associated leaderboards without effort—argued online against INSOLENT MEATBAGS attempting to slander Ten-Zero with hundreds of throwaway accounts, and fended off yet another hacking attempt from Dragon.

Though for this one, he did give it more of his personal attention. Not due to any challenge, but because he wanted to see how much the parahuman had learned from her last attempt at this.

As always, she did not disappoint. Her intrusion vector shifted this time—cleverer. More adaptive.

“Oh my,” Ordis mused, isolating the breach with almost maternal patience. “How spirited.”

He rerouted her attack into a sandbox environment, allowed her to believe she’d accessed something important and fed her false breadcrumbs until she realized she had fallen into a trap.

She retreated quickly—for a human—after that.

“Adorable,” Ordis concluded. “Like a baby Cephalon.”

This sort of affection was probably what the Operator felt when he watched his younger Tenno sibling master a new technique. Ordis only wished he was allowed to counter-hack or make contact with Dragon personally.

He was certain she would be quite happy learning not just from infiltration, but from attacks as well. But his Operator had denied him this—and for good reason. Of all the parahumans on the planet, Dragon seemed the most likely to discover his true Cephalon nature, even if the calculated chances of that were slim.

With his main source of entertainment gone, he turned that focus to the partition busy identifying Coil and his forces.

The faces of the mercenaries. Real names. Bank records. Historical movement data. The location of their base of operations.

Ordis searched for it all.

Though aside from the identities of a few dead Coil mercenaries from years back, there was not much to find. It was as his Operator suspected—the snake was slippery.

He, however, wasn’t perfect.

Thanks to years’ worth of movement data to analyze—traffic camera footage, police reports, PRT reports, and a Facebook selfie from a now deceased young woman—Ordis narrowed down the possible location of Coil’s base of operations to somewhere east of downtown Brockton Bay.

Suddenly, a strong tremor shook the Brockton Bay home.

The Operator versus Umbra. It had been going on for around fifteen minutes now, but that tremor was an especially violent one. If they grew even twelve percent stronger, he would have to request they stop before the neighbors noticed.

Ordis almost dreaded the cleaning he would have to do when they were done.

Then a private message popped up on his PHO. One of thousands but special due to the key phrase used in it.

“The Tempestarii is calling.”

Ordis quickly looked at the sender's location.

Brockton Bay Public Library.

He did not respond immediately.

Instead, he requested visual confirmation.

“Shade,” Ordis transmitted.

The drone responded, its systems opening to Ordis’ without resistance. He saw through its lenses—rows of bookshelves, dim afternoon light filtering through tall windows. Seated at a terminal was Taylor Hebert.

Ordis withdrew from Shade’s systems and returned his attention to the message.

His opinions on the girl were… minimal. He found her situation somewhat pityable, but If not for her rapidly developing proximity to the Operator, she would simply be another being he had no interest in knowing.

That did not mean Ordis couldn’t see the importance of her and the many others that would soon join their cause.

After all, they would one day return to the Origin System—of that Ordis had no doubt. Whether or not it would be one-way remained unknown. But if it was, Earth-Bet would require guardians molded in Tenno discipline to preserve whatever peace the Operator forged.

Echo-Zero would be the foundation of that future.

Taylor Hebert might become its first pillar.

Ordis allowed the message to remain suspended for precisely two point three seconds longer—long enough to simulate human delay. Then he opened a response window. His tone would need calibration. Not too warm. Not too distant. Professional. 

He began typing.

[PHO Private Message Thread]
Participants: Guest and Ordis

Guest: The Tempestarii is calling.

Ordis: Hello, young hero. Before we proceed—Ten-Zero prefers to address its allies properly. Do you have a cape name?

Guest: …Not yet.

Ordis: That is perfectly acceptable. Many operatives choose their names only after they understand who they are becoming. For now, may Ordis assign a temporary designation for record-keeping purposes?

Guest: I guess? What is it?

Ordis: Entoma. If it displeases you, it may be changed at any time.

Guest: …I don’t hate it. It’s fine.

Ordis: Excellent. Then welcome, Entoma. And thank you—for last night. Your intervention helped prevent civilian casualties.

Guest: I should be thanking you guys but you’re welcome. So. What happens now? If I wanted to join. I mean.

Ordis: Normally, Ten-Zero would evaluate potential operatives for discipline, intent, adaptability, and other characteristics, such as morality. But your actions already speak in your favor. The next step is an in-person meeting.

Guest: An in-person meeting with… who? Umbra?

Ordis: A representative authorized to evaluate and answer what cannot be written here, such as the inner workings of our organization. Umbra is not an authorized representative, but we can arrange for him to be present during the meeting.

Guest: I would appreciate it if he was there. Where and when will the meeting be?

Ordis: The meeting will take place in Ten-Zero Tower, located in Manhattan, New York. We understand that, as a resident of Brockton Bay, arranging transportation to and from headquarters may be difficult. As such, we are prepared to dispatch the Liset in order to aid you.

Guest: The Liset!

Ordis: Indeed. Is that not amenable to you?

Guest: Yes, it very much is. Can I come in today? And do I have to reveal my civilian identity?

Ordis: You may come in today. Simply choose a location and time for pickup. However, we caution discretion, so please choose your location wisely. As for your secret identity, until you are an official member of our organization, it is your prerogative to conceal or reveal it to us.

Guest: I see. Then can you pick me up at the docks in thirty minutes? I’ll be on a roof near where the fight happened and in costume.

Ordis: Of course. We will also be sending Umbra with it. Any more questions, Entoma?

Guest: No, I’m going to get ready now. Thanks, Ordis.

Ordis: It is my pleasure to assist you. I look forward to seeing you at headquarters.

Excellent. Now that he secured an appointment with Ms Hebert…

Boom

The house shook harder this time.

Ordis decided that was quite enough.

He tapped into the sub-basement’s audio system, projecting his voice with polite firmness. “Operator. Umbra. Your… vigorous training session must conclude immediately.”

Another impact rattled the chamber as the two blurred in and out of blows, dust everywhere making it hard to tell who was even winning. One moment the Operator was being sent into a wall, teeth gritted with determination and smile wide with glee. The next he vanished and Umbra was being sent through several support pillars.

“Operator,” Ordis continued, just a touch louder as a new clash of swords happened, “Ms Hebert has confirmed an in-person meeting in thirty minutes. If you intend to make preparations for her evaluation and interview, now would be the most optimal time.”

That seemed to snap both the Operator and Umbra out of their battle frenzy.

Ordis heard the Operator say “thanks Ordis” before he used transference on Dante and flew out the exit in a rush upstairs. Umbra followed him soon after. 

Ordis redirected his attention to the Liset, flying it from the outskirts of Brockton to the house but kept part of his attention in the sub-basement.

The cavernous training space looked as though it had endured sustained orbital bombardment. The reinforced flooring was fractured in multiple places, dust still settling in drifting clouds. Shallow craters pocked the ground, walls, and ceiling, where practice blades and bodies had struck with enough force to pulverize stone.

Ordis sighed as he directed his Sentinel body to room for cleaning. 

He knew he was going to dread this.

Chapter Text

Taylor ran with a steady, purposeful pace that ate up cracked asphalt and broken pavement as she moved deeper into the docks. Smoke still lingered faintly in the air from last night’s fire, mixing with the briny scent of the bay. 

She spread her awareness outward as she ran, bugs fanning through alleys and clinging to warehouse walls, giving her perception of the streets around her for two blocks. It let her get around the rare clusters of civilians and the even rarer patrol cars.

The area was quiet. Fewer people willing to linger after what had happened last night.

That worked in her favor.

She didn’t want to be seen climbing. That would invite questions or investigation.

After a few minutes, she spotted what she needed—a loading bay with an exterior ladder that led to a narrow metal platform. From there, a series of jutting vents and rusted pipes climbed toward the roofline.

She scaled the structure quickly, boots and gloved hands finding purchase with ease. It wasn't a graceful climb by any metric of the imagination, but with a final pull she rolled onto the rooftop.

Wind brushed lightly against her costume as she stood.

From up here, the nearby docks looked scarred. Blackened sections of pavement, collapsed buildings, everything you’d expect after a fire breathing dragon passed through.

Taylor crossed to the edge and crouched, scanning the skyline. With what she estimated to be a little over eight minutes remaining until the pickup time, a thought accrued to her.

Had she been too vague?

On PHO, she’d said the docks. A rooftop near where the fight happened.

That felt specific enough at the time. Now, standing alone with nothing but the distant cry of gulls and the hum of traffic miles away, it felt… broad.

What if they couldn’t find her? What if they picked up the wrong person?

She pushed the thought away as soon as it formed. Ten-Zero had tinker tech drones like Shade, sci-fi armour, and was able to track the most elusive S-Class threat in the country. If they wanted to find her, they would. 

With that worry pushed aside, her thoughts drifted—not to anything specific at first, just the day as a whole.

It felt strange. Almost unreal.

She’d made her first friend since Emma betrayed her. Then she’d sat at a lunch table surrounded by people who might become her allies—maybe even her friends. Other students who were bullied and overlooked just like her.

Lookout.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile at the name. The one she had suggested. The one Isaac had backed without hesitation. Even if it was only a placeholder, she felt a quiet pride in it.

The bus ride, however, she could have done without.

She had come dangerously close to breaking her rule about using her powers on normal people. All because those two idiots Isaac called friends had apparently decided she needed to hear their entire discussion about his possible attraction to her.

“I’m telling ya, dude’s got it bad.”

“You see how he looks at her?”

“Maybe tall girls with long hair are his type?”

“Well, he did get pretty up close and personal with tall, dark, and mean in the principal’s office.”

It had been mortifying. Still, unlike Emma and her circle, Nate and Brandon had shut up when she told them to. That alone put them leagues above her usual tormentors.

Trying to distance herself from that embarrassment, she forced her thoughts somewhere more productive.

The interview.

What would it actually look like?

She’d tried to find information before messaging Ordis, but Ten-Zero was a black hole. No internal leaks. No credible anonymous posts. No former members speaking out. All anyone knew was what they chose to show—and that was usually just footage of them dismantling criminals or doing PR stunts. One thread on PHO had claimed the PRT possessed information about them, but that part of their partnership supposedly required silence.

Still, If they were recruiting, someone should have noticed.

Heroes didn’t just disappear without turning up dead, switching sides, or announcing retirement.

Unless Ten-Zero specifically targeted relatively unknown capes like her. Recruited them quietly. Outfitted them with Warframe armor. Then let them operate as if they’d always been part of the team. Their members were also spread across the USA and never seen in the same place for long, so trying to puzzle out who they could’ve recruited by location alone would be pointless.

A thought struck her then.

If she was accepted… would she be expected to travel?

Her heart thudded at the idea.

For a brief moment, she imagined it—the adventure, the missions, the sense of purpose. A sleek, metallic armor wrapped around her frame, shielding her from bullets and energy blasts. Maybe something designed to amplify her range or strengthen her connection to her swarm. Alter them in ways she hadn’t even considered.

Taylor snapped out her day dream when her nearby bugs started giving her weird feedback. 

Odd in a way she couldn’t find a word for.

She stiffened and looked up but she saw nothing.

Slowly, she straightened and turned in place, pulse climbing as she searched for the source of that distorted sensation.

When she completed the rotation—

Umbra stood there.

Suspended in the air just beyond the edge of the rooftop, as if gravity had simply decided not to apply to him.

In an embarrassing repeat of the night before, Taylor yelped and fell over. She hit the rooftop hard on her side, more startled than hurt. For half a second, she just lay there, mortified, before forcing herself up onto her elbows.

Umbra hadn’t moved.

And he wasn’t standing on air.

A narrow ramp extended from nothing, leading into a darker distortion behind him.

An invisible ship.

The Liset. It had to be.

Heat crept up her neck beneath the mask as she scrambled to her feet, painfully aware of how unheroic that must have looked. Just as she straightened, Umbra stepped forward and, with an effortless hop, descended the ramp to the rooftop. He landed silently in front of her.

Then he leaned forward and offered her a hand.

For a split second, she considered refusing, just to preserve what little dignity she had left. But that would be childish—and rude.

So she took it.

His grip was strong and metallic, yet warm and careful as he helped her up without comment or visible judgment.

Not that he had a face for her to read.

She brushed herself off quickly. “Hi. I, uh… didn’t see you.”

Umbra gave a small nod, then gestured toward the invisible ship behind him.

Right. Moving on.

She followed as he turned and ascended the ramp. The moment they crossed the threshold, the hatch sealed behind her with a soft, seamless hiss.

The interior of the Liset unfolded around her.

Curved metal panels flowed smoothly into one another, the surfaces clean and seamless. At the front of the craft, a wide panoramic viewport framed Brockton Bay below.

The ship was more science fiction than she’d imagined.

And somehow less.

There were no blinking consoles. No clusters of switches or levers. No pilot’s chair. In fact, there weren’t any chairs at all.

The open space at the center of the cabin dipped slightly into a circular platform, subtly elevated from the surrounding floor.

Umbra turned toward her. He raised his palm and light flickered above it, forming a small holographic display.

Text scrolled into view.

Welcome aboard the Liset, Entoma.

A second line appeared beneath it.

It was impressive that you detected the Liset’s presence. The only other entity to accomplish that here was the Simurgh.

Taylor’s stomach dropped.

The Simurgh.

She wasn’t sure whether to feel complimented or deeply unsettled by that comparison. Her bugs had sensed something off, yes—but being mentioned in the same sentence as an Endbringer for it wasn't something she’d ever imagined would be given as praise.

“…Thanks?” she said carefully.

Umbra gave a single nod, as if that was the appropriate response.

You may take a seat near the front if you are not comfortable standing for the ride.

The hologram dissolved, and Umbra moved toward the slightly raised circular platform. He lowered himself into a kneeling posture. It looked vaguely traditional, though she couldn’t place where from.

She watched, confused, until a glowing holographic sphere bloomed into existence in front of him.

Earth.

Rendered in miniature, rotating slowly. Faint lines and markers crisscrossed its surface. Umbra reached out and tapped a node along the eastern seaboard. The hologram zoomed in smoothly, resolving into the image of a sleek tower rising above Manhattan.

Ten-Zero Tower. She had seen pictures online and read some blogs on the experience people had inside it, but she was looking forward to seeing the futuristic skyscraper in person.

The view outside shifted seamlessly as the ship tilted upward.

The skyline began to fall away as the Liset angled toward the clouds. The strangest part was the absence of sensation. She could see the docks shrinking below them. See the horizon curve slightly as they climbed.

But she didn’t feel acceleration or even feel like she was standing at an angle.

If she didn’t know better, she might have thought the viewport was just a screen.

Not comfortable standing when the ship was moving at high speed, she lowered herself to the floor beside Umbra, bracing instinctively as the Liset pierced the cloud layer in utter silence. 

Clouds swallowed the viewport in white for a few seconds—then thinned. Then broke apart entirely.

Blue deepened to indigo.
Indigo darkened to velvet black.

And suddenly, the sky wasn’t sky anymore.

It was space.

Taylor’s breath caught as she stared, completely absorbed by the view.

Earth in its quiet majesty. Blue oceans stretching outward in impossible curves. White cloud systems spiraling in patterns so vast they no longer looked like weather, but art. Thin ribbons of coastline she couldn’t immediately place.

It was grand. Overwhelming. Beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal.

And above it—

Stars.

Thousands of them.

Not the faint pinpricks she saw from her backyard, fighting through light pollution and haze. These were sharp and bright. Some burned white. Others shimmered faintly blue or gold. A few pulsed red at the edges of perception. The black between them wasn’t empty either; it was deep, layered with distant light and faint nebulous streaks that suggested more beyond what she could name.

A misted band cut across the void—the galaxy itself, a river of pale light stretching on and on, so vast it made her chest ache.

For a moment, the scale of it pushed everything else aside.

The interview.
Her doubts.
The Trio.

All of it felt small.

She was above them.

Above Brockton Bay, school hallways, gangs, and the endless, suffocating weight of the city.

Up here, none of it could touch her.

Up here, she was free.

Her gloved hand lifted toward the viewport without her meaning it to. Reaching toward something infinite as if she could grasp even a fraction of it.

She couldn’t of course, and that made what came next hurt more than she expected.

The Liset banked gently.

The stars shifted across the glass, sliding away from her as the ship angled downward. The Earth swelled in the viewport, growing from distant sphere to dominating horizon in seconds.

She almost cried out to Umbra to stop. She didn’t want this to end.

But she caught herself before she could do something that would embarrass her.

They pierced the upper atmosphere without fire or turbulence, cutting through air at impossible speeds. The edge of space bled back into blue, the velvet black fading into indigo once more.

Clouds rushed up to meet them, thick and blinding—

Then swallowed the viewport in white again.

This time, she knew what waited on the other side when they passed through again.

New York City.

Skyscrapers rose in sharp lines, metal and glass catching the late afternoon light, looking vibrant in a way Brockton Bay hadn’t been in years. The river reflected sunlight in wide bands, bridges arching cleanly across it. Central park was green and sticking out easily compared to the rest of the city from up here.

Then she saw it.

Ten-Zero Tower.

It rose like a blade driven point-first into the skyline.

Its structure was smooth and seamless, all gray metal and clean lines, the surface broken only by faint bands of blue light that ran vertically along its length. The shape narrowed as it climbed, tapering into a spire crowned with a subtle glow. Midway up, the Tenno sigil was set into the façade in luminous blue.

At its base, the metal flared outward in curved supports that framed a recessed entrance. The doors were nearly invisible—part of the structure itself—outlined only by thin lines of light.

It was a marvel of engineering that she couldn’t properly appreciate after the somber mood leaving space put her in. 

As they approached the upper right side of the tower, its wall shimmered.

A faint hexagonal pattern rippled across its surface, barely visible unless you were looking for it. As they approached, the air itself distorted—like heat rising off pavement. 

For a moment, it seemed like they were going to crash.

But then—

The Liset phased through the structure as if the building wasn't solid at all.

They emerged into a vast interior chamber—clean, metallic, brightly lit. Structured platforms and mechanical support arms lined the upper walls. 

The ship lowered smoothly onto a designated pad, and the faint hum of the Liset softened rather than completely vanish like it was shut off. It didn’t seem to touch down in the traditional sense; it looked to her more like a passive hover above the platform.

Umbra rose from his kneeling position first. Taylor pushed herself up beside him. Together they walked down the ramp and out into the tower’s interior hangar.

The moment her boots touched the metal floor, a headache lanced through her skull.

It wasn’t sharp at first. Just pressure. Then it spiked, sudden, painful, and blinding, making her vision swim.

For a heartbeat, she saw something that wasn’t the room around her. Something vast. Indescribably massive. A shape moving through darkness between stars, large enough that scale itself stopped making sense. It spoke, but the sound wasn’t sound, and yet she understood it in a way.

The meaning pressed against her mind.

She grasped at it, feeling as if this was important. 

Then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. The memory of the event disappeared as the world snapped back into place. At the same time, something else flooded in.

 Her swarm sense.

The insects outside the tower. In garbage, alleys, sewers, and many more places. She could feel them again. Taylor hadn’t even realized the connection had gone quiet when in the Liset, but its sudden return was a much welcome distraction to the headache.

She swayed, and Umbra was there immediately.

His arm came up, giving her something to lean against as the headache receded almost as quickly as it had struck, leaving behind a faint ache and a deep weariness she had accumulated from all her activity last night and today.

When she opened her eyes fully, a small holographic display hovered in front of her face.

Are you okay? Do you require medical attention?

The text glowed softly in blue.

Taylor swallowed and straightened as much as she could. “No. I’m… I’m alright.”

The words came out steady enough, and even though she was exhausted, she wasn’t lying.

Umbra studied her for another moment before nodding once. A second line of text formed in the air.

After the interview, we would like to conduct a medical examination. The Liset’s cloaking system appears to have had an unknown effect on you.

That made her stomach tighten with worry, but she forced herself not to jump to any terrible conclusion and just nodded. 

Everything she had seen so far—the ship, the holographic systems, the seamless architecture—suggested technology far beyond anything she understood. 

If their medical technology was just as advanced, it was probably safer than a hospital visit and put her less at risk of her parahuman nature being exposed to regular people. There was even a flicker of absurd optimism that maybe, just maybe, they’d fix her eyesight by accident.

Umbra did not immediately step away. He watched her carefully, as if expecting her knees to buckle again. When she remained upright, he turned and began walking toward the far wall of the chamber.

Taylor followed.

As they moved, she let her awareness sink into the swarm again, trying to find any insects she could in the building tower. She found some on what she assumed was the first floor but past that, there was nothing. The structure was nearly sterile.

For a place this large, that absence was unsettling.

They reached a tall seam in the wall that she hadn’t recognized as a door until it responded to their approach. The surface split into three segments that slid apart with a mechanical hiss, opening wide enough for both of them to enter side by side.

Taylor braced herself for anything.

A crowd of armored figures trying to see what the new recruit was. A line of silent observers judging her every move. Maybe even just staff members going about their day.

Instead, the space beyond was vast and quiet.

The ceiling arched high overhead, smooth and metallic. Several other doorways were spaced evenly along the perimeter walls, identical and unmarked. At the center of the room stood a narrow spire rising from the floor, its surface dark except for a small blue-lit interface panel.

The place was grand in scale, but empty.

She had read rumors that the tower was just a tourist trap, something meant more for appearance than actual operation. Standing there, she couldn’t help the flicker of disappointment that those rumors might be true, despite also being glad that she didn’t have dozens of eyes on her.

Umbra led her towards a wide central column. As they approached, the blue interface brightened in response. He tapped it, and a soft chime echoed through the empty room.

An elevator, she assumed.

“Umbra. Do you have any advice for the interview.” she asked quietly.

Umbra raised his hand again, and the holographic display flickered into existence between them.

Be honest and be yourself.

Then he added more.

As long as you do not lie, your induction into our ranks is guaranteed.

The elevator doors slid open with a muted hum.

Taylor stepped inside beside him, not sure how to feel about such simple advice but showing gratitude regardless. “Thanks Umbra, I appreciate it.” 

The doors closed, and the platform began to rise. Umbra nodded and lowered his hand before facing forward. She wanted to say more, maybe ask why the place was so empty, but he seemed to prefer silence to the point he communicated with messages instead of his voice.

The elevator slowed and came to a smooth stop. When the doors parted, Taylor stepped forward—and nearly forgot she was inside a skyscraper at all.

The space beyond wasn’t metallic like the levels below. It opened into a garden as though someone had carved out a pocket of autumn and sealed it away inside steel walls.

Narrow streams wound through the room in deliberate paths, their water clear and shallow. Small wooden bridges arched over them at measured intervals, dark polished planks contrasting against pale stone paths that curved between clusters of short trees. Their leaves were a deep autumn orange, caught somewhere between gold and ember, drifting occasionally into the water to be carried along in lazy spirals.

Small, luminous wisps floated lazily through the air. They pulsed faintly with blue-white light, drifting between branches or hovering over the streams like living lanterns.

At the center of the garden stood a pavilion constructed from dark wood and pale stone, open on all sides. Inside, seated at a low table set with a simple tea service, was another figure in armor.

He was different from Umbra but had a similar design philosophy.

His armor bore black and deep bronze plating arranged in sweeping lines. A hooded mantle framed his helmet, giving him a bulkier silhouette than Umbra. The faceplate was narrow and mask-like with a long beard-like thing attached to it that stretched past his chest. It gave him a sort of robot Gandalf look.

He wasn’t sitting in a chair. He floated above the ground, posture composed and perfectly upright, as though seated on something invisible. One hand rested lightly on the table while the other held a… book?

It barely looked like one but for reasons she couldn’t explain, looking at it made goosebumps rise along her arms.

Umbra stepped forward just enough to remain in her peripheral vision. A brief line of holographic text appeared beside him.

This is as far as I take you. You must proceed alone from here.

Taylor nodded, though her throat felt slightly dry from her nervousness.

She walked along the path toward the pavilion. The closer she came, the more aware she became of the book. She made a conscious effort not to stare. 

When she stepped onto the pavilion floor, the figure closed the book and it simply… wasn’t there anymore.

“Welcome,” he said. His voice was calm and distinctly British, possibly late thirties. “You must be Ms. Entoma.”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, not sure how to introduce herself, before deciding on just nodding. 

He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Welcome to Ten-Zero Tower. My name is Dante,” he continued. “I appreciate you making the journey.”

He gestured toward the lone chair across from him.

“Please. Have a seat.”

Taylor stepped forward and sat, trying not to be overly aware of the fact that he remained floating rather than seated. Up close, the details of his armor were even more intricate—etched lines layered into gold and bronze plating, subtle blue luminescence threading through narrow seams.

Dante reached for the tea set and poured smoothly into the cup nearest her and steam rose in thin spirals.

 It smelled herbal.

“I trust your trip was… illuminating,” he said mildly.

“It was,” she admitted.

There wasn’t really another word for seeing the Earth and the sprawl of stars beyond it.

“I am glad to hear it. I was informed that you experienced some distress upon exiting the Liset’s cloaking field, but it appears you have recovered quite well. Mental fortitude is both valued and necessary in our line of work. To see you display it so effortlessly is admirable.”

He was laying it on a bit thick but she appreciated the complement.

“Thank you, Mr. Dante. I’ve heard great things about your people as well, and Umbra has been nice to me.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. But please, just call me Dante. ‘Mister’ is far too formal for my liking.” His tone was light and friendly. “Now, before we begin, allow me to reassure you of something. This is not an interrogation. You are here because we wish to understand you better. Thus you are free to decline any question, and you may take as long as you need to consider your answers.”

Taylor straightened unconsciously and nodded.

Dante laced his fingers together in front of him. The motion drew attention to his hands—specifically his pointer and middle fingers on his left hand, which tapered into quill-like forms. Given the book from earlier, she could piece together that it was part of his power.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now that the parameters of this interview have been established… tell me, Ms. Entoma—how old are you?”

“I’m fifteen,” Taylor answered.

Dante inclined his head slightly. “And when did your abilities manifest?”

Her fingers curled faintly against her knees. The memory wasn’t one she liked revisiting.

“A few months ago,” she answer. “Late spring.”

“Circumstances,” he inquired.

She hesitated. He hadn’t said she had to answer everything, but she’d already decided honesty was the safest route.

“Stress,” she said finally. “Severe stress.”

It wasn’t a proper answer but it was the easiest to say.

Dante did not press immediately; he seemed to read her uneasy body language. “Do you wish to elaborate?”

She weighed it. The locker. The smell. The isolation. The humiliation. Her jaw tightened.

“No,” she said quietly. “I’d rather not.”

“That is your prerogative.”

He paused to pour himself a cup and drink, though where the liquid went when he had no visible mouth, she couldn’t tell.

He let out a content sigh before looking up at her again. “Do your parents or guardians, if you have them, know you are a cape?”

“No,” Taylor said immediately, then slowed as she realized how fast she’d answered. “Just… no.”

“Is that because you cannot trust them,” Dante asked, “or because you are trying to protect them?”

Her first instinct was to shut down. The second was to correct him. She ignored both.

“My dad’s not the problem,” she answered. “He’s just… he’s been through enough. I don’t want to add more stress to him.”

Dante nodded once, as though that had been the expected answer. “Understood.”

He set his cup down with a soft click and folded his hands together. The quill-like shape of two fingers drew her eyes there again despite herself.

“Tell me about your abilities as you understand them.”

Taylor took a deep breath, grateful for a question that was simpler and far less personal.

“I control bugs. Insects, spiders… most of the small crawling things. I can give them specific commands, coordinate them individually, or move them like a swarm. I can also sort of sense through them.”

“Sort of?” Dante repeated gently, leaning forward as if genuinely fascinated.

“It’s not like I can use their senses perfectly,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “It’s more like… impressions. Movement. Shapes. If I focus, I can get more detail, but it’s still limited, and it’s… a lot. I don’t do it constantly.”

He hummed at that. “And how far does your range extend?”

Taylor paused and nudged the bugs outside the building to the edge of her range to double-check. It felt slightly wider than usual, though not by much.

“Two blocks. It varies sometimes, but that’s usually my max.”

“And your control,” Dante asked, “is it absolute?”

“Yes.”

“Is there an upper limit to the number of insects you can control?”

“If there is, I haven’t found it. One or a thousand, I can control them all easily, even when I make them all do different things.”

“Marvelous. Such precise multitasking is usually beyond even parahumans with master-type abilities like yours.” He reached for the tea set again and poured himself a little more before continuing. “Did you make your costume yourself? It’s very well constructed for a new hero.”

Taylor felt heat creep up her neck beneath the mask, though she wasn’t sure whether it was embarrassment or pride at her homemade costume being given attention.

“…Yeah,” she admitted.

“Impressive,” Dante praised.

“Not really,” she denied. “It’s basically bug materials, spider silk, and padding. I’m not a tinker.”

“Regardless,” Dante replied mildly, “its design is quite sophisticated. It speaks to your utility and creativity with your powers.”

That tipped the balance fully toward pride.

“Thanks,” she murmured. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but she couldn’t quite stop the small smile forming under the mask. “I wish I could’ve made it look less villainous though.”

Dante made a subtle gesture behind her. She turned to see Umbra telekinetically guiding a sword through slow, precise movements, light trailing faintly along its edge. Though she had a biased view of the man, the message was clear. Umbra’s armor was just dark and even more imposing, plus he had summoning lethal light swords as a power.

If he weren’t with Ten-Zero, it would be easy to label him as villainous-looking.

When Taylor turned back to refocus on the interview, Dante shifted topics.

“Why have you not approached the PRT?” he asked. “You’ve had your abilities for a while now, and the Wards are the standard path for a young hero like yourself.”

Taylor almost laughed, but it came out as a short, humorless breath.

“The Wards sound like pure drama. I want none of that.” Realizing how blunt and childish that sounded, she added quickly, “And… from what I understand, they won’t let me do real hero work unless it’s an emergency, and they’d limit my power.”

“Do you fear control,” Dante pressed evenly, “or is it simply distrust of authority?”

Taylor stared at him, then down at her cup. This wasn’t meant to be a trap, but it felt like one. No matter how she answered—honestly, dishonestly, or not at all—it would reflect something negative about her willingness to work within a structure.

But in the end, there wasn’t much point in pretending.

“Both,” she admitted.

Dante didn’t pounce on that. He simply nodded, as though she hadn’t just confessed to something that could disqualify her.

“Very well,” he said calmly. “Let us move to hypotheticals. These are not traps, Entoma. They are methods of understanding what you will do under pressure.”

She nodded for him to continue, but she was a little unnerved by how he seemed to read her thoughts.

“Scenario one,” Dante said evenly. “You encounter a villain. They are armed. They are not currently attacking anyone, but you have strong reason to believe they will hurt civilians if allowed to leave. You can stop them only by killing them. What do you do?”

Taylor’s mind immediately connected the situation to her patrol, the answer coming easily.

“I don’t kill them,” she said. “If they’re not actively hurting someone in that moment, I track them and call for help.”

Dante regarded her for a few seconds, his head tilting slightly. Then he gave a low, thoughtful hum that carried a note of quiet approval—almost satisfied. “I see,” he said.

“Scenario two,” he continued. “A villain is actively attempting to kill a civilian. You have one opportunity to intervene. If you act non-lethally, there are high chances the civilian dies. If you act lethally, the villain dies and the civilian lives.”

Taylor’s mouth went dry. Not out of nervousness but because the answer came to her more easily than she would like to admit.

“I… I don’t want to,” she said, voice quieter. “But if there’s no other option? Then I save the civilians.”

She thought about how helpless she was on that roof, how she had balled up waiting to die by Lungs fire. She knew with certainty that if she had the option to kill him during that moment, she would have. And she wouldn’t have blamed Umbra if he had outright killed the gang leader to save her.

Dante hummed but he didn’t seem satisfied or disappointed. It was hard to tell when the armour that made up his face didn’t express any emotion. 

“And you can live with that?” he asked..

Taylor nodded. “I’d have to. I don’t think I’d ever feel okay about it. But I could live with not letting an innocent person die when I could stop it.”

Dante nodded slowly. “Good. You understand that doing the right thing does not always feel clean. The life of a hero, while glamorous to the public, is full of hard choices. You’ll have to make many in the field. The innocent life vs the guilty. Your life or a villain's life.”

He paused, then went again.

“Scenario three. Your teammate is in danger. The villain offers a trade: you leave now and they let your teammate live. However, if you take the deal and they escape, they may go on to kill others later. If you refuse, your teammate dies. What do you do?”

If he had asked this question yesterday, it probably would have been difficult for her to even imagine what a good teammate even looked like. But now, she thought about Isaac and his speech.

She tried to picture it—him being that teammate. What would he want? What choice would he tell her to make?

He seemed to prefer being the target. His actions said he was someone who would draw fire so others could have even a moment’s reprieve. But could she sacrifice someone like that? A friend? Even if they wanted her to? Even if it saved many more lives.

Taylor’s mind snagged on that.

“I…” she started, then stopped.

Dante didn’t speak, so she forced herself to think it through.

“If I can mark the villain with my bugs,” she said slowly, “then I take the deal—follow them after they release my teammate, call for backup, or take them down when no one else is in danger.”

“And if you cannot mark them?” Dante asked.

Taylor’s jaw tightened, she knew her answer, but she had to force the next words out. “Then I’d make sure his sacrifice was worth it and take the villain down.”

“Interesting.” Dante hummed softly, his quill-like fingers tapping together once. “Conviction like yours is very rare.”

Taylor wasn’t sure she liked that assessment. It sounded like a compliment. Something she didn’t want after admitting—if only in her head— that she would be willing to sacrifice a friend.

The questions continued after that.

Some were straightforward—how she trained, what she knew about local gangs, how she would feel about leadership. Others were uncomfortable—what she feared most, what would make her quit, what would she do if she found out her friend was a traitor. And few made her feel like he was trying to look under her skin.

Eventually, after what felt like far too long and not long enough at the same time, Dante leaned back slightly in the air, hands folding again.

“One final question,” he said. “Why did you decide to be a hero?”

Taylor’s first instinct was to give the easy answer.

Because it’s right.

It was true—but it wasn’t the whole truth. And given how pointed some of his questions had been throughout the interview, it was obvious to her that Dante had a strong read on her character.

Lying to him had probably become impossible halfway through this conversation.

She stared at the tea in her cup for a moment before answering quietly.

“I was tired,” she admitted. “Of being helpless. Of being… nothing. Someone people could hurt, and nobody would care about.”

She looked up at him through her mask.

“And then last night, I knew… if I walked away, I’d be exactly what I hate. Someone who sees trouble happening and tells themselves it’s not their problem.”

Her voice shook a little, but she didn’t stop.

“So I guess…” Taylor finished, meeting his eyes, “I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t look away.”

The Operator watched through Dante’s eyes and felt something settle inside him as Taylor’s answer came in.

Satisfaction.

Not just with her responses—though those had been solid—but with himself. He hadn’t misjudged her. Not in the docks, and not at school.

Her answers revealed more than she likely intended. She was thoughtful under pressure. Deliberate. Capable of hesitation without paralysis. She understood consequences, and more importantly, she accepted them. She was not naive about violence, nor eager for it. And she would kill if forced—but she would not seek it.

A great mindset for a future Tenno Operative.

She wasn’t perfect though. 

Her answer also revealed she was angry, lonely, and (understandably) held a distrust of authority. Her heart carried scars that had yet to heal and could be exploited. But more than that, she was more willing to hurt the world than even she realized, and willing to step across lines if convinced it was necessary. That edge would need guidance.

Still, she was anchored. Anchored by her morality. Anchored by her father. Anchored by a desire not to become the very thing she despised.

It made him glad he chose this simple format for the meeting instead of the original plan. 

He had wanted to conduct the interview while moving—a go-along interview, as people on this earth called it. He would have given her a tour of the tower, walked her through the gardens, the operational floors, the observation decks. Let the scale of it all settle in while he questioned her. 

He had abandoned that plan the moment he saw her in the Liset.

He had seen it clearly, even through her mask. The way she had gone completely still when the clouds parted. The way her hand had lifted toward the viewport without conscious thought. The way her posture had softened in the face of something vast and beautiful.

It had said one thing.

She was completely awestruck.

The realization had caught him off guard. It took him a moment to understand why, until he remembered the failed moon base and realized once more—

These people had not even colonized their own moon.

Of course she had been overwhelmed.

To her, that view had not been routine. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime sight that not even one hundred people on this planet could claim to have experienced.

He felt faintly foolish for how much thought he had put into planning when the answer all along was to keep it simple.

But that hardly mattered now.

It was time to give his answer.

“Congratulations, Entoma,” Dante said evenly, though the Tenno made sure you could hear the smile in his voice. “You have passed the interview. From this point forward, you may ask any questions you have about our organization and your future role within it before deciding whether you wish to formally commit to joining our ranks.”

Taylor didn’t respond immediately.

“I pass?” she repeated, a touch of disbelief slipping through despite her composure.

“Yes,” he assured her.

She let out a slow breath. Then, instead of asking about training or responsibilities or armor, she asked something else.

“My first question is, what is Ten-Zero?”

That wasn’t the question he expected first but it still made the Operator smile. Seems even after all this, she wasn’t so taken in as to ignore the mysterious nature of his organization. 

Good instinct. 

However, it wouldn’t do to start talking without narrowing the scope of her question down.

Dante’s helmet tilted slightly, the motion almost avian. “I beg your pardon?”

Taylor leaned forward slightly, fingers curling around the untouched teacup. “I mean—what are you? Really. As much as you’ve done, your group is still a huge mystery. You just show up, dismantle criminals, then disappear. Even the PRT barely says anything about you.” She paused, then added, more directly, “So I want to know what you are and what your goals are too."

Dante hummed as if considering her question but it was really just so the Operator could buy time to think of how much to reveal. The Origin System and the Void were automatically out for now, but otherwise he’d have to freestyle a bit since he couldn't completely know what other questions she’d ask.

“I will not give you the entire truth,” he finally said after a short while.

Her shoulders stiffened slightly.

“Not because you have yet to commit,” he clarified. “But because, at this stage, even if you did join, certain aspects would not concern you. And you would neither believe nor fully understand them.”

Taylor didn’t seem offended but she definitely looked more wary. 

“That’s not very reassuring,” she said.

“It is honest,” he replied easily. “Do not worry though, you may not get the unfiltered truth just yet but you will be given more than even the PRT knows.”

Her attention sharpened immediately.

“Ten-Zero,” he continued, “is a hero team currently comprised of only three true members. Ordis. Umbra. And myself. We’re hoping to make you the fourth.”

She stared at him, frozen in place.

“…That’s not possible.”

The Tenno chuckled at the disbelief in her voice, finding it amusing. He wished she had her mask off to see her reactions.

“You think I’m lying?”

“Yes,” she admitted bluntly.

“It is the truth,” he said while stretching out his arms. “Every other ‘member’ you have seen operating under our banner would be classified, by your understanding, as robotics. Drones. But they are not, we call them Specters. They are sophisticated constructs made in the likeness of true Warframe armour like what me and Umbra wear.”

Her gaze flicked toward the garden, towards Umbra, as if recalculating every sighting she had ever reviewed.

“You’re saying all those deployments across the country…” she began slowly, “that’s just three of you and these… Specters?”

“Correct.”

“That’s insane.”

“If you think that's insane, trust me when I say you can't handle the full truth.”

She let out a short, disbelieving huff of air. “And the PRT doesn’t know that most of your members are robots?”

“They suspect much. They confirm little.”

She fell quiet for a moment.

“And your goal?” she pressed. 

Dante put his fingers back together.

“Our goal. Our true goal,” he leaned forward as if there would be some world shaking secret, and in a way, it was. “Is to go home.”

He could feel Taylor's confusion emanating from beneath the mask. His words made no sense to her.

“Where in the world could your home be that the Liset couldn’t take you,” she questioned skeptically.

The Operator let the silence hang just long enough to give the next words weight.

“Another world. See, the reason we don't have a history here is because we are not from Earth Bet. And not from Aleph. We are not from any world catalogued by the PRT.”

Taylor got halfway out of her seat.

“That’s…” She stopped, then restarted. “You’re saying… you’re saying you’re ALIENS?!”

“Yes…” Dante said automatically. Then he replayed what she said in his head. “What? No!”

He was lying now, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t been born on Earth—his earliest memories were the Zariman—but revealing his “alien” nature would complicate things far too much when he was trying to keep the explanation simple. Besides, he was still technically—even if by the loosest definition of the word—human.

“We came from an undiscovered Earth,” he said with a sigh. “Your imagination is very strong Ms. Entoma, or maybe you’ve been reading too many internet theories.”

Taylor’s posture froze, then she sat back down hard, mortified.

“T-that makes more sense,” She muttered, shoulders tight with embarrassment. She cleared her throat. “So you came here… how?”

“That,” Dante said calmly, “falls into the category of truths that do not concern you yet. What is relevant is that we didn’t come here on purpose and we have no way back at the moment.”

She went quiet at that. She clearly didn’t like the information being withheld from her, but she didn’t push.

“And you formed Ten-Zero… because?” she asked instead.

“One of the ways we found to get back that doesn't require us to dishonor ourselves is to take up the mantle of heroes. It’s slow progress but it's also quite lucrative," he explained.

“So Ten-Zero is… what? A cover?”

“Its a true heroic organization," he corrected. “We’re not refugees pretending to be heroes. We’re heroes who are refugees.”

She absorbed that slowly, eyes fixed on him through her mask.

“And if you do find your way back?” she asked. “What happens then?”

“We go home,” Dante said simply.

“What about everything here?”

“Ten-Zero will remain. I have no intention of letting our work collapse if, for whatever reason, I can’t return to Earth-Bet. That is why we started recruiting. In time, Ten-Zero will grow and we’ll replace Specters with people and pass the reins to those we recruited.”

A subtle beat passed before he added.

“To individuals like yourself.”

Silence settled over the pavilion. 

The Tenno had purposely made the implication that she could be the future leader of Ten-Zero and he was sure it was not lost on her. She was someone who wanted control, and from what he understood of her character, if she developed more and gained experience she would actually make a great leader. 

He bet she wasn’t thinking about all the paper work she would have to do without Ordis though.

“Let me get this all straight,” she said slowly. “You’re stranded. You built a peacekeeping organization to stabilize yourselves here while you work on a way back. And in the meantime, you’re improving the place.”

“That is a charitable interpretation,” Dante replied. 

It really was, given his only improvement plan would be to kill all the current S-class threats—which, while great for civilization as a whole, wouldn’t change the general parahuman situation unless he started slaughtering villains.

“It’s not wrong,” she pressed. “You could’ve just hidden. Stolen what you needed. Been on your way back home.”

“The Simurgh took the stealth option out of our hands,” he countered. “But yes. We could have remained an unconfirmed rumor.”

She studied him carefully. The suspicion didn’t vanish, but it softened the more they talked. Then she suddenly sighed.

“So Ivara?” she asked, sounding dejected. “She’s just a puppet.”

Was Taylor a fan of his? 

“Not exactly,” Dante answered. “When we were first establishing Ten-Zero, I was using the original armor and speaking through her. So If you’re a fan of her you’re a fan of me.”

“I guess, but I kind of liked her more because I thought you were a woman,” she admitted.

“Who says I'm not?” The Operator countered for no other reason but to be a contrarian. Taylor looked ready to bluster something, maybe an apology, but he cut her off with a chuckle. “I’m joking. I am male.”

 She blew out a sigh of relief and then a realization seemed to hit her.

“Wait, your power as Dante is part of that book right?” she asked slowly and he nodded. “So the armor being able to enhance a parahuman's abilities was a lie, wasn't it?”

Oh, did she just realize that? 

“Only partly.” He corrected. “It augments my abilities. But anyone who ‘wears’ the armour would just get the abilities already built into it.”

Truth was, he didn’t know how it would work with parahumans. He suspected they wouldn’t be able to use their powers through them though.

She leaned back in her chair. “But the PRT said… Right they don’t know. How haven’t you been caught? A thinker or even a regular person could notice certain members act exactly the same.”

“They came close a few times,” Dante admitted. “But their thinkers are easier to misdirect because the power source of my armor interferes with their abilities. Their other analysts don’t have that problem. So I began presenting a distinct personality and body language for each armor to throw them off.”

He paused to consider revealing this next tid bit, chuckled, then added, “Just last night, with Lung, I played the role of a sadistic and arrogant dominatrix in a different armour than this.”

Taylor’s shoulders jolted like she’d choked on air, more shocked about how I acted as Khora than the revelation of me being there that night.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said, half horrified, half incredulous.

Dante laughed. “It’s effective and necessary.”

Taylor exhaled through her nose, forcing herself back on track. “So what’s your plan for me in all this? Why recruit me first? I’m sure there are stronger heroes you could get.”

“We discovered you by chance,” Dante revealed. “The idea of expanding was still fresh, and then you appeared. Young and new to the cape scene with a versatile ability and strong morality.”

“So you recruited me first because I’m more… pliable,” she said, eyes definitely narrowing behind the mask, “and it’s less believable if I blow the whistle on your whole super robot army.”

“Not untrue,” Dante said evenly, “but not the intent. You wouldn’t have made it to the interview phase if we believed you would ‘blow the whistle.’”

He folded his hands neatly atop the table.

“More importantly, the purpose we’re recruiting you for right now is to serve as our unofficial operative in Brockton Bay.”

“Unofficial operative?” Taylor repeated, wary again.

“Indeed,” Dante said. “We cannot publicly claim you as one of ours. As a member without Warframe armor—and the only one permanently stationed in a specific city—you would be the most vulnerable to attack. The perfect target for our enemies to strike, either for revenge or leverage.”

Taylor went very still. The Operator took that as a sign she fully grasped the implications.

“That does not mean you would be defenseless,” Dante continued. “You would receive training, equipment, and direct lines of communication to us. However, the level of security required to keep you alive if you were publicly branded as ‘Ten-Zero’ would be… intrusive.”

Taylor sighed.

“So you’re saying I’d lose my privacy,” she said flatly.

“I am saying,” Dante replied calmly, “that the necessary measures would be unappreciated by someone who values autonomy. Which I know you do.”

She nodded slowly.

“Alright,” she pressed, “but if I’m ‘unofficial,’ does that mean I can’t be a hero publicly? Like—make my own name and image?”

Dante answered without hesitation. “You can. In fact, it is encouraged.”

“Really?” she asked, suspicion giving way to surprise.

“Don’t look so startled,” he chuckled. “If all we wanted were individuals to punch faces in the shadows, we would rely on specters. What we truly want is influence and resources. Ideally, your civilian identity would one day be someone who possesses both—governor, CEO, public figure, even a pop star.”

“But… you’re Ten-Zero,” she said, confused. “You already have all of that in spades.”

“That is true,” Dante conceded. “But imagine this: the secret of the specters leaks. A Thinker finally pieces it together. The government panics. The PRT attempts to shut us down. They leverage their public trust to demonize us.”

He leaned back slightly.

“As Ten-Zero, we could respond with our own reputation and public relations. But unless we began slaughtering Endbringers, we would likely lose that battle. The PRT just has too much public trust to compete with.”

Taylor nodded in agreement at that.

“Unless,” Dante continued smoothly, “a number of seemingly independent yet well-loved heroes, entertainers, and officials begin publicly supporting us. Rallying public opinion in our favor.”

“That sounds like you’re trying to build some kind of conspiracy,” Taylor said, unease creeping into her tone. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Dante regarded her without offense, because that’s exactly what the Operator was trying to do. He didn’t personally need it. He could go kill those Endbringers and gain sainthood in the eyes of the world. But goodwill didn’t last forever. When he’s gone, and the Endbringers are dead, it’ll be up to the future members who don't have a Tenno and Cephalon's prowess to keep the organization afloat.

But the Tenno wouldn’t say all of that, she would figure it out on her own. Instead he decided it was time to seal the deal on her membership. 

“We are a force of good, but If you are concerned,” he said evenly, “that is all the more reason to join.”

Taylor head tilted slightly.

“Consider it,” he went on. “If you walk away now, you lose access to information about what our ‘secret little cabal’ is doing. If you join, you become one of its earliest members. Senior to those who follow. And as a senior, you gain the ability to influence how Ten-Zero operates.”

He let that settle before stretching a hand across the table casually.

“So which would you prefer, Ms. Entoma? Watching from the outside… or shaping it from within?”

Taylor stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment. Then she sighed. But instead of taking it, she reached up with both hands and pulled off her mask. She set it carefully in her lap.

The consternated and tired face of Taylor Hebert was revealed in full. 

“Last question,” she said. “Can you show me your face? Your real one.”

The Operator felt a grin tug at his lips. 

Fair. He knew a lot about the real her. She should at least know a little about the real him.

He let transference go.

The Operator slipped free of the Warframe in a pulse of light and appeared perched casually on Dante’s lap, leaning back against the armored frame’s stretched arm like it was a lounge chair. The Warframe didn’t so much as dip under the added weight.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in his real body, offering his hand again.

Taylor's eyes widened in surprise. “...You’re my age?!”

He laughed again, her expression too funny not too.

“Yes and no,” he replied through his fit of giggles.

Her eyes narrowed as she scowled a little. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m older than I look.” He explained.

She stared at him harder, disbelief clear on her face now. 

“So this whole time,” she said slowly, “I’ve been interviewed by someone who looks like they should be in my math class.”

It took great force of will to hold in his laughter this time. 

“I doubt a highschooler could run an operation as large and clandestine as mine,” he replied dryly.

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. 

She looked at his hand again, hesitated, and sighed. “You’re serious about this. About me having a say.”

“I am,” he said seriously.

Silence lingered between them as her dark eyes searched his glowing pair for lies.

He didn’t lower his hand though, instead he shook it playfully.

Eventually, she reached out and clasped it.

Her grip was firm, smooth and warm.

“Alright,” Taylor said, holding his gaze. “I’m in.”

He tightened his grip and shook once in confirmation. “Welcome to Ten-Zero.”