In the ensuing quiet, Michael took the opportunity to fully study the tech sitting beneath him. There was a certain comfort in exploring the device, letting his power dredge up every last detail. Touching it, he was fully in control. His power did not lie, or speak in circles, or attempt to evade. It gifted him with clarity, like a name finally remembered after floating on the tip of his tongue.

Compared to the overwhelming expanse of the Machine Army, the trap was refreshingly simple. Pieces fit together snugly, fragments of individual purpose building atop each other to form the overall product, all ever-so-slightly shaped by the impressions of its designer. That was always his greatest loss after letting go of the tech—the flow. On his own, he could picture the central purpose and a handful of details, but the way the pieces fit together eluded him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and until recently had been the most frustrating failing of his power. Now, he only wished that was his biggest problem.

Before he could spend any more time contemplating, the door creaked open once more. The sharp-eyed woman re-entered the room, her attention settling over him once more. She seemed slightly less hostile, almost pensive, and he waited for the verdict to arrive. The deliberation hadn't seemed to have taken long.

"There is someone interested in meeting you," she finally spoke, and he remained silent even as a flood of relief arrived. She waited another moment, as if giving him a chance to change his mind, before striding past him towards the exit. "Follow me," she added, and he stood. He wasn't willing to turn back now, not when there was an opportunity right before him.

The ride back down to the ground floor passed in silence. Michael stared forward resolutely, keeping his eyes on the numbers as they counted down, and as the doors opened the sight of the open lobby loomed above him once again.

"Collect your things and head to the rear doors," she said, gesturing slightly towards the back of the building. "Your ride is on the way." She made no move to disembark, and as he strode stiffly forwards, the doors slid shut and she was gone.

Even at his slow pace, it took only a minute for him to return to the bathroom and grab his bag, quickly checking to see that everything was intact. Despite the brief walk, by the time he made it to the far doors, a car was already idling by the steps.

Eying the vehicle, Michael paused for a moment, before he was struck with a surge of wry amusement at his own hesitancy. Compared to everything else he was trying to do, the danger of entering a stranger's car was practically trivial. Pushing through the glass doors, he grimaced lightly as he made his way down the steps, tapping lightly on the car window. The driver beckoned, and he slid inside.

They pulled away from the side of the road, smoothly merging into the flow of traffic. The streets were still busy despite it being the middle of the day, but it was incomparable to the crush of rush hour. Within the stream of vehicles, they made decent time, leaving downtown behind as the pair drove north.

Both Michael and the driver seemed content to sit in comfortable silence, and Michael busied himself keeping an eye on the scenery as they passed, watching the gradual transition towards the edge of the city and making a mental note of the route. So far, it had been a straight shot up the interstate, which was easy enough to remember. On the other hand, it opened up an uncomfortable range of places that they might be headed. Outside of the city, he had no way to make it home on his own.

To his relief, they hadn't fully left the city limits when the driver exited the highway, pulling almost immediately onto a gravel service road. The noise of passing cars faded behind them, separated by distance and a wall of trees that blocked the view of a sprawling construction site. An enormous dirt lot was half-filled with piles of scattered building supplies, bumping up against the edge of a chain-link fence. Beyond the barrier, a handful of warehouses in various states of completion were spread out around the foundations for some unidentifiable future project.

As they drifted to a stop, Michael noticed a solitary figure leaning against his own car, the only other person in the empty expanse. The man stood at the edge of the lot, thirty or forty feet away from where they'd parked. A bright yellow hard hat was perched jauntily atop his head, with a matching high-vis vest beneath it. Their wearer didn't seem to notice Michael's arrival, attention fixed on the object in his hands. It wasn't until he brought it to his mouth that Michael recognized the lump as a crumpled, half-eaten sandwich; the box resting on the trunk of his car likely contained the rest of his meal.

Michael glanced at the driver, who returned his inquisitive look with an unconcerned shrug. A man of few words—Michael was already disappointed to be splitting up so soon. With one last murmured thanks, he disembarked, hefting his backpack and striding across the lot. Behind him, he heard the rumble of the car fade into the distance as his ride departed.

Drawing closer to the unidentified man, Michael slowed, staring forward intently. The bright safety gear slapped haphazardly over the man's outfit had drawn Michael's eye, but now an unsettling premonition rippled down his spine as he picked out the muted colors beneath the yellow glow. The tawny shirt, sleeves of cobalt blue bleeding down into a matching pair of dyed fatigues. He'd heard of those colors.

He faltered, missing a step as the second-in-command of Splintered Arms glanced up at him with a slow smile.

The mercenary leaned forwards, shrugging upright from his slouch. Wavy black hair was trimmed short over a rugged brown face and square, clean-shaven jaw. A thick strip of blue cloth obscured the top half of his face, fabric cleanly fitted along the lines of his head. With one hand, he placed the remains of his lunch to the side, extending the other in invitation. "Swallow," he stated, and Michael drew in a breath at the confirmation. "You can call me Swallow," he repeated with a grin.

Michael met his offered hand, shaking it with a surreal confidence. "Fathom," he replied steadily, and Swallow's smile stretched wider.

"You know, you're pretty young for a Protectorate mole." It took a moment for the words to register, spoken as easily as if he was talking about the weather. Michael flinched, and as he tried to take a reflexive half-step back, he found his hand caught in a vice-like grip.

"I'm not with the Protectorate!" he exclaimed, blindsided by the accusation and rocked by a surging wave of panic. His thoughts fractured, blown apart as he raced to reassure the man who was suddenly looming over him. His pulse thumped in his ears, but suddenly his hand was freed.

Swallow laughed, flexing his now-empty fingers. "Just a test," the man said, waving lazily out at the space around them. "That's why you're here, after all. A little experiment, for the two of us to get to know one another. Besides, I've got a bit of business to take care of." The words barely registered as Michael tried to fight down the momentary surge of fear.

"Call it a personal hobby of mine," Swallow said. "Much better than a stuffy office, don't you think? I like to take care of things in person; it's the best way to learn. One little push, and then I watch how everyone scrambles." He waxed energetically, but the glint in his eye never vanished as he continued to stare at Michael. Cradling the remainder of his lunch in one arm, he popped the trunk, depositing the food and re-emerging with a bright bundle of cloth.

"It's important to follow proper procedure in a construction site," he offered, holding out the spare vest and hard hat, and Michael didn't have the slightest idea if he was being serious. Regardless, he was still too nonplussed to argue, accepting the bundle absentmindedly and shrugging it on. "Follow me," Swallow called, and a rattling, metallic thump jerked Michael's gaze up to the nearby fence. A few feet away, Swallow stood next to the gate, and at his feet lay the shattered links of a finger-thick steel chain. The last scraps of metal fell from his hands as he opened the gate, beckoning Michael onward.

Michael made his way through the opening, mind finally catching up with the surge of the past few moments as the last remnants of adrenaline flushed out of his system. He paused, waiting for Swallow to take the lead, and the pair started down the outer edge of the largest warehouse.

Glancing at the long stretch of worn dirt ahead of him, he grimaced, already dreading the distance. On the other hand, the scenery around him was almost familiar. Aside from the cleanliness, he couldn't help but be reminded of all his days spent clambering through half-constructed buildings. These ones were on the road to completion, instead of consigned to a slow decay, but the sight was familiar enough to offer some slight relief, a piece of normality.

Walking beside the tall warehouse, Swallow seemed content to stay silent for the time being, idly dragging a hand along the wall. Michael let the momentary peace continue, more focused on keeping his legs moving smoothly. Starting off-balance would only make the pain worse by the time they finished whatever circuit Swallow had planned.

"You don't need to hide it," Swallow called out abruptly, still looking the other way, and Michael's attention crystallized on the back of his head. Tap, tap, tap, echoed the mercenary's fingers as he glanced back, for once lacking his ever-present grin. Instead, there was a hint of something else that stole over his features, something Michael recognized a moment later. Disappointment, in the flicker of Swallow's eyes as they roved pointedly down to his stumbling feet.

He tensed under the judgemental gaze, uncertainty staring back at the other cape. Swallow had caught on terrifyingly fast, though only to a fraction of the truth. The problem was that he had no way to explain his injuries. With gritted teeth, he waited. He wouldn't let Swallow reject him just because of a temporary problem. He was far beyond qualified for whatever tinkertech work they could come up with; limp aside, he could practically work in his sleep. Willing himself to remain silent, he waited for the dismissive words to arrive, but they never did. Instead, Swallow scanned him carefully.

"Will you be alright, walking?" the man said, and Michael blinked in surprise. "You should have said something," Swallow continued. "Not my intention to get in the way of your recovery." Slowly, Michael realized the disapproval wasn't aimed at his faltering steps. Once again, he was knocked off-balance, twice in as many minutes.

"Yeah… It's—it's fine," he said, gradually loosening from the momentary surprise. "I can keep going."

"Must have been quite the injury," Swallow added, switching back to his previous light-hearted tone, and Michael resisted the urge to cover the metallic scar with a hand beneath Swallow's searching gaze. "Do you want to talk about it?" the mercenary questioned mildly, and Michael couldn't tell if the probe was anything more than the polite inquiry that it seemed.

"It's handled," he said semi-evasively. "I'll be back to normal before too long." Swallow hummed, but seemed willing to let the matter drop. After a moment's pause, the two resumed walking.

"Guessing that's part of why you came looking for us," the mercenary said. "What is it, then? Trying to hide from whoever gave you that?" There was an accusation lying within the words, and Michael found himself unable to refute it. Swallow made it sound crass, but he wasn't entirely wrong. Michael had sought out Splintered Arms specifically to take advantage of their strengths. The difference was that he was willing to put in the work to earn it.

"Well, not a bad idea," Swallow said, derailing Michael's half-formed protests. The other cape seemed to accept or even approve of the plan. "This city isn't friendly to independents," he offered with a shrug, and Michael couldn't help but question his response.

"You… approve?" he asked, confused and unsure if he should even be pushing further. At his clear incredulity, Swallow let out a low chuckle.

"We're mercenaries," the man said, as if that was all the explanation he needed. "Not exactly driven by heroics, if that's what you mean. Most of the team are just here for the paycheck." He sounded so bland describing it, almost dispassionate. Michael had assumed Swallow belonged among that pragmatic group, but now hearing his words, he wasn't so sure.

"How much do you know about our organization?" Swallow inquired, and Michael rocked a hand side-to-side uncertainly. "Only what's publicly available," he replied. Swallow nodded in understanding before speaking once more. "There are three of us at the top," he explained, glancing back at Michael to see if he was following. "Myself, Jolt, and our boss—Fracture. Besides that, the rest of the team is unpowered. Various cells scattered about the city, called upon as needed." Swallow wasn't saying anything Michael didn't already know from his research, and it was plain that the mercenary wouldn't be offering anything more concrete. At least, not yet.

"Just three of you, in charge of the whole company?" Michael questioned, and for perhaps the first time Swallow let out a genuine, full laugh. Unlike his previous low chuckles of amusement, it rolled out high and bright.

"Oh god, she'd have my head if I even thought about claiming to be in charge," Swallow murmured to himself, loud enough for Michael to overhear. "It's not always about us capes," the mercenary added, this time back to addressing him, but failing to elaborate any further. In the privacy of his own thoughts, Michael could only speculate.

The two of them rounded the final corner, beginning the last stretch back towards the dirt lot where they'd begun the loop, and Swallow slowed. The spaces between his metronome taps against the wall stretched outwards, beats of silence growing longer.

"Well, I suppose there's one last question, then," he said. "Why us? You don't seem like a villain. If it's just about money, the corporate teams would have been a safer bet. And yet here you are." Even though it went unsaid, Michael knew the question wasn't one he could avoid. He couldn't tell Swallow about his greatest goal, eliminating the hostile mass that crept through him, but there was something else he could offer. For months, he'd kept his solitary routine through the city without ever approaching the Protectorate. Now, he could finally put the nebulous feelings into words.

"It's about… freedom, I suppose," he said, staring off into the distance and letting the thoughts coalesce. "Within the PRT, or a corporate team, I would just be another cape, shuffled around without any say in the matter. I don't think I could stand being told what to do every day." The realization was refreshing, to finally speak aloud. Refocusing on Swallow, he found a grin stealing over the other cape's features.

"And here I didn't take you for an idealist," he said, and Michael felt his lips twitch into the barest fraction of a matching smile.

"Honestly, neither did I."

Swallow let the moment lay undisturbed for a handful of seconds, before his smile smoothed away. "Well, if you want to join us, here's what's going to happen. Starting out, you'll be at the bottom. That's just how it works. Besides myself and our other two capes, most of our senior members will be above you. Some of them have been working at this for decades; no matter how much you dislike it, the ranks exist for a reason." Swallow didn't sugarcoat the words, laying out the reality of the situation, but he continued on a lighter note.

"However, there's a big difference between us and the others. Join our team, and you have the chance to refuse. Every task we give, you can say no. There might be costs, but you'll never be kicked out for refusing a job. Most importantly, when everything is said and done, you'll be free to leave."

Michael stared at him, surprised by the leniency of the offer, and Swallow snorted. "It's obvious you're trying to accomplish something. Safety, revenge, I don't care. Right now, you're not here for the long haul, and that's fine. When you've done what you need to do, you can take your cash and move on. However…" The mercenary paused, as if weighing his words, and Michael stood, tense with a sudden expectation. There was a gravity in the air, beyond anything that either of the two had said since the moment Michael had stepped out of the car.

"I'm not in the business of trying to persuade people, so I'll only ever say this once." Swallow stared Michael in the eyes. "What you're trying to do here is a dangerous game. Refusing to pick a side isn't always a choice. You would be far better off joining us in full." Three simple sentences, and he stopped, waiting.

Michael could hear the truth in his words. It was something that he had already known. Compared to the titans that filled the city, he was nothing, a solitary figure trying to dart in and claim a tiny piece of the prize that they all fought tooth and nail over. One misstep, and he would be crushed between the shifting power of international organizations, entrenched villains, and everything between. The cape scene wasn't a merciful one. But even knowing all that, backing out wasn't an option. With nobody to turn to and no one to trust, he could only do what he could.

"I know," he murmured apologetically. Standing before Swallow, the other cape only looked at him in silence.

"That's your choice, then," Swallow said, turning to walk once more. Ahead of them, the gate beckoned, and the two passed through it without a word. This time, Swallow didn't shut it behind himself.

"You may want to stand back," he called out loudly, and Michael looked at him curiously, but began backing away. His gaze remained fixed on the mercenary as the man squared up to face the warehouse, one arm rising, and for the first time the shimmer of something beyond the ordinary appeared.

From around Swallow's hand, the air rippled, shivering. A moment later, it became clearly visible. Tearing away from his fingers, the distortion rapidly darkened as it flew through the air, splashing against the corner of the structure. Michael couldn't see any visible damage, but moments later another impacted, followed by more and more, quickly gaining speed. The rapid-fire bolts were pitch-black by the time they sunk into the exterior, and slowly, a low groan rose from the building. The unmistakable sound of straining metal.

Michael stumbled backwards on straining legs, caution forgotten as understanding arrived. The sound was closer to a scream now, a final tortured gasp as the structure sagged, twisting under its own weight. There was one last jagged crack, and then like a dam bursting, the entire warehouse toppled, collapsing inwards. Clouds of dust billowed as the building was swallowed, lone supports sticking up along the edges of the ruin like broken teeth.

"Well then," the cape said, quiet contentment lurking behind his words, before he turned back to face Michael.

"Would you like to join Splintered Arms?" Swallow asked lightly. As he watched the swirling dust ripple outward, Michael nodded.