The flag atop the PRT headquarters had seen better days, the gusts tearing it flat against the pole with sharp snaps of fabric. Colin Wallis—known to the city as Armsmaster—stood alone at the edge of the plaza, helm tilted upwards as the rain fell, watching the thing strain against the stormfront.

  As bad as it seemed, the rain alone couldn't be blamed for the chaos and the poor visibility. For one, it had yet to really start. The precipitation itself was still thin, misting, just barely skimming the surface of his helmet, water trickling down the plates of his new finished frame in thin, rivulets.

  No, it was the wind.

  The same wind that made the small rain move horizontally, that was the real problem. Yet, Colin could feel the uptick in particulate agitation, a lowering of barometric pressure. He knew the storm would pick up properly in fourteen minutes, give or take.

  Armsmaster took a moment to adjust his stance, the weight of the Cerberus Frame shifting slightly around his shoulders. Efficient posture: solid, mobile, ready to respond. Even now, even here, discipline mattered.

  The asphalt beneath his boots was damp, the old concrete patched and re-patched a dozen times over the last few years. It would flood easily if the rain kept up. Another problem for another department. He filed the observation away, just in case.

  Across the parking lot, PRT vans pulled into their designated rows—one by one, two by two. Capes disembarked, some in full costume, others with helmets tucked under their arms, moving with the kind of hollow urgency unique to Endbringer deployments. There were no shouts, no casual greetings, no banter.

  Just grim nods, tight gestures, potentially a tight glance at the looming stormfront over the bay.

  Colin's internal chronometer ticked onward. Each passing minute ratcheted the tension another notch tighter as Leviathan made it's way closer to landfall, closer to further ruining the city he had spent his entire life fighting for some order of control and maintenance.

  Armsmaster stood alone on the marble steps of PRT Headquarters, arms crossed loosely behind his back, gaze set toward the parking lot as the rest of the PRT vans continued to pour in, dispensing capes and agents alike. Brockton Bay had seen a small influx recently and he knew very well that the ones he was seeing were rarely “on the side of angels”, so to speak.

  The armored hero turned his head aside, biting back a sigh. The armor in question was busy, as busy as it could be when not in active use, the system running internal diagnostics every six seconds—perfect cycle timing. No system faults.

  On top of that, no energy overdraw. But that truly wasn’t saying much, this system hadn’t been field-tested against an Endbringer. Yes, it was more effective in testing environments and more powerful as designed, but could it pass the real test? He still shifted his weight minutely, recalibrating joint flexion against the wind slicing off the bay.

  Everything had to be ready. There would be no margin for error.

  Armsmaster flexed his gauntlets automatically, feeling the brief resistance of servos syncing to his fingers as they tightened around him automatically. Not to the point of uncomfortability, but a near-perfect adjustment to his digits and muscles by the frame. Another unnecessary check, another ritual of precision that masked the inefficiency gnawing under his armor.

  Yesterday's chaos still flickered in the corners of his mind, tagged and archived, reviewed and analyzed.

  However, it was far from dismissed.

  Thomas Calvert—Deputy Director Thomas Calvert.

  Decorated PRT Officer.

  Hero of Ellisburg.

  And now, a dead man.

  No, worse. Exposed.

  Exposed as Coil. The traitor that had been operating within their walls for months as Deputy Director, years as a valued consultant, all while they debated policy minutiae and bureaucratic reform measures.

  Armsmaster parsed the facts again, clean and cold.

  Calvert had been eliminated.

  Publicly at that, a tragic casualty of cape violence.

  Internally, a black mark so deep they couldn't allow it to surface without shattering PRT public trust metrics nationwide. The internal investigation was already spinning up. Paperwork, classified hearings, silenced reports. They couldn't afford the truth. If the public found out a PRT official had moonlighted as a crime lord—had orchestrated kidnappings, killings, and who-knew-what-else—the fallout wouldn't be one easily contained.

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  The mercenaries they'd scraped up in the aftermath—parahumans and human freelancers alike—had been remarkably cooperative from their hospital beds. Confessions streaming like open taps, a dozen variations of the same story: Hardkour—no, the boy.

  Greg Veder, White Knight, whatever name he was wearing today—hadn't attacked Calvert due to mistaken identity. All of them were working for the now dead Coil.

  “We can’t tell the public. Not without collapsing trust in the entire organization.”

  Director Piggot's words, still clear in his mind. Delivered with that mix of bitterness and tired inevitability she used when forced to choose between operational necessity and ethical pretense.

  The optics demanded a narrative and, simply put, there was a reason Assault often joked the PRT stood for Public Relations Task Force. Thomas Calvert was now nothing more than a fallen hero, a hardworking and loyal agent of the PRT murdered by a rampaging cape high on hormones and... well, by the time the media was done with him, possibly heroin too.

  Hardkour. Void Cowboy. White Knight. The boy was building a pantheon of identities as if changing names could stave off consequence. Gregory Lucas Veder. The boy did not understand the depth of his actions, the hole he had dug for himself getting deeper each and every day.

  And they had to pile the dirt on him. Because regardless of reality, some fictions had to be maintained. Because the optics of truth were worse than the optics of omission.

  Armsmaster's jaw flexed, tension unseen beneath composite plating.

  He should have found Coil first. Should have paid more attention. Should have seen the signs. If he had simply—

  Armsmaster shook his head and moved the thought aside like clearing a fogged visor. Control what could be controlled.

  Capes emerged in staggered formations—Protectorate, Wards, unaffiliated locals pressed into the shield line. Sullen nods. Tight jawlines. Half-hearted greetings exchanged with the flat professionalism of men and women walking toward execution they intended to survive by sheer stubbornness.

  A flash of white light tore a vertical line through the heavy clouds, and the boom came an instant later, bouncing off the gutted skyscrapers and washing over the plaza like a tide. A blue and white comet that landed with almost deferential grace atop the courtyard flagstones, rain finally touching his skin as Legend descended from the sky, feet kissing the pavement in a controlled burn that barely stirred the puddles.

  Armsmaster moved to meet him, boots clicking sharp on wet marble.

  "Legend," he said, inclining his head with calibrated respect.

  "Armsmaster," the older man returned, voice steady, and reassuring by design.

  Legend’s blue costume darkened by the rain, his face firm but not angry as they spoke without smiling. No need.

  The man’s presence alone stabilized the field—the unspoken affirmation that, yes, the heavy hitters had arrived, and yes, they still had a fighting chance. Said heavy hitter glanced past him, blue eyes surveying the assembling crowd. "You believe the boy's stable?"

  A loaded question if there ever was one. Stable… is definitely hard to define in this case.

  Armsmaster considered his response with the precision it deserved, a question on this level from Legend regarding a potential operation that could… well, it would definitely not end neatly if it wasn’t handled properly. Calvert’s charred corpse as the highlight of the Bay evening news had proved that much.

  Stability was a gradient and Colin knew well enough that ontrol was a function of environmental loadout, psychological state, and operational fatigue. Given Greg’s demonstrated behaviors; the frequent showings of emotional instability offset by situational hyperfocus, reckless tactical improvisation supported by overwhelming raw output—the only correct answer was barely even one at all:

  "He's... contained. For now."

  Legend’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "We may need to decide if that’s enough."

  No disagreement offered. None expected.

  Legend exhaled through his nose after a few moments of silence. "How’s morale?" he asked, glancing sideways at the assembling capes.

  Colin allowed himself a small, factual shrug. "Functional."

  Legend gave a faint huff of amusement. "I’ll take it."

  They stood together for a moment, surveying the crowd.

  More were arriving by the second: New Wave capes in gleaming colors, independents in mismatched armor, a few recognizable villains slinking into the back rows with the desperate pragmatism that Endbringer calls always inspired.

  The rain thickened, each droplet heavier now, slapping against the growing sea of capes with a mechanical insistence. Armsmaster scanned the line automatically—width of shield formations, coverage gaps, aerial overwatch frequencies. Cataloging flaws. Planning corrections. Instinctive.

  The next group of capes was arriving. Teleport signatures flaring across the battered skyline. Crowds thickening into knots and clusters. Nervous motion. Nervous silence.

  His HUD parsed motion vectors. Filed threats by probability. Noted vulnerabilities in spacing. Imperfections everywhere. He could feel his blood pressure rising—but muted, controlled.

  From the far side of the lot, moving with deliberate purpose through the floodlights and driving rain, he saw a figure break from the dispersing arrivals.

  Legend's gaze sharpened, fixing on the exact same figure moving in the middle distance. "Is that him?" he asked quietly.

  Colin didn't need to look to confirm.

  Blue and yellow stood out against the white, blue cape fluttering in the rising storm. His shoulders were broader from the way he stood months ago, helmeted head tilted slightly down—not out of deference, but purpose as he moved with a measured stride, his weight balanced perfectly between steps.

  White Knight.

  Armsmaster’s HUD tagged him instantly, cross-referencing the three separate visual profiles the boy had accumulated in less than a year. Hardkour. Void Cowboy. Now this. The cleaned-up image. A paladin, not a wild card. A symbol fit for public consumption.

  He watched the boy pass through the gathering ranks. No hesitation. No wasted motion. No fear.

  "Hmph."