The heat of the day was a distant memory by the time Michael found himself walking through the nighttime city. Despite the black sky above, the streets glowed with life. Signs and storefronts spilled light across the ground, and as he traveled down the sidewalk, his shadow warped and stretched as beam after beam of light shone down from the streetlights above. Night had long since arrived, the air now cool enough that his loose jacket didn't earn a second look.

As he strolled down the street he fingered his mask within his pocket, waiting to get closer to his destination to put it on. Even as late as it was, the city remained crowded. In the hot summer months, Raleigh bloomed beneath the stars.

He'd been given forty-eight hours to prepare—two days from when he'd received the message in his room. It was an announcement almost as frustratingly vague as Swallow's initial, ominous declaration. He'd been impatient at first, sitting around and counting down the hours. It hadn't been until later that night that it occurred to him just how impressive the display of efficiency was. His frustration had fallen away at the significance of the realization.

Splintered Arms had been a force in the city as long as he could remember. Until very recently, he'd never had a reason to go out of his way and learn about the mercenary group. For those who lived in the city, the group was a presence that was relatively well-known, but never really felt. Michael had read horror stories of cities overrun by gangs, but Raleigh had never reached that level. Compared to places like Vegas, the criminal capes here stayed out of sight and, for the most part, out of mind.

It had taken longer than it should have for him to catch on to just how quickly Splintered Arms was moving. He'd remembered the mercenaries appearing in the news every few weeks, but now suddenly the gap had plummeted to days. The meeting with Swallow, as convenient as the timing had been, could have been already in the works. It was a stretch, but he could believe that Swallow had shuffled the attack forward a day or two to take care of two things at once. This initial mission that Swallow was giving him, on the other hand, was beyond coincidence. According to everything he knew, it should have been weeks until Splintered Arms had been able to set up another move.

Michael didn't know whether or not to be reassured. He had tied himself to the mercenaries, however loosely, and surely any additional displays of competence should be a good thing. The better they were, the more likely they'd actually know a method of helping him. He tried to keep that thought in mind, overriding any additional doubts.

Up ahead, a certain restaurant drew steadily closer. Steadily was the correct word—the worst of the cramps and muscle twinges had vanished over the past days, and he could finally walk in a straight line without feeling like he was going to trip over his own feet at any moment. His legs were still uncomfortably stiff, but the occasional surges of discomfort paled before the memory of how bad they had briefly been. It was progress, and far faster than he rightly should have received.

Unfortunately, it was the only kind of progress he'd made. The Machine Army remained impossible to ignore, but he hadn't been able to make the leap into investigating it further. After the mission, he'd promised himself. Messing something up before he'd even completed a single mission wouldn't exactly make him valuable in the mercenary's eyes.

Speaking of, he was just about there. The street had only grown busier as he had walked, lost in thought, and the babble of conversation now rose over the rush of passing cars. Ahead, a small crowd was gathered outside a restaurant, bunched beneath the glow of hanging signage. The front door faced the street, and a few feet closer at the corner, a steep wooden staircase crawled up the side of the two-story building. It's worn steps offered a shortcut to the balcony where additional guests sat or stood, leaning against the railing to gaze down at the dim streets below. Strings of lights dangled below the lip, angled down and turning the figures above into indistinct shadow.

The overall darkness and sea of passerby gave Michael an opportunity to make his way to the inside of the sidewalk, facing the wall of the building as he slipped the mask on beneath his hood. He kept his head down, letting the thick do the work of obscuring his face. Approaching the crowd by the entrance, he skirted along the edge until he reached the base of the stairs and the surly-looking employee standing guard by the door. Ignoring the murmurs behind him, he waited silently for a beat, until the man turned to face him.

The tall figure eyed Michael up and down. Michael only extended his phone, a certain message already pulled up on the screen. After a moment of scrutiny, the employee jerked his head towards the empty stairs beside him.

"Reservation's on the roof," he said, already shifting back to face the waiting crowd, and Michael squeezed past him to slowly climb the steps. The wood creaked beneath his feet as he ascended, the legs of the tables and chairs drifting down into view as he drew level with the balcony. It jutted out off the side of the building, filled with guests, and across the span of decking the stair continued up further, wrapping around out of sight.

Unlike the stairs he'd just taken, the entrance to the next flight was blocked off, and beside the chain stretching across the gap stood a far more attentive employee. Compared to the one below, the veneer of restraint was wearing thin. The towering figure lurking in the shadows lacked the hulking mass of a stereotypical goon, but the focused gaze flickering through the gathering on the balcony was enough to reinforce his presence regardless. He reminded Michael of Swallow, and the weight of the cape's presence.

This time, the man took Michael's phone in his own hands, subjecting it to a far more intense scan than the first guard. Michael only waited silently, finally taking his phone back once the guard was fully satisfied and continuing up the temporarily-opened path. Behind him, the chain clicked back into place.

At the very top of the building, a smooth wooden railing similar to the one on the balcony below circled around the modest area. A smattering of people sat and stood in the open space; there were roughly fifteen or so men and women, with half gathered together and talking quietly amongst themselves, and the other half spread out, leaning against railings or seating in one of the few chairs. A few heads turned to observe Michael as he arrived, before returning to whatever they had been doing before. Evidently, he wasn't the last one to arrive.

Picking his way over to an empty section of rail, Michael kept his hood up as he leaned back against the chest-high barrier and looked cautiously around the roof. These were the people that he was stuck working with. The group was a mixed bag; there were a few more men than women, but not many. It looked like just about everyone present was older than him, though surprisingly not as much as he'd expected. Most of the members seemed to be in their mid or late thirties, with only one or two appearing distinctly older. It was the older man, in fact, that the conversation in the middle seemed to be centered on. For a moment, Michael wondered if he was missing something important, but judging from the relaxed scattering of people, it wasn't a briefing.

Beyond the central group, there was one other mercenary that stood out. Michael had begun to think he was the only one on the roof wearing a mask, but as he looked around the edges, he realized that wasn't the case. In the opposite corner, only partially visible in the dim light, he spotted a short woman. He wasn't sure until she glanced over her shoulder at something on the street below, the shadows peeling back for a moment to reveal her mask.

It was a peculiar design. Harshly geometric, bold black and white lines intersected at odd angles, highlighted by blocks of red cutting through the pattern. The sight scratched at the back of Michael's mind—faintly familiar. It took him a moment to dredge up the memory; he'd seen the pattern before. Her mask bore the same stylized camouflage that had once decorated the sides of battleships, a distinct marking that had caught his eye flipping through a history textbook however long ago. He had no idea what it was meant to signify, but the recognition was satisfying regardless.

Besides the mask, the cape who had to be Jolt was dressed in what seemed to be the unofficial uniform of Splintered Arms. Many of the mercenaries wore some variation of a dark, short-sleeve shirt and grey pants, with a few of the shirts neatly tucked in, closer to an actual uniform. Despite that, it didn't look like there was any sort of enforced dress code, merely a collection of similar outfits. Amidst the crowd there were splashes of individuality; unique bits of color, accessories, and hairstyles kept the group from completely blending together into a faceless band of soldiers. One man wore a bulky black wristwatch and a buzz cut, while another's dreadlocks were almost shoulder-length. Jolt actually had shorter hair than most of the crowd, the ends of a pixie cut settling only a few inches below the bottom of her mask.

Hopefully Michael could get one of the outfits for himself, or better yet, a proper mask. He already felt out of place enough as it was, and the overly-casual hoodie didn't help.

Over the next five minutes, another three mercenaries joined, meandering up the stairs to join the bubble of people in the center of the roof. Shortly after the third had arrived, the conversation died down and heads turned towards the older man. Michael too abandoned his curious gazing through the crowd and focused his attention.

"Alright, that's everyone accounted for. Listen up." In the center of the roof, the presumed leader spoke, his voice quiet but carrying clearly. "Tonight is going to be quiet, medium to long, standard pay. Fracture and Swallow are running loud, so the heroes and drones will be busy, which gives us minimal risk."

Michael stood in place uncertainly, confused by the onslaught of jargon flying over his head, but around him men and women were murmuring, quiet sentences bouncing back and forth. He wasn't sure exactly what they were debating until one of the men who'd been sitting on the side stood, shaking his head.

"Damn, needed today to be something quick," the mercenary said with a groan, and Michael realized he was making his way towards the stairs back off the roof. However, instead of reaching out to stop him, there were only a handful of waves and good-natured farewells from the rest of the team. The figure descended, disappearing from view, and the older man in the center cast his gaze around the group. As his eyes met Michael's, he paused for a second, then smoothly continued.

"We'll be in three teams," he addressed the remaining crowd. "You all know your roles, split yourselves up. I'll be leading the main group. Marcus, you're in charge of the second. Danielle, you and Jolt will be taking the third." As he finished speaking and people began to move, he strode towards Michael.

"You must be the new recruit," the man said, joining Michael by the edge of the roof. "Danielle is your squad leader tonight." He pointed halfway across the rooftop. "I'm sure you have questions; ask her, and follow her lead. You'll be filled in once we get moving." The words were distant, if polite enough, and then he was gone, back towards one of the quickly-assembling groups.

Michael eyed his apparent team. He still had no idea what exactly was happening, but it sounded like he finally had a chance to find out. Drifting towards the others, he floated around the edge of the group of five. Six now, including himself.

It took another thirty seconds for the rest of the mercenaries to organize, the remaining collective finalizing the split. As soon as they were done, the leader raised his voice, calling everyone to attention.

"Group three will head down first. The vans are in the usual spot. No volunteers tonight, drivers are accounted for." By the time he finished speaking, Danielle was already moving, Michael and the others falling in behind her. The six of them descended the stairs at a leisurely walk, but upon reaching the balcony, turned and hugged the wall to enter the building. Twisting through the interior, they reached a different staircase, and finally emerged through the rear of the restaurant. In front of them, three seemingly-ordinary utility vans idled in the small delivery area.

One of the men worked the latch, pulling open the rear doors, and the group piled inside. Jolt, who had been near the front, waited beside the door as the others entered, finally sliding in and pulling the door shut behind her. She settled into place on the opposite bench, across from Michael.

The inside of the vehicle was surprisingly spacious, especially with only three sitting on each side. A single interior light in the middle of the roof was enough to flood the space with light, and as Michael looked up and down the aisle, Danielle leaned forward to reach under her seat. He couldn't see what was going on without craning forwards, but a moment later there was a metallic clack followed by a low, dragging shuffle.

At the front end of the van, Danielle slowly dragged a large crate out into the aisle. Flipping the latches on the lid, she opened it slowly, and Michael couldn't help but straighten, peering intently over the shoulder of the man beside him. Within the box, nestled atop one another, lay piece after piece of body armor.

As bulletproof vests were passed around the interior of the van, Michael took the offered item out of simple habit, staring at the unfamiliar gear that had made its way to his hands. It wasn't a complicated piece, basically two large panels connected by a few straps, but the sight still gave him pause to think.

"This is supposed to be minimal risk?" he murmured to himself, and beside him there was a quiet huff of amusement.

"This is minimal risk," the mercenary sitting beside him chuckled, and Michael lifted his head to actually take in his seated companion. The man looked fairly plain, enough that Michael would have trouble picking him out from a crowd, except for a small notch on his left eyebrow where a scar cut through the skin on either side.

"Tommy," the man introduced himself.

Michael blanked for a moment on his own cape name, before returning the introduction. "…Fathom."

"So you're the new cape," Tommy said. "Unless your power makes you tougher than one of these, I'd highly recommend wearing it. You might want to ditch the hoodie first, though. Don't want it to get all twisted up underneath." He was already halfway done strapping on his own vest, adjusting the velcro along the sides.

Michael looked at Tommy and the rest of the mercenaries, who had all begun the process of gearing up, and then quickly stripped off his jacket, setting it down partially folded beside him. His shield, now uncovered, remained at his hip, but another layer of protection wouldn't hurt. As he began fitting the vest, he mulled over Tommy's words.

"Have you actually had to use it before?" he asked, and Tommy grinned.

"Only once," he said, tapping the center of the plate with an exaggerated wince. "That was more than enough. Still, much better than the alternative." Michael certainly couldn't argue with that. All around them, there were murmurs of agreement from the other mercenaries.

"Need a hand with that?" Tommy offered as he picked at the straps, and Michael shook his head.

"I'll figure it out."

He finished securing the protective vest in place, shifting his shield a bit further to the side to make room. Beneath him, the van jerked as it rumbled into motion. At the other end of the vehicle, Danielle leaned forwards into the aisle, looking back at the rest of the team.

"Pay attention everyone, it's time to prepare." Her voice was sharp, fully focused. Throughout the vehicle, backs straightened. "Tonight we're going to hit the Bastion."

The name meant nothing to him, but all around, he saw eyes glimmer in excitement.