On Earth Bet, there's a comic book about a superhero without superpowers. It's hopelessly optimistic, ridiculously whimsical, and ignores its own rules constantly, but it exists nonetheless, achieving no small fame. It imagines a mortal man standing equal to titans who can shatter planets, bring their imagination into reality with nothing more than a thought, and travel through time. This man keeps up using a mixture of technology, basic intelligence, and author fiat, but he has a seat at a table meant for demigods. A voice.

A peerage.

Those sorts of comics fell out of favor in the mid-nineties, partially due to a resurgence of interest in pirate stories and partially due to growing uneasiness about capes. Nonetheless, people continue to talk about that hero, about how this fictional being would match up against the real life heroes who fight in the streets so they can sleep in peace at night.

I had always laughed at the thought, the idea, that a mere man could walk alongside such fantastical beings and be taken seriously. That someone could simply work their way to success without any help, without receiving inspiration from above or assistance from a higher power. Not divine intervention or a blessing from the muses, but the more mundane type of advantage. A nod from a superior where one may not have been deserved, or being chosen over a slightly more qualified applicant because of some imaginary X-factor. No, I believed that true ascension, real power, needed help.

As time went on, those laughs became a little more bitter. The top was lonely, yes, but it was also barren, an empty field with no one to boost me higher. The work never let up, a constant barrage of problems and trials that all needed mundane solutions too complex to automate, none of which let me develop anything new. I plateaued, my credit waned, and now I reside in a corner office with a ceiling firmly stuck above me, and no matter how hard I slam my head into them the walls remain firmly in place.

I have peaked.

Now I think about Batman and I scowl.

A man among gods.

Ridiculous.


Alexandria Down, JK-11.

I can feel the defensive line shudder at those words as the rookie capes too young to remember the end of Hero learn for the first time that yes, the Triumvirate can be hurt. Some of the veterans also hesitate, the ones who haven't stared at death so many times that the phenomenon has lost nearly all meaning, and I watch as they try and fail to brace themselves for the inevitable spike in difficulty.

We're faltering. Someone needs to step up, to do something. Legend is in the air however, and Chevalier is too far back to make it in time to prevent the fragile morale of the group from collapsing completely.

I may not be the best option, but I'm the one who's here.

I step forward and cut, burning a line into Leviathan's thigh, only barely avoiding the relaitatory water whip. A spear thicker than a redwood and longer than an eighteen wheeler shoots out above me courtesy of Menja, stabbing into Leviathan and pushing the creature back, if only for a moment. Fortunately, that's all the opening Dragon needs, and a salvo of missiles unloads onto the beast, sending it into an awkward stumble as several tons of tinkertech slam into it loudly enough that my helmet shuts off the external audio feed. The beast trips, falls into the water, and disappears.

I want to pursue. I want it bad enough that it hurts to not fire a grappling hook up to the corner of a building, lift off, and try to get visual on Leviathan again. It hurts that I have to twirl my halberd dramatically, plasma blade turning rain and seawater to steam, and engage in a moment of theatre as people somewhere else could be dying. It hurts to turn around and face the group of parahumans, a third of whom can't buy their own beer and another third who are fundamentally unfit for this work, and begin the speech I prepared for exactly this scenario.

"Alexandria will be back," I say, activating the public address mode on my halberd and angling my head so everyone can see my visor. Leadership versus command. One inspires, the other orders. Most capes can't take orders from people they don't know, so I have to inspire them. "Until then, it is on us to fight the beast. Do not falter!" I shout, startling some in the front row. Good. Maybe the memory will be clearer, more powerful. "We have fought Endbringers without the Triumvirate before!" And lost. "We can win!" For a certain definition of winning. "Once more!" I finish, turning around and finally throwing my grapple up and out, slinging myself around the intersection at speed to look for the beast, to look for a problem I know, at least theoretically, how to solve.


I suppress a sigh as the doors behind me open with a soft woosh. The noise is mainly cosmetic and I've considered tuning it to specific footsteps so I can know who's entering my lab, but honestly-

"I want more patrols," Shadow Stalker says as she stomps into the room, slapping one of her crossbows down onto a workbench and yanking open a box of tools.

-my intruders tend to announce themselves as soon as they arrive.

"Shadow Stalker, I leave open hours in my schedule with the understanding that they will be used for situations that cannot be addressed through the regular channels." That, or for tinkering with Chris. He seems to have random flashes of insight into almost every field, but lacks the capability to capitalize on them. "If you want more time in the field, appeal to Director Piggot for permission to take on additional labor and-"

"I already did that," she growls, shoving her body into a chair in one short, angry motion. "Filled out the fu-freaking paperwork, and when that came back stamped 'no' two freaking weeks later I talked to her about it and she still said no!" By Stalker's request I leave her weapons mostly untouched. She wanted to be able to perform maintenance on them herself and to be able to take care of all of her other gear without help.

It's an admirable trait. One of the few I've been able to find in her.

"Then I suspect that means you will not be getting additional patrols," I say, finishing up one last microweld and pushing my project away. I'm certainly not going to get any quality work done while she's in the room. "You're already pushing the limit on the number of hours you can work. Unless you want to emancipate yourself, I suggest that you find something worth doing outside of your Ward activities that is both legal and entertaining." I'm almost certain she's violating her probation somehow, but if her infractions occur without seriously harming anyone and enable her to become a semi-functional human being by the time she reaches her age of majority, I would consider them a price well paid.

"Like what?" she asks, using a power screwdriver to pull apart her weapon with frankly impressive speed. "Maybe I should get a boyfriend? One who has no idea what it's like under the mask? Or what about picking up knitting? I'm sure that'll be as satisfying as cracking gangbanger skulls." She picks up an oil cloth and starts rubbing down parts of the trigger mechanism. "There's nothing that's even kind of like this." I suppress another sigh as I recognize this as another situation where she just wants to rant.

"Self-defense courses," I offer anyway, pulling out a tablet and starting a sketch of an improved crossbow. Just because she doesn't want it now doesn't mean she won't later, and it's one of the few productive things I can do while playing armchair psychologist. "Martial arts. Extra training. There are plenty of options."

"But none of them are fighting," she says, momentarily squeezing an arm of the bow hard enough to make the plastic creak. "It's just a bunch of people trying to learn how to run away, fancy sports where they don't want you to hurt any one, and all the extra training bullshit is on procedure," Sophia finishes, finally losing control of her mouth and cussing. She pants for a moment, recovering from her outburst. I've already finished the basic priming mechanism for a semi-automatic variant that should shoot as fast as she can aim, but offering a teenager who wants to hurt people a better weapon would do no one any good.

"Teach," I say, saving the file and putting away the tablet. When she looks at me incredulously, I turn back to my project and pull it out from under the fume hood. "If you don't like how the local dojos run things, change them. Get certified, put up with the 'bullshit', and set up your own classes." She won't be able to legally open her own school until she's at least eighteen, but pursuing it might calm her down for a few weeks. As a short silence descends, I wait for her to blow up. To react. I resign myself to enduring a few mumbled curses, a re-assembly of her crossbow, and her swift departure.

Instead I get a laugh. Forced, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Didn't know you could swear," she says quietly, and soon enough I hear her go back to her weapon, metal whimpering as she brushes it clean.

We work in silence for a while, each attending our own projects. Her departure is devoid of the usual mutterings, and she pauses at the door for a moment, propping it open with her foot.

"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like it has to be pried out of her with a crowbar. I don't comment, and instead nod once. The door closes as I put down my tools, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling.

"What did I just do right?"


"It's gotten away again," Ahab says, fingering the hook at the end of his prosthetic arm while sucking on a cigarette that somehow hasn't gone out in all this rain. "Tryin' ta track it, but the beastie's movin' fast enough ta shake me hooks almost as soon as I can land 'em."

"Can you at least give me a direction?" I press, voice sounding strange filtered through the lower half of my helmet. A rebreather, gas mask, and comms system all in one, it would've had even more functionality if it didn't also have to be retractable. That decision was a concession to the PR specialists. 'It lets the public see a part of the man beneath the armor' or some other such nonsense. Usually it has to stay folded away despite the glaring weakness its removal leaves in my defenses.

Usually I don't have to worry about drowning while standing up.

"Over thah," the Irish cape cries, pointing towards downtown with his hook. "He's leggin' it!"

"Image coming up now," Dragon says, voice feeding directly into my ear as a window pops up on my HUD showing a rapidly-shrinking circle. "Mass teleport on my mark." I move towards the center of the roof to where the capes capable of engaging in melee with Leviathan are grouping up around Strider. "Three. Two. One. Mark."

A thunderclap and the sensation of being squeezed, then we're on another rooftop, Leviathan once more visible. A dozen lasers spear down from the sky, temporarily knocking it off balance. A black thunderbolt strikes it just above its tail, sending the beast stumbling forwards.

Then the rest of us who couldn't keep up with the creature are now falling from the building towards it, searching for an opening. I see Odokuro throw herself off the roof, crash into the water, then keep moving, forward progress unimpeded by the water flowing through the gaps between her obsidian bones. Fluke teleports in front of Leviathan's claws and blocks them for a moment, temporarily invincible, before teleporting away again to intercept a lash of water, a constant shield against the creature's blows. I have to settle for catching myself on a lamp post, cutting through a fraction of Leviathan's water echo with a burst of plasma, and then stepping over the corpse of a woman in green and white with half her head caved in.

Just because a cape can engage Leviathan in melee doesn't mean they'll always survive it.

But I always do.

There's a rhythm to it. Wait for the Blaster projectiles to pass, step under a haymaker thrown by a Brute who's clearly never done this before, jump clear of an errant claw and cut before peeling away and looking for another opening. The plasma blade is reasonably effective at hurting the skin of the Endbringer, but its true utility lies in denying the beast water. More precise than any pyrokinetic I've ever met, if lacking in raw output. An oft-overlooked piece of utility, and one of the reasons my arsenal for dealing with Leviathan has changed so little since its initial appearance.

Maybe I can't level buildings with a wave of my arm. Maybe I don't have the durability to tank anything short of the most exotic powers. Maybe I'm not the single strongest parahuman on the planet.

But I'll be damned if I don't keep up.

"Wave incoming."


I nod once to Roger as he walks into the gym. He nods back, a small smile on his face. I manage to keep disgust from showing on mine as I turn back to my own training.

I try not to hate him. No one can control what power they receive, for good or ill. No one gets to say 'I will be X with Y subtleties'. I certainly know that Hannah would appreciate being able to properly rest, and Case 53's are hardly content with their situations. I live on the far end of the bell curve for nearly every measurable metric of powers as well as several unmeasurable ones. Versatile, powerful, and without the mental or physical deformations that so many others suffer. By any measure, I am lucky beyond words.

Some are just luckier.

I continue moving through the drills, the staff going rat-a-tat-tat as I beat out a song of sweat and strength on the practice post. Perhaps there's a better regimen, one that incorporates a more ideal distribution of stressors. I can already picture a suit that runs me through the basic stretches and motions, one that could replace hours in the gym.

I finish the routine and hold rest for a moment, then bare my teeth in satisfaction. No, there's something about conscious physical exertion that's soothing. Certainly there's enough literature surrounding the benefits of exercise to say it's not just the placebo effect. If there was a greater need, perhaps. A more pressing threat.

For now, happiness matters more than efficiency.

I go into another kata, starting slow and slowly building speed. Better to take the time to get it right than have to unlearn bad habits. As I fall deeper into the flow, I let my mind wander. To work. To concerns. To my colleagues.

Tap. Assault and Battery, the local power couple. Tap. Tap. The first is smarter than he acts and still has reservations about working on the proper side of the law. Tap. Despite that I trust him, insofar as I would trust any Protectorate cape. Tap Tap. His wife is proof that opposites attract and one of the most stable individuals I've met in the business. Tap. Each is capable and experienced enough that I can't imagine trading them away to another team in any probable situation.

Tap Tap. Triumph. A recent addition, but one that shows promise. Tap. He doesn't have the raw power to face off against the more dangerous parahumans, but his mind is sharp enough and he has leadership potential. Tap Tap. Reliable, but perhaps best suited to managing a smaller town.

Thwack. Velocity. He's a walking contradiction, more than content with his current position — Thwack — but also infected with the wanderlust that lives within all high-rated Movers. Thwack. I can occasionally see shades of the military in him when we talk tactics, a tendency for faster takedowns and escalation. Thwack. He offers options that no one else on the roster can, but I also can't imagine him remaining here for more than a few more years.

Thwack! Miss Militia. One of the original Wards, and one of the few capes I've met who is on the same wavelength as me. Thwack! I'm not sure if it's her history, a side effect of being a Noctis cape, or just a random coincidence of chemicals and neurotransmitters, but I don't have to explain to her why I skip sleep. Thwack! Why the first thing I do when I finish something is start on another project. Thwack! Why nothing is ever really done.

Thwack!

I break from the kata and bring the staff around in a vicious overhand blow hard enough to send the post tilting back. I reach out and steady it, berating myself. Catharsis is all well and good, but never let it interfere with work. Save it for breaks.

I reset the training post, take a moment to center myself, and go back to the routine, once more moving as slowly and precisely as I can.

Tap.

Dauntless.

Tap.

A local cape, good with people and slowly picking up experience.

Thwack.

A power with literally limitless potential, one which grants mobility, defense, offense, and potentially sensory powers as well.

Thwack!

A man likely to succeed me.

I sigh and redirect my next swing to a guard position when I notice the speed of my strikes increasing. I'm too emotionally compromised right now to work out productively. Maybe some tinkering will clear my head.

I shoulder the staff, take a breath, and walk towards the locker room, mentally reviewing all the reasons why I shouldn't-

"Colin."

-think poorly of my colleagues. I suppress a sigh and turn to face the other man, schooling my features into a professional mask. He's decked out in padded clothing with a helmet in his right hand, leaving his head bare. Green eyes, brown hair, and not-even-painfully average features. He could be anyone from anywhere. The quintessential everyman.

An everyman who happens to be one of the few points of hope left in the world.

"Roger," I say, meeting his gaze. When I don't say anything else he visibly steels himself and presses on.

"Could you spar with me?" he asks, free hand twitching a little. "I mean, you don't have to," he clarifies. "I just want to get in some training before patrol." The hand twitches again. I think he wants to reach up to scratch the back of his head. A nervousness rooted in modesty, to the point that it's a character flaw.

Even his weakness is a strength.

"Why?" I ask. It comes out more bitter than I want, more bitter than it should, I but I have had enough. "Why do you bother? Every day, you can just tap whatever it is you want to improve and" — I snap, drawing a flinch from him — "progress. Effortless. Regular. Permanent. Why do you bother training" — I practically spit out the word — "when you can spend your time doing literally anything else? You don't have to work, you don't have to do anything, so why should I spend my time pushing you even further ahead of me when-"

"Because it's not enough!" Roger shouts. I stop, belatedly registering his clenched hands and gritted teeth. "Because I'm not getting better fast enough. I'm not on your level. On Hannah's. On Jamie's. On Ethan's. On Robin's. On Rory's. Maybe in a few years I will be, but that's not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. Someday" — and now his voice is dripping with a bitterness that I recognize — "I'll be someone. Somebody who matters. Maybe. And if I can do anything to make that someday approach even one second faster, I'll do it!"

We both stand there for a moment, looking one another dead in the eye.

He turns away first.

"I'm sorry, I came here to ask for a favor and then-"

"No," I interrupt, swallowing down a lump in my throat and looking at the ceiling. "I was out of line." The words taste like ash in my mouth. Like admitting defeat. I force myself to continue. "My conduct was reprehensible and entirely unsuited to both the situation at hand and the demands of a professional environment in general." I look down and Roger is staring at me, jaw dropped. I wince internally. This, this is the reaction to an apology from me?

I have a lot of work to do.

"I would be more than willing to assist you," I say, motioning to the rack of practice weapons. "Give me a minute to change." Roger nods mutely and walks over to the rack, retrieving a spear and a shield while I grab some padding and strap it on. Once that's done, I pick up a staff and look across the ring.

Roger stands there crouched behind his shield, spear chambered and ready to stab. I take a moment to identify the minor deficiencies in his stance, and then I ask myself what they mean.

He's tense. Too tense, like there's some invisible sword at his neck. Even through the gloves I can see that he's gripping his spear too hard, his center of gravity held too far forward. He's too ready to attack, too desperate to be doing something. His eyes are focused solely on me, locked onto his target without a thought for his surroundings, a decision that would leave him dangerously vulnerable to other enemies in an actual combat situation.

I look into his eyes and see the same desperation that I see in the mirror every morning.

"Relax," I say, mimicking his stance. "It's a spar, not a fight. And take some weight off your front foot." Roger complies, shifting around a bit before settling into something more acceptable. I wait a moment for him to get comfortable, then continue.

"The first thing we're going to do is strike in slow motion. Focus on the form and on getting it right, not on getting it done." I give an example, jabbing towards his shield with exaggerated slowness until the staff gently clicks against wood. I draw the weapon back, then do it again. Click. I return to rest, then nod at him. "You try."

We work until he has to go on deck for patrol, building up a sweat by moving at a glacial speed. As one we tear off our helmets and wipe away the perspiration, panting lightly.

"Thank you," Roger says, awkwardly bowing towards me. I nod back.

"You're welcome," I say, racking the staff and shield. We both shed the padding and part ways in the locker room. I clean myself then head back to the lab to stare at an empty Word document, head whirling.

I am not good with people. Every time I re-learn that, I promise not to make the same mistakes, to effect genuine change to my habits. Every time I fail to do so.

I pull up my calendar and add 'training with Dauntless' as a repeating event. Twice a week, just before his patrols.

I always forget that I'm not good with people. But I always try to fix that, too.


Krieg Deceased, NO-13, Good Neighbor Down NO-13.

There are far fewer of us now. Either from the beast's efforts, from not being able to catch up, or from simply running out of steam. Only the strongest are left. Tinkers with the foresight and ability to use power sources other than batteries, Brutes that can ignore things like sleep and hunger, or people who are just used to the most punishing combat conditions known to man. It takes a rare combination of qualities to stick around in an Endbringer fight.

Odokuro is still here. So is Legend. So is Fluke. So are perhaps a dozen other Protectorate capes.

And so are the Empire.

Fenja catches one of Leviathan's claws on her shield even as her sister tries to bat it away with the shaft of her spear. The two of them are taller than it is now, the water barely reaching past their ankles. Lasers curl around them to strike the Second's joints, sending it off balance and stumbling, creating an opening.

Chevalier's blade is already lashing out, crossing the distance and crashing down on its shoulder before the rest of us can land a blow. Crystalline force fields fly in close behind and dig deeper into the open wounds. Then I'm in range, plasma melting through the upper layers of skin on its thigh as Odokuro grapples its other leg and a mess of razors and blades that I recognize as Hookwolf leaps up onto its back-

-and then it spins, the water echo flying everywhere, and I barely flare my halberd in time to evaporate enough water to avoid being turned into paste. I quickly grapple out of the resulting fog to regain my bearings.

Clockblocker down, NO-14. Kaiser deceased, NO-14. Menja down, NO-14. Legend down, NO-14.

The plan was a failure then.

I grit my teeth and ignore the too-light, too-fragile feeling in my chest as I cast out the grapple again. Fenja is standing tall over her sister, trying to defend her as she shrinks and feebly clutches at the gash in her stomach. Odokuro is nowhere to be seen and Hookwolf is just now pulling himself back together. The other Protectorate capes are trying to chip in, but they all know the truth.

We're losing.

"Begone."

A translucent sphere the size of a basketball screams in out of open sky and strikes Leviathan in the chest, sending the beast into an uncontrolled tumble through several city blocks, and I can feel the impact shake something deep in my chest. Myrddin floats down next to me, as inscrutable as ever.

"Now is the time to regroup," he says, voice low enough that the other capes shouldn't be able to hear us. "I cannot use such magic again without time, which we simply do not have."

I look out over the group of capes. He's right. These people need to take a breather. On the other hand, Leviathan can't be left to its own devices, nor will it let us leave the field easily.

We need a distraction.

"Call in Strider," I say, retrieving the second halberd from my back. The one with far less kit and a mad dream pinned on it. "I'll play bait." Myrddin frowns.

"Surely you jest," he says. "I do not mean to insult you, but do you honestly believe-"

"Yes," I interrupt, firing off a grapple. "Yes I do," I finish, reeling myself away and sending out messages via the satellite uplink in my helmet. Contingencies, just-in-case plans for if the worst were to happen today.

That, and a way to ensure that even if I do fail something will come of my sacrifice.

Leviathan is getting up again, swaying like its hurt. I know better. Its hide is torn to shreds, a dozen different wound types marring its body, but only three are deep enough to matter. I see all four eyes track me, the semi-simian semi-reptilian body shifting towards me curiously.

Good. I have his attention. That'll make this easier.

"No one knows where you Endbringers came from," I begin, landing in front of it and blinking my way through a dozen different menus, searching for the program that will give me half a chance of surviving this. "Theories go from mutated parahumans to divine intervention to Tinkertech unleashed. Personally, I believe the last to be the most likely." The predictive software comes online and I can feel it tracing my motions, guiding me faster than I can think. "As a master-class Tinker, I know exactly how dangerous we can be given enough time and resources. So, tell me, abomination," I growl, activating the nanothorns in my second halberd and raising both weapons high. "Do you think your creator made you into something that I couldn't destroy?"