Chapter 7: What's This?
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Michael clicked through the browser, the faint glow of the screen casting soft light across his face. His first task as Arcane—getting a handle on Brockton Bay's cape scene. Who were the players? Their alliances? Their conflicts? Understanding the city's dynamics wasn't glamorous, but it was critical.
He started with a search: "Brockton Bay capes." A string of links popped up, most pointing to Parahumans Online, or PHO. One in particular stood out: "Brockton Bay Cape Guide: Heroes, Villains, and Rogues." He clicked it, and the thread loaded, filled with names, power descriptions, and subheadings for teams and factions. Just like that, he had a roadmap.
Scrolling through, Michael quickly noticed the format. PHO threads were familiar—an odd mix of speculation, debates, and user-generated analysis. Some posts were credible, others outright wild. Looking at you XxVoid_CowboyxX. It was social media in all its messy glory. Still, it gave him enough structure to start piecing together Brockton Bay's cape ecosystem.
In a way, his job now was to sift through the noise and catch up on Brockton Bay's equivalent of celebrity gossip and political intrigue. Surreal, but straightforward. In a world defined by power, knowing who was who—and what they stood for—could make all the difference.
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The forum offered a clear breakdown, starting with the city's main hero teams: the Protectorate, the Wards, and New Wave. Each had dedicated posts full of speculation, analysis, and the occasional online argument. Michael's cursor hovered over the Protectorate thread first—it felt like the logical place to start.
The Protectorate stood as Brockton Bay's primary line of defense. As the city's official hero team, they were respected by the public but not without their critics. At the center of it all was Armsmaster, their leader. PHO practically worshiped the man's tech—his halberd, his armor, his endless stream of Tinker upgrades. The forums painted him as a relentless perfectionist, someone who demanded results and wasn't afraid to rub his team the wrong way to get them.
Miss Militia, by contrast, seemed like Armsmaster's opposite in tone. Her power to summon any firearm gave her versatility, but it was her even-handedness and community presence that stood out. She was respected both within the team and by civilians, acting as a mediator who smoothed over Armsmaster's rougher edges.
Good cop, bad cop—but with guns. That's pretty neat.
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Dauntless followed, a rising star with a power that steadily amplified his gear over time. The forums speculated wildly about how strong he might eventually become, possibly even Triumvirate level eventually.
Assault and Battery stood out as a duo with impressive synergy. Assault's momentum-based power combined perfectly with Battery's charged attacks, making them formidable together. People spoke of their combat efficiency, but Michael also caught mentions of their more relaxed personalities. It was hard not to like the idea of heroes who weren't constantly intense, though he wouldn't count on that in the field.
Velocity, the team's speedster, seemed like the kind of hero Michael could avoid if he planned carefully. PHO noted that while his superhuman speed was unmatched, it came at the cost of stamina—he was best in short bursts. Triumph, meanwhile, brought sonic powers and raw strength, marking him as a heavy-hitter despite his relative inexperience. The forums speculated he'd be a major name in the future, assuming he lived up to his potential.
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The Protectorate's lineup was impressive, no question. They were disciplined, powerful, and clearly united under Armsmaster's no-nonsense leadership.
Note to self: Do not piss them off.
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From the Protectorate, Michael moved to the Wards—their younger, less experienced counterparts.. As heroes-in-training, they operated under stricter oversight, but PHO's chatter suggested they were no less formidable. Even sidekicks pack a punch when they have superpowers.
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Aegis led the Wards with a power that made him practically unkillable—he was the team's anchor. Gallant, the empath, brought energy manipulation and emotional control to the table, a combination that seemed more subtle but no less dangerous to the unwary.
Vista caught his eye next. The youngest of the Wards and the one with the highest power rating, her ability to bend space made her a tactical powerhouse. PHO practically gushed over her clever use of spatial manipulation in fights. Clockblocker, on the other hand, seemed like chaos incarnate. The time-freezing cape was known for unpredictable tactics, turning battles on their heads with sheer creativity. Michael chuckled at some of the anecdotes—Clockblocker's improvisation sounded like a blessing and a headache rolled into one.
Kid Win rounded out the group with his straightforward Tinker tech. Unlike some Tinkers, whose creations leaned toward the bizarre, Kid Win's inventions were practical and reliable.
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Then there was Shadow Stalker. Michael's expression darkened as he read her name. She might be a Ward now, but he couldn't forget what he knew about her—what she'd done, and what she might still do. She had led a bullying campaign so vicious it culminated in locking a girl in her locker with biohazardous waste. That wasn't just cruelty; that was attempted murder, plain and simple.
"Yeah, sure, give the bully with a body count a badge. Brilliant system, guys."
The idea of her wearing the label of "hero" felt like a bad joke.
"Is it wrong to hold a grudge against a teenage girl for something she may or may not have done yet?" he muttered. "Maybe. Am I gonna do it anyway? Yuuuuup."
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Shaking his head Michael clicked onto the last hero team: New Wave. Unlike the Protectorate or Wards, New Wave operated unmasked, their civilian identities public knowledge. Michael already knew the basics—Lady Photon led the group, her energy manipulation keeping the team steady, while her sister Brandish took a harsher, more aggressive approach. The forum chatter reflected their dynamic, with Lady Photon praised for her leadership and Brandish seen as polarizing, even , Brandish's husband, created concussive blasts, though PHO seemed to view him as less prominent compared to his wife.
The younger generation of New Wave got plenty of attention, too.
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Glory Girl, the bold, brash, and beautiful powerhouse, dominated the conversation with stories of her reckless heroics. Michael rolled his eyes; she might have the strength to back it up, but she was known as Collateral Damage Barbie for a reason.
Panacea, on the other hand, couldn't have been more different. With her unparalleled healing abilities, she was revered by the city, though the posts hinted at the strain her role put on her. Michael felt a pang of sympathy—she seemed like someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, whether she wanted to or not.
Rounding out the team were Laserdream and Shielder, Lady Photon's children. Their powers—energy beams and force fields respectively—were useful, but they seemed less flashy than their cousins. Michael respected their steadiness; not everyone needed to be a headline-grabber to make a difference.
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With the hero factions thoroughly reviewed, Michael shifted his focus to the city's villains. Brockton Bay's criminal underworld was more a battlefield than anything else, with three major factions dominating the city: Empire Eighty-Eight, the Azn Bad Boys, and the Archer's Bridge Merchants. Each group brought its own brand of chaos, and even a quick scan through the forum made it clear that the gangs weren't just dangerous—they were deeply entrenched.
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Empire Eighty-Eight controlled much of the south. From what Michael knew—and what PHO threads confirmed—they weren't just a gang but a white supremacist organization with a terrifyingly long roster of capes. At their head was Kaiser, a man whose ability to manipulate metal earned him the title "The Iron Tyrant." Kaiser's power wasn't just flashy; it was devastating. He could conjure towering spikes and barriers at will from any surface, cutting off escape routes or impaling enemies in a heartbeat. Under his leadership, the Empire's capes operated with brutal efficiency.
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Hookwolf led the pack as the gang's most violent and unstable enforcer. His near-indestructible, blade-covered form made him a one-man nightmare, perfect for the grimiest and bloodiest jobs. If the future stayed unchanged, Michael knew, Hookwolf's savagery would earn him a place among the Slaughterhouse Nine—an escalation that turned his stomach.
Cricket followed as a predator in her own right. With enhanced speed, agility, and a chilling sense of spatial awareness, she didn't just fight—she hunted, savoring the fear and pain of her victims. Stormtiger weaponized wind itself, crafting razor-sharp blasts that left destruction in his wake. Purity, with her blinding light powers, added a terrifying spectacle to the Empire's public skirmishes, a stark contrast to her "White Knight" moniker.
Finally, Fenja and Menja rounded out the heavy hitters. The twin giants, capable of immense size and strength, were walking weapons in their own right, crushing anything or anyone that stood in their way.
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Michael leaned back, scowling, Nazis, Why is it always Nazis? At least this isn't Hellsing. Otherwise they would be Nazi vampires.
The Empire wasn't just dangerous—they were coordinated. A tightly controlled hierarchy under Kaiser's leadership ensured that even their atrocities had purpose. It was the kind of organized evil that made the chaos of the Azn Bad Boys almost seem tame by comparison.
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Lung, the ABB's leader and founder, was anything but tame. The man was a walking escalation—literally. The longer a fight went on, the stronger, tougher, and more destructive he became, until he transformed into something straight out of myth: an invincible dragon. PHO practically spoke of him in reverence, recounting tales of his unmatched durability and firepower. The Protectorate feared engaging him unless absolutely necessary, and for good reason—Lung could, and had, gone toe-to-toe with an Endbringer after escalating long enough.
Then there was Oni Lee, Lung's second-in-command, whose teleportation and explosive clones made him as unpredictable as he was deadly. Finally, mentions of Bakuda, the mad bomber Tinker Lung would soon recruit—or perhaps had already—rounded out the ABB's reputation. Her arsenal of explosive devices was the stuff of science fiction, each bomb a unique, catastrophic nightmare. Together, the ABB wasn't just a gang—it was a storm waiting to break loose.
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Then came the Merchants, the city's least organized gang but no less dangerous in their own way. Skidmark, their so-called leader, had a power that created deflector surfaces capable of amplifying force in a given direction. With enough layering of his power, Skidmark could create barriers strong enough to deflect bullets, upend vehicles, or even topple an Endbringer—if he could ever get his act together.
Squealer, their Tinker, was no less unpredictable. Her specialty lay in vehicles, transforming heaps of scrap metal into towering, weaponized monstrosities that left destruction in their wake. Combined, the two could have been legitimate threats if they ever managed to sober up long enough to think strategically.
Unlike the calculated brutality of the Empire or the raw power of the ABB, the Merchants thrived on chaos. They weren't strategic, but their unpredictability and sheer capacity for destruction made them a persistent wildcard in Brockton Bay's already volatile landscape.
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Finally, Michael skimmed over Uber and Leet, the infamous duo. Uber's various enhanced skills and Leet's chaotic, often malfunctioning Tinker creations made them more meme material than legitimate threats in the eyes of the public. PHO threads treated them like cape comedians, chronicling their over-the-top stunts and bizarre heists with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But Michael wasn't so quick to dismiss them. For all their antics, Uber and Leet had powers worth watching. Whether they were dangerous or just a disaster waiting to happen, they'd carved out a unique space in Brockton Bay's criminal scene.
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"Alright, villains sorted. Now for the rogues," Michael muttered, rubbing his temples. His eyes ached from hours of scrolling through endless pages of sometimes conflicting, often chaotic information. "One more section," he said to himself, forcing his focus back to the screen. "Almost there."
Rogues weren't a major focus in Worm, and most operated quietly, steering clear of the chaos that defined Brockton Bay. Faultline's Crew, for instance, was exactly as he remembered—a team of mercenaries for hire, taking on big jobs that no one else could or would. They were pros, calculated and efficient, led by Faultline herself. Rumors suggested she had a particular interest in Case 53s—the monstrous, non-human capes shrouded in mystery. Each member brought something unique to the table: Newter, with his agility and narcotic touch; Gregor the Snail, exuding various types of slime; Labyrinth, an unparalleled Shaker who warped reality itself; and Spitfire, who spat flames making her a versatile asset.
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"Yeah, about what I expected," Michael muttered, scrolling through the familiar descriptions of Faultline's Crew. "Big jobs, mostly out of town. Makes sense."
Satisfied with what he already knew, he skimmed the rest of the rogues section, expecting a few low-profile capes who avoided the city's larger conflicts. His finger hovered over the scroll wheel, his focus already waning, when something caught his eye.
"Wait… what?" His scrolling stopped abruptly on a header he didn't recognize, a name that hadn't appeared in any book, summary, or fanfic he'd read.
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The Rogue Coalition of Brockton Bay.
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Michael blinked at the screen. "Excuse me?" He leaned forward, clicking into the thread.
The introduction laid it out plainly: the Rogue Coalition wasn't just a loose group of independents trying to keep their heads down. It was an organized alliance, a network of capes who'd banded together to carve out neutral ground in Brockton Bay. They focused on non-combat roles—shipping, construction, logistics, artistry. They weren't interested in fighting the gangs or joining the Protectorate. They wanted to rebuild what others broke and operate free from the pressures of gang recruitment or "heroic" oversight.
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"Okay, what the hell is this?" Michael muttered under his breath, scrolling faster now. His eyes flicked over the names: Nimbus. Marina. Vector. Serendipity. And—wait, Parian?
"Parian? How did she end up with them?" His voice pitched higher, disbelief creeping in.
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It looked like the Rogue Coalition wasn't just some minor detail he'd overlooked—it was a major player in the city, a faction that didn't fit neatly into his knowledge of Brockton Bay's power structure.
Michael leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the weight of it all sank in. "Did I miss something? No way this wasn't mentioned somewhere, right?" His eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. The Rogue Coalition sounded too significant to have simply slipped through the cracks.
Was this some obscure piece of lore Taylor hadn't known? Or something new entirely?
If the timeline was already diverging this much, what else had changed? And how much could he still rely on the knowledge he'd brought with him?
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Pushing the unsettling thought aside, he leaned forward again. If the Rogue Coalition was real, they mattered. And if they mattered, he needed to know everything he could about them.
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The first name that jumped out at him was Nimbus, described as the Coalition's de facto leader. He wasn't flashy, but from the threads, it was clear he commanded respect. Nimbus could transform his entire body into a cloud-like gas of varying density, a power he used for everything from search and rescue to reinforcing structures and responding to emergencies. People described him as calm, collected, and protective—someone who kept the Coalition stable.
Michael furrowed his brow. Nimbus? That sounded like something straight out of a fanfic, but the discussions didn't read like speculation. They treated him like an established figure in the city. Yet Michael had no memory of him, no mention of his name in anything he'd read about Worm.
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Moving on, Michael spotted a mention of High Tide Shipping, a business that ran in much of what used to be the Boat Graveyard and surrounding bay. It was operated by two capes: Harbormaster, a Tinker who specialized in crafting waterborne vessels, and Marina, a hydrokinetic who could manipulate seawater on a massive scale. Together, they'd turned High Tide into a cornerstone of the Coalition's logistics, moving goods to and from the city while mitigating the bay's treacherous tides and wrecked ships.
The forum threads described them as highly respected, even trusted by local businesses and the Dockworker's Union. Michael couldn't help but feel impressed. A shipping company run by capes wasn't just practical; it was vital. And in a place like Brockton Bay, where chaos reigned, the fact that they were keeping things afloat—literally—said a lot.
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Then there were the Starlings, a rogue mercenary team that specialized in precision jobs. They weren't the kind of crew that sought out flashy, high-stakes jobs like Faultline's Crew. Instead, the Starlings focused on subtler finesse, taking on contracts for logistical coordination, precision deliveries, and intelligence gathering.
Each member brought something unique to the table, making the Starlings a team defined by finesse and precision. Vector, the team's teleporter, could instantly transport anything within his line of sight—objects, people, supplies—with an uncanny accuracy that earned him a reputation for professionalism and discretion. Serendipity's Thinker abilities allowed her to read probabilities, not just predicting outcomes but steering the team toward the best possible decisions, making her invaluable in planning and strategy. Junction's reality-overlay power made him a true wildcard, capable of merging temporary alternate realities to create new paths or solutions, perfect for navigating complex or dangerous environments. Finally, Nightshade's power to grow plants wasn't limited to simple barriers or pathways; she could conjure intricate structures and even entangle enemies, adding a layer of both offense and defense to the team's arsenal. Together, they were a well-rounded force of precision, able to handle high-stakes operations with understated efficiency.
What struck Michael was how understated they were. They weren't loud or flashy like most capes in the city. Instead, the Starlings worked efficiently in the background, rarely drawing attention. Michael couldn't decide if that made them boring or brilliant. "Not every cape needs to be a showman, I guess."
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The Coalition wasn't all logistics and strategy, though. Orelock, a geokinetic artisan, brought an entirely different flavor to the group. His ability to craft gemstones made him a mainstay of Brockton Bay's budding cape tourism industry. Threads described him as a regular at public events, showcasing his abilities and selling his work.
Another standout was Fable, a cape whose power to create illusions through storytelling had made her something of a cultural figure. She ran a bookstore café, and from the glowing posts on PHO, it seemed to be a local favorite. Michael couldn't help but chuckle. A cape running a bookstore? It sounded absurd, but it was also... nice. Not everything in this world had to revolve around fighting and survival.
Finally, there was Parian. Unlike the others, Michael actually recognized her name. Her ability to animate cloth sculptures had always made her a standout figure in Brockton Bay's artistic community. She'd always seemed like a lone wolf in the Worm timeline, avoiding combat and quietly carving out a life in the middle of the chaos. But here? She was part of the Rogue Coalition, tied into their non-aggression agreements and operating as a member of this surprisingly functional network.
It was jarring. In his version of events, Parian had struggled alone, juggling her craft and survival without anyone to rely on. Now, it seemed she had allies, a community. Something about that tugged at him, a reminder that maybe this world wasn't entirely locked into the grim march of inevitability.
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He leaned back, staring at the screen. "Okay, what the hell is going on?" he muttered. The Rogue Coalition wasn't just a curveball—it was a total blindside. A faction he hadn't accounted for at all. Their existence sent cracks through his so-called knowledge, making him question just how much else could be wrong. If this wasn't in the cards, what else might this world throw at him?
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Michael leaned back, groaning as the sheer weight of all the information he'd just absorbed pressed on his brain. "Too much. Way too much. I need a map or something to keep this straight. Oh wait…" He blinked at the computer in front of him. "I can literally make one right now. Great job, Michael. Note to self: You're an idiot. Gotta watch that."
With a sigh and a wry grin, he pulled up a blank document and started sketching out a rough layout of Brockton Bay, letting the map take shape in simple lines and sections. Nothing fancy—just something to get everything out of his head and onto the screen.
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Michael rubbed his temples, staring at the map forming on the screen. "Alright, let's break this down," he muttered. From his spot on Captain's Hill—the westernmost point of central Brockton Bay—he'd seen the city's crescent shape laid out before him, but the map gave it a cleaner perspective.
The bay curved inward like a bowl, its center dominated by the Rig—a high-tech floating base and the Protectorate's headquarters.
The docks stretched northwest from the bay, a sprawl of rusted piers and abandoned warehouses, their decay a stark contrast to the glittering water.
To the east of Central Brockton Bay, the Boardwalk glittered along the waterfront, its tourist traps and polished storefronts clinging desperately to an illusion of prosperity. It was flashy, loud, and impossible to miss—a sharp contrast to the rougher neighborhoods just a few blocks away.
To the north, the Trainyard sprawled like an industrial graveyard, its rusted tracks and derelict buildings bleeding into the docks. On the map, it looked orderly, almost compact, but in person, it had felt like a labyrinth of neglect.
Southward, the city grew denser. Skyscrapers rose toward the financial district, where downtown sprawled out in neat, deliberate blocks. This was where the government held its ground, City Hall and the PRT headquarters standing as symbols of stability—at least on the surface.
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Michael leaned back, letting out a long sigh before rubbing at his tired eyes. He rolled his shoulders, then set his hands on the keyboard with exaggerated purpose. "Alright, time to get serious. Or as serious as I can be while color-coding murder zones. Feels ridiculous, but hey, if it keeps me from wandering into the wrong death trap, it's worth it." He pulled up the map and began dividing it into nine sections, each one marking a major area of the city. It wasn't perfect, but splitting it up this way made the chaos feel a little less overwhelming—manageable, even.
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The northwest went green for the ABB. They controlled much of the west, particularly immigrant-heavy neighborhoods and the smuggling routes connected to the rail lines. Though the Merchants technically occupied the Trainyard, the ABB's influence over the tracks effectively cut off access to anyone else. Their grip on the west wasn't absolute, but it was formidable.
To the north, he shaded the area brown for the Merchants. Their power was messy and chaotic, centered around the Trainyard but spilling into other neglected zones. They weren't an organized force like the ABB or the Empire, but their ability to thrive in chaos made them a persistent thorn in everyone's side. They weren't conquering territory—they were rotting it.
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In the northeast, Michael shaded the Docks and the Boat Graveyard in gray for the Rogue Coalition. High Tide Shipping Company operated out of the docks, a cornerstone of the Coalition's logistical strength. Their presence wasn't about flash or dominance but quiet effectiveness, focusing on rebuilding and supporting their members without unnecessary attention. It wasn't glamorous, but it was practical—a rare trait in a city full of power plays and chaos.
The Protectorate's territory spanned several areas, each marked in blue. Captain's Hill in the central west, with its natural elevation, served as a strategic outpost for their operations. To the east, the Boardwalk and the bay remained under their watch, alongside the Rig, their floating headquarters in the center of the harbor. These areas combined to create a visible Protectorate presence, maintaining order in some of the city's most prominent public spaces. Downtown and its surrounding neighborhoods in the central south joined the blue expanse as the hub for government and law enforcement, where City Hall and the PRT headquarters stood. While the Protectorate didn't have the resources to control everything, their influence here kept these key zones relatively stable and under their authority.
To the southwest and southeast, he shaded the map red for Empire Eighty-Eight. Their territory wasn't centralized like the ABB's, instead stretching between industrial centers in the east and residential neighborhoods in the west. They operated with a sinister efficiency, deeply embedded in their chosen areas and quietly expanding where they could. Not as chaotic as the Merchants or as overtly aggressive as the ABB, their danger lay in how methodical they were.
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Michael leaned back, finally taking in the completed map.
The boundaries weren't neat like the grid on his map—power ebbed and flowed constantly, and contested zones blurred the lines. But this was enough to give him a clearer understanding of the city's fractured landscape…and a headache.
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He stretched, rolling his shoulders as the tension from hours at the computer began to ease. His eyes burned from the screen's glare, and the low hum of the library's fluorescent lights grated on his nerves. The room was quiet, save for the faint clicking of keyboards and the occasional shuffle of pages. Nearby, a couple of other patrons were buried in their own research, and he could see the familiar layout of PHO threads on at least one monitor.
Michael's gaze wandered briefly, catching sight of a woman hunched over a massive book in the corner, her highlighter moving with surgical precision. She had the air of someone who had turned studying into an art form. He almost chuckled, thinking how she reminded him of Hermione Granger—minus the wands and magical chaos.
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His thoughts eventually circled back to the Rogue Coalition as his eyes lingered on the small gray patch on the map. High Tide Shipping, the Coalition's logistical backbone, seemed like an obvious choice for their point of contact. Subtle but accessible, it was the kind of setup that practically invited new rogues to reach out without being so obvious as to draw attacks or raids. If the PHO threads were accurate, the Coalition might even welcome what he could bring to the table—if he played his cards right.
Healing potions like Wiggenweld were an obvious starting point: practical, universally useful, and a low-risk way to show his value. Wit-Sharpening potions could be a game-changer for Thinkers and Tinkers, giving them a competitive edge. Then there was Polyjuice—a risky wildcard with endless possibilities, provided it was introduced carefully. This wasn't just about selling potions and making a quick buck. It was about defining who Arcane would be in this world. And that meant planning his approach with precision.
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Michael saved his map file and closed out the browser, slipping his notes into his bag. The librarian offered a polite nod as he passed, and he returned it with a faint smile, his thoughts already moving ahead. Outside, the crisp night air greeted him, sharp and invigorating compared to the library's stifling warmth. He pulled his cloak tighter against the cold and started walking, his steps purposeful.
The first step was finding a secure spot to set up his trunk—somewhere he could brew and organize the potions he'd need for his pitch. He would need to prepare samples to show off, especially if he wanted to make an impression on High Tide and the Coalition. By morning, he'd have his inventory ready, his pitch refined, and Arcane prepared to make his debut.
"Let's see how this plays out," Michael murmured, a flicker of determination lighting in his chest. For the first time since landing in Brockton Bay, he wasn't just reacting. He had a plan. A real one. And it was time to see where it would lead.