"What took you?" Armsmaster snarked as Taylor dropped from the fire escape into the alley; she'd told him to meet her. When the two first met not too long ago, Armsmaster had given Taylor his card, and she'd held onto it for just this purpose.

Both of them were in costume, and—behind Armsmaster—Taylor could see a color-coordinated motorcycle at the mouth of the alley. The dim glow of streetlights barely penetrated the dark of the alley, and it cast the scene like an old detective film Taylor might've seen when she was little. Armsmaster even held himself like Taylor expected the protagonist to—confidently; his posture was picturesque.

"Wrong turn." She lied. In truth, it had taken more convincing than Taylor had expected for Lisa to concede and let Taylor leave the Loft without a fuss. She'd been walking on eggshells; she couldn't lie overtly, or Lisa would know, and she couldn't be too eager to leave, or it would seem suspicious. Ultimately, Taylor had settled on using the fact that she was uncomfortable around Ollie as an excuse to leave, which wasn't a lie, just not the reason she'd needed to go.

"Have you considered my offer?" Armsmaster asked. "We could always use more aspiring heroes like you at the PRT."

Taylor opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat; she did a mental double take at Armsmaster's comment.

"Like me?"

"You impressed me with how you handled Lung. The venoms you used on him significantly slowed his regeneration, just enough for us to sedate and incarcerate him."

"But his injuries?"

"Those weren't your doing, obviously, and no one would have expected you to fend off four villains alone."

Taylor was surprised, to say the least. None of the Undersiders had anything to say about Lung's arrest aside from the fact that Taylor had a hand in it—praise she didn't necessarily feel was earned, all things considered. So she'd been left to assume the worst. She hadn't given a lot of thought to the bugs she'd sicced on him. What if there had been a complication? What if Lung had an allergic reaction? Those might still have happened, and Armsmaster just didn't consider it worth mentioning, which was particularly off-putting.

"Right. The Undersiders." Taylor said the words carefully, finally broaching the reason she'd called Armsmaster to this meeting.

"What about them?" Armsmaster asked.

Taylor's gaze fell to the filthy concrete beneath their feet as she steeled herself.

"I'm with them." She straightened her back and faced Armsmaster to try and seem more confident in herself—give herself a degree of credibility—but the following silence and Armsmaster's expressionless visor made her increasingly anxious. Armsmaster folded his arms.

"I trust you have a good reason for calling me here then." His voice was stern, and, while she couldn't see it, Taylor could swear Armsmaster was glaring daggers at her. "If not—."

"I'm trying to find information on them. You said when we met that they were an unknown; I figured I could help you when the Undersiders offered me a spot on their team." Taylor interrupted him; she didn't want to hear whatever threat would've followed—her nerve was already shaken enough.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"The Undersiders are going to rob Brockton Bank tomorrow."

"When?"

"Around noon."

The tense silence blankets the alley for what feels like an eternity; Taylor couldn't read anything from Armsmaster. When his shoulders relaxed, a wave of relief washed over her, and Taylor realized she'd been holding her breath.

"Let's say I believe you. What else can you tell me about the Undersiders?"

"Not much," Taylor admits.

"Why?"

"Tattletale. Her power…. She knows things. She'll probably know I met you tonight."

"A psychic?"

"No. More like…. An empath? She's really good at guessing."

"Well. It's something. Is there anything you can tell me?"

"First, I want something from you."

"I'll hear it before I agree to anything."

Taylor nods. Despite the rocky turn the conversation took, Armsmaster was being pretty reasonable, considering Taylor had told him outright she'd joined a villain team. She leaned herself against the brick-and-mortar wall to her left, considering her next words carefully.

"I want to be sure that, if something goes wrong, I have a way out; some insurance to know that I won't get arrested or shot at the scene. Can you do that?"

"Hmm." Armsmaster's hand moves to his chin, scratching his thin goatee. "The fastest response to an emergency at Brockton Bank at noon tomorrow would be the Wards."

"Lisa mentioned that." Taylor interjected.

"Right. I can't change patrol schedules or routes this late without turning some heads, but," Armsmaster continues, "if you're arrested, I can convince the right people to offer you a plea deal: an official pardon and a place in the PRT."

"And if I'm not?"

"I have to suggest you turncoat after the job. You're not a spy, as much as you'd like to think you are, and it's better you stop soon—before you end up doing something you'll regret or something the PRT can't forgive."

Taylor bristled at Armsmaster's advice. Regardless of whether it was coming from a place of genuine concern, his tone was more than a little condescending. Taylor may be new to the Cape scene, but she was an adult—same as him—and she didn't appreciate being talked down to like a child.

"But there's more to this." She protested. "If I had more time—"

Armsmaster held up a hand to silence Taylor.

"What do you mean, 'there's more'?" He interrupted.

"The Undersiders have a boss—someone's funding them and giving them orders."

"You know who it is?"

"No. Not yet. I was hoping I could gain their trust, and they'd introduce me. Today, Tattletale brought a second new recruit to the team—Hitman."

"Never heard of him."

'Good.' Ollie's voice echoed in Taylor's ears. She shook the memory from her thoughts and continued.

"He's a professional killer, and he works for the boss directly—I think."

"Shit." Armsmaster mumbles as he paces between the walls of the alley, gnawing on his gloved knuckle. "Alright."

"What do we do?"

"We keep this between us for now. From hereon, you can consider me your handler. I'll contact you."

Armsmaster turned on his heel for the mouth of the alley and wasted no time climbing onto his motorcycle. He didn't even look Taylor's way as he half-yelled his parting words to her.

"Keep me updated!"

And he disappeared, the roar of his bike fading quickly into the background noise of Brockton. Taylor rummaged through the utility pocket situated at the base of her spine and pulled her cell phone from it, the harsh light of the screen causing her to wince after only being exposed to the darkness of the alleyway for so long. The lock screen read 11:32 PM.

"Fuck." Taylor swore, dreading the run home, the meager sleep she'd get, and the morning run after.