It was strange the kind of thing one could get used to. It had taken weeks and more importantly, a lack of any true alternatives, but he had begun to acquire a taste for the reishi-lacking tea. The brew was earthy, and grounding, with a subtle bitterness that mirrored his current state of mind. The building he lived in was a tranquil sea in the midst of the chaos the city had become. Over the past month and a half, he found himself appreciating the calm his decisive actions had granted him.
In the distance, he could hear the echoes of explosions and sporadic gunfire—the city was at war with itself. But those disturbances had nothing to do with him. They were merely the flotsam of a world he had left behind, a world that no longer held his interest. Instead, he sipped his tea, pondering the intricacies of a Kido that could dampen sound, his mind gently toying with the idea as the tea's warmth seeped into his bones.
The noise was no real concern; he had heard and seen far worse in his time. But this was supposed to be his retirement, his reprieve from the endless cycle of violence and duty. The fact that he had only been forced to kill one insolent whelp since arriving was all the proof he needed that his plan had worked—at least, to some extent.
"You've grown weak, Shigekuni Yamamoto. The old you would not have simply stopped at one. "Yhwach's voice echoed in his mind.
Crack.
Yamamoto opened his half-lidded eyes by the barest margin, observing the hairline fracture in the teacup. The crack had not been caused by his still-calloused hands, but rather by a brief, unintentional flare of his reishi. Even months later, the voice of that cowardly whelp still rang in his ears. Always twisting itself. Gently, he set the cracked teacup aside, ignoring the older woman seated nearby, her knitting needles momentarily stilled.
Three breaths passed in silence before she resumed her knitting, her hands moving with practiced ease as she hollered at the children who were playing further away from the house. Already, they were wandering beyond the doors of the orphanage.
Yamamoto allowed himself a moment to enjoy the peace his actions had brought to the district, even if the inhabitants didn't fully comprehend the lengths he had gone to in order to secure it. They seemed to enjoy it all the same.
A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts, but he ignored it, as was his wont. The old woman, with a sigh of resignation, set down her knitting and rose to answer it, stretching her back as she did so.
"What do you want, you brats?!" she barked in her usual sharp tone. He found it amusing that she would label people barely a decade younger than her as brats.
"Ah, we made some teriyaki sauce with meat and thought we'd bring some as gifts for our esteemed elders," came the nervous reply from the neighbors.
"Bah! Esteemed elders, my foot. You lot never brought teriyaki until that old man came around." Ignoring their awkward laughter, she snatched the box from their hands and slammed the door shut in their face. Walking back into the room, she glanced at Yamamoto, who remained seated, seemingly oblivious.
"This is the twenty-fifth gift you've received. Are you sure you don't want it?" she asked, her tone now demure, a stark contrast to her earlier ferocity.
"Let the children have it," Yamamoto replied, rising slowly to his feet, his movements deliberate and measured, befitting a man of his physical age.
The gifts had been arriving daily ever since that little… confrontation. Calling it a confrontation was an exaggeration; the danger posed had been negligible at best. Yet, his actions that day had garnered the gratitude of the neighbors, who, like villagers living in the shadow of a dangerous beast, sought to appease him with offerings.
He ignored the gifts, their stares, and their whispers. Humans were predictable in their fear and reverence of power.
His hand brushed the wooden sheath that concealed his blade, feeling the familiar thrum of power within it—a sensation of heat that begged to be let out. To taste the air and scorch it dry once more. He tightened his grip on the walking stick, acknowledging that he had postponed this moment long enough. He knew the blade was there, yet he had not truly seen it. He had been content in the knowledge that, if needed, he could wield it.
But could he, truly? Was his manifested soul still whole?
"Is the coldest place still the far north?" he asked, his voice calm, but with an undertone of something deeper.
The woman blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Yes?" Her answer was more of a question, laced with uncertainty, but he nodded. It was enough. Despite the changes in this world, the geography remained somewhat similar to the one he once knew. Good.
With a flex of his reiatsu, Yamamoto was hundreds of meters above the city, standing like a god among the floating clouds. Below, he noted a car approaching the house he had just departed from. The vehicle came to a quiet stop, and two men, dressed in finely tailored suits, emerged. They appeared mundane at first glance, but the bulges under their clothing suggested otherwise. Weapons, no doubt.
He watched as they walked up to the door and knocked gently. Whoever they were, whatever their purpose, they posed no threat. Yet, for some reason, he found himself lingering in the sky, too high to be noticed by the men or the old woman who answered the door.
The conversation was brief, and Yamamoto had no interest in eavesdropping. As the men turned to leave, he prepared to continue his journey northward.
That was until his reiatsu brushed against something peculiar. On the men's suits were white pins placed over their hearts, seemingly harmless at first glance, but upon closer inspection, he recognized them for what they were—bones. Shaped and polished to resemble regular pins, but bones nonetheless.
Yet he admitted that was all they were, an oddity, nothing more. With a final glance, he turned fully to the north and, with another flex of his reiatsu, vanished.
...
The message had come while he was crafting his new halberd. The previous one had been destroyed in a brief clash with the Butcher himself. The only reason he hadn't met the same fate was because of Kudzu, once again. Colin slammed his fist into the workbench in frustration. He should be better than this.
A notification appeared in his heads-up display, offering a welcome distraction.General meeting with the Director in the next thirty minutes.
Colin blinked the message away and began cleaning up his workspace. It didn't take long, given how often he had done this over the past month. He knew his lab like the back of his hand. Dusting himself off, he selected a new halberd from the rack and made his way to the conference room.
The moment he stepped inside, his eyes were drawn not to the brightly colored heroes or their gleaming armor, but to the most mundane figure in the room—the Director. The man had once been jovial, with laugh lines etched around his eyes and a quip always ready on his lips. His sharp suits were always impeccably pressed, and his shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
He had been the one to ease Colin into the Brockton Bay Protectorate, which was why it pained Colin to see him now. The once-lively man looked haggard, his laugh lines nearly vanished, and his attempt at a reassuring smile at Colins' entrance was a failure.
Realizing he couldn't even fake the joy anymore, the Director turned to the assembled heroes, smoothing back his blonde hair with a quick motion. His voice, once warm and inviting, was now sharp and commanding, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.
"Listen up! For the first time in years, we have a roster that can match the villains in this city, and they don't like it. The Teeth have recruited that wandering band of psychotic mercenaries and killers, the Slaughterhouse Nine, and it's time we bring an end to their presence in this town.
So far, they've stuck to spreading chaos across the city. We need to tighten our net and bring them down before they strike again. The teeth are problem enough but are not the main threats."
Challenger, the newly promoted leader of the Protectorate heroes, was the first to respond. Clad in her bright red skintight suit with gold epaulets, she leaned back in her chair, her tinker-tech gun-axe, the inspiration behind his own halberd, resting on her thigh.
"What do we know about this batch of the Nine?" she asked, her tone casual, though her posture was anything but. Colin stepped forward, having done his research, and uploaded his data to the holographic table in front of them. Four profiles appeared.
"They possess a new rooster, So far, we've spotted Chuckles, Jack, Breed, and Mannequin." He swiped through the holograms rapidly, pausing at the leader of the Nine, Jack.
"I've tracked the group's movements and I'm certain that they're operating in small groups, targeting patrolling heroes and expanding the Teeth's territory by challenging the Empire and Marquis. So far, there's been no serious retaliation from either group." He swiped the hologram again, bringing up a map of the city. He pointed to various locations marked in red.
"I recommend further deployment of drones as well as enlising the bay police force to scout potential hot zones and to set up ambush points along the major routes. We can't afford to be reactive, considering the damage cities suffer after the Nine have been there for even a week. My analysis suggests that Jack plans on leading them down a different path from what King envisioned—so we need to be even more proactive in neutralizing the threat they bring."
The silence that followed his presentation made Colin acutely aware of the commanding tone he had taken. What solidified the realization was the slow clap and whistle from Challenger.
"Already out to take my job, aren't you?" she teased, smirking at him. The heat that rushed to Colin's face was thankfully hidden by his helmet, but the chuckles from the other heroes suggested they had picked up on his embarrassment.
The director quickly stepped in before the crass woman could continue her ribbing. He was no doubt appreciative of how she had cut the tension in the room, but there were more pressing matters at hand.
"And who would you recommend we start with?"
Armsmaster glanced around the room, hoping someone else would respond. When no one did, he finally turned to Challenger, but the insufferable woman just gave him a double thumbs-up. This was clearly a test. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Jack and Mannequin. They're the most visible and, in terms of straightforward combat capabilities, on the weaker side. Taking down their leader and their thinker should destabilize them somewhat."
"Solid analysis, I agree with Armsmaster here. We can address deployments against the duo after this meeting and as our second agenda item. But first, it has been over a month—what do we know about our new resident parahuman?"
The tension returned with a vengeance as everyone exchanged glances, searching for answers.
"Considering what we've observed so far, I would say he's an obvious Trump," Kuduzu began in his wizened voice. "We've been investigating, but progress has been slow due to larger threats. We believe he's an illegal immigrant, part of the wave that arrived after Leviathan sank Kyushu."
"Hmm, an illegal immigrant isn't ideal, given what happened in Japan, but it's something we can use to legally tag him," the director replied.
"Are we really doing this?" a hard voice interrupted, drawing Colin's attention to its owner—Miss Militia. She was a fellow Protectorate cape, just as young as Colin, and a recent addition to the Brockton Bay team.
She had been sent as part of the reinforcements, which meant Colin was no longer the rookie. Yet, to his chagrin, he remained the most inexperienced member officially. Even Miss Militia had two years on him.
"You don't agree?" Armsmaster noted, turning to face her with a frown. "He murdered someone in cold blood."
"And what has he done since then, other than take walks around his neighborhood and drink tea by the window?" she rebutted. Colin had to admit, despite his initial encounter with the man, so far, the parahuman had proven to be the most non-confrontational cape Colin had ever seen. The man lacked a secret identity, so they had surveillance on his house, but the results were… unexpected.
Kuduzu put the final nail in the coffin. "Crime in the Asian immigrant community has dropped by 24% in the past month alone." Colin scowled but kept it to himself. After all, he was the one who compiled those statistics. The Nine, the Teeth, the Empire, and the Marche had all steered clear of the area, too preoccupied with watching each other to bother with the smaller territory, turning it into the eye of the storm.
Even the Asian gangs had mellowed out in the face of the city's turmoil. Colin had witnessed the old man stare down a would-be mugger to the point of tears during a casual walk. The stare down resulted in the mugger later turning himself to the police.
This had all culminated in transforming the area into the safest part of the city. But he knew it was only a matter of time till trouble would go knocking. And when it did, he feared the response it would get and its effect on the city.
"It is not a primary concern yet," the director dismissed the budding argument. "We still have our hands full with more immediate threats, but It is one we have to plan for and one we will return to later. Now, about patrols..."
Colin let the words wash over him, knowing his helmet would record everything for later review. His mind drifted to a memory:standing, suffocating in his own armor, unable to move, breathe, or think properly as the old man stared him down. They didn't truly understand the threat the old man posed. But they were right—despite how dangerous he was, he had proven content to stay in his territory. And for now, Armsmaster was letting him be.
…
"What do you have for me?" he asked, not bothering to look up as the door to his office opened, admitting his enforcer and diplomat.
His attention was on the book in his hands, which, to new arrivals, might have appeared to be a ledger but was really just his daughter's report card. He paid it more attention than the two men before him.
The men were silent for a brief moment, and he could almost smell their fear and nervousness. So they had failed, then. And they knew well how he dealt with failures in his organization.
Every enforcer was allowed a single mistake. These two had already used theirs. Noting their continued reluctance to speak, he slowly raised his hand, ready to snap his fingers and end them both. The bone pin over their hearts was not just for decoration.
"We were able to establish contact!" the diplomat finally blurted out.
He kept his hand raised, both as a threat and a warning even though the majority of his attention was on stopping himself from expressing glee as he continued to read through the report card. His little flower got an A in maths! Toddler grade maths, but still. She definitely got her brains from Maria.
The diplomat cleared his throat again, and he could almost feel the two men glancing at each other, searching for a way to avoid their execution. They had merely delayed their demise unless they had something concrete.
"When we arrived, he wasn't present, unfortunately, so—"
"So you failed," Marwyn Lavere more famously known in the seedy underbelly of Brockton Bay as Marquis interrupted lazily, finally raising his head to look at the duo. Whatever they saw in his eyes must have confirmed their fate, as they began to stumble over their words, speaking frantically.
"T- The old woman assured us she'd inform us of his return. She promised, in fact. Just give us a day, sir—just one—"
He knew it was a lie. He could spot a liar a mile away, and he was ready to snap his fingers when the doors to his office burst open, revealing the fearless terror that dared to enter unannounced.
"Daddy!"
Amelia squealed the moment she saw him, and just like that, the tension and hostility in the room melted away. A broad smile spread across Marquis's face as he stood, the two men forgotten as he walked around the table to catch his daughter as she ran to him.
He twirled her in the air, laughing at her squeals of joy, before setting her down and squatting to her height.
"How was school today, my little flower?"
Her soft brown eyes lit up as she turned to remove her bag from her shoulder, speaking quickly. "They told us to draw today, so I drew us."
As she rummaged through her bag, Marquis shot a cold glare at the two men. His previously joyful expression transformed into a mask of apathy that sent them stumbling out of the office immediately.
They had been spared, thanks to fate's intervention in the form of his daughter. Killing them now would be redundant, lacking the bite it would have had if he'd done it immediately after their failure. Instead, he would give them one more chance—to fail again or succeed. It mattered little to him. He would encounter this new cape sooner or later. But for now, he allowed himself a bright grin as he lifted Amelia onto his lap, listening intently as she spread out her drawing of them in front of their house on his desk.
...
You won't believe how hard it has been to find PRT heroes circa 1999-2000. After a brief conversation with ACK, i decided to use mainly OC's. Exception being Challenger who was vaguely mentioned as being one of the old guard.
Anyway, I'm trying to make this a regular weekly update alongside CE. I don't know if It'll work but I'm going for It still. So if you're interested check out my P_atr_eo_n. We're five chapters ahead on there.
