The Manchester downtown plaza had been transformed into something almost festive.
Banners in the PRT's navy and gold hung from lamp posts, fluttering in the crisp New Hampshire autumn breeze. A raised platform dominated the center of the square, flanked by barricades that held back a crowd of several hundred—families with children on shoulders, cape enthusiasts in homemade merchandise, reporters jostling for position with cameras and microphones. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifted from vendor carts on the perimeter.
Khora Prime stood at the center of it all, resplendent as ever.
She held court like a queen receiving petitioners, one hand resting on her hip, the other gesturing lazily as she fielded questions from the crowd. The metallic veil covering her face did nothing to diminish the force of her presence—if anything, it enhanced it, lending her an air of exotic mystery that the cameras couldn't get enough of.
"One at a time, darlings," she purred into the microphone. "I know you're all desperate for my attention, but I only have so much grace to go around."
A reporter near the front raised her hand. "Khora! Is it true that you and Miss Militia are... involved?"
The question sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd. Behind the veil, the Operator allowed himself a hidden smirk.
"Involved?" Khora tilted her head, letting the word hang. "My, my. The rumor mill works overtime, doesn't it?"
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
"I'll say this much—Miss Militia is a remarkable woman. Competent. Professional. Easy on the eyes, wouldn't you agree?" A pause for effect. "But I'm afraid any romantic speculation is simply wishful thinking. My heart belongs to my work. And, of course, to my adoring public."
The crowd ate it up. Cameras flashed.
Another hand shot up—a teenage boy in a homemade Ten-Zero shirt. "Who's your favorite person to team up with? Like, in Ten-Zero?"
Khora considered the question with theatrical seriousness.
"Favorites are such a delicate subject," she mused. "Choosing between family members is gauche. But..." She tapped a finger against her chin. "If pressed, I'd say Yareli."
She let the name hang for a moment, enjoying the curiosity that rippled through the crowd.
"She's... something of an aspiring idol, you see. Dreams of fame, adoring fans, the whole theatrical production." Khora's voice softened with something almost like affection. "Cute as a button and absolutely terrible at filtering her thoughts. The girl wouldn't lie to save her life—or keep her mouth shut when she probably should. It's her best quality. Even if it drives the rest of us mad."
A few laughs from the crowd.
"Just last month, that girl told one of our more... reserved operatives that his armor made him look like 'a sad mushroom trying to be intimidating.' To his face." Khora shook her head slowly. "I've never seen someone so powerful look so utterly lost for words."
The crowd was eating it up now.
"But she's good with kids. Wonderful, actually." Khora's posture relaxed slightly. "I think it has something to do with riding around on that floating board of hers. Regardless, when she decides to take the public stage with us, I think she'll be very popular at hospital visits."
The teenage boy who'd asked the question looked like he was memorizing every word.
"On a more personal level, however," Khora added, "Trinity is a dear. Sweet, patient, doesn't argue when I tell her she's working too hard. More people should be like Trinity."
As if on cue, the Trinity Prime Specter hovering nearby offered a small, shy wave to the crowd. The movement was perfectly calibrated—modest, almost self-effacing, the picture of a gentle healer uncomfortable with attention. A murmur of affection rippled through the spectators.
"She's a treasure," Khora declared. "We don't deserve her."
A woman in the crowd shouted, "We love you, Trinity!"
The Specter ducked her helmet slightly, one hand rising to her chest in a gesture of humble gratitude. The crowd aww'd in unison.
Behind the main event, Armsmaster and Umbra stood together near the platform's edge—the two squad leaders presenting a united front for the cameras.
They made an imposing pair. Armsmaster in his signature blue power armor, halberd held at rest. Umbra in his darker frame, the Skiajati sheathed at his hip. They'd even worked out a pose—stepping forward in unison to cross their weapons in an X shape above their heads, the blade of the halberd meeting the edge of the nikana in a display of martial solidarity.
The crowd loved it.
What the crowd didn't see was the holographic text scrolling in the Operator's peripheral vision, relayed through Umbra's systems directly to Khora's HUD.
Armsmaster: The molecular patterning on your blade is impressive. Is the edge maintenance automated?
Umbra: Manual. A ritual. Auto-maintenance strips the soul from the steel.
Armsmaster: Soul.
Umbra: Figure of speech.
Armsmaster: I understand. Craftsmanship requires personal investment. The efficiency loss is worth the quality gain.
Umbra: You understand better than most.
Armsmaster: The PR representative wants us to do the cross-pose again in twelve minutes. The lighting will be better.
Umbra: Noted.
The Operator found it genuinely amusing. Armsmaster—the man they'd accidentally incapacitated during the Lung fight and who had tried to have their ship shot down—had turned out to be almost enjoyable company once you got past the social awkwardness.
He and Umbra had spent the morning in a strange kind of parallel existence. Posing for cameras, waving to crowds, answering rote questions from reporters—and quietly texting each other about blade metallurgy, combat algorithms, weapon styles, and the relative merits of various maintenance schedules.
Armsmaster took his role as Protectorate team leader seriously. He took everything seriously. But beneath that armor was a man who genuinely loved his craft, who could talk for twenty minutes about the molecular properties of his halberd's edge if given the opportunity.
The Operator suspected the Tinker appreciated the efficiency. No small talk. No wasted words. Just technical exchange.
It was, in its own strange way, almost wholesome.
The Operator glanced at his internal clock.
Thirteen minutes until the scheduled lunch break. The PR representative had arranged a private room in a nearby restaurant—nothing fancy, but somewhere they could remove their helmets and eat without cameras recording every bite.
Of course, Warframes didn't have conventionally removable helmets because they weren't empty armor, but he was still looking forward to it. Playing Khora was exhausting in its own way. A break would be welcome.
Then he heard the commotion.
It started as a murmur at the back of the crowd—raised voices, the crackle of radios. Security personnel were moving, their body language shifting from relaxed alertness to active concern.
Khora paused mid-sentence, her head turning toward the disturbance.
"What's this? An autograph seeker getting too eager?"
The joke landed flat. The crowd had noticed now too, heads turning, conversations dying as people craned to see what was happening.
The Operator's tactical systems kicked in, enhancing his perception. Through Khora's sensors, he could see past the crowd—to the barricades at the plaza's edge, where security guards were struggling to hold back a surge of bodies.
These weren't fans.
These weren't autograph seekers.
These were desperate people.
"Please—you have to—"
"My daughter, she's only fifteen—"
"Ten thousand dollars, I'll pay whatever—"
"They said you could help, they said—"
The voices overlapped, a cacophony of pleading that cut through the autumn air. The crowd in the plaza was pressing back now, uncertain, some people pulling out phones to record.
Armsmaster stepped forward, his halberd rising. "What's the situation?"
"Unknown civilians attempting to breach the perimeter," one of the security guards reported through his radio. "They're not hostile, just—they won't stop—"
"Let us THROUGH!"
A woman broke through the barricade, stumbling forward with her arms outstretched. She was middle-aged, her clothes neat but worn, her face streaked with tears. A photograph clutched in her hand.
"PLEASE—you have to help me—my daughter—"
More followed. A man in a rumpled suit. An elderly couple supporting each other. A young woman with a baby in her arms. They poured through the gap in the barricade like water through a cracked dam, security guards too surprised—and too reluctant to use force—to stop them.
The Protectorate heroes moved to intercept. Assault and Battery were there in an instant, positioning themselves between the surge of people and the platform. Dauntless hovered above, his arc-lance crackling with energy.
"Ma'am, sir, you need to step back—"
"You don't understand!"
"She's been gone for TWO YEARS—"
"I'll do anything, anything at all—"
The panic was spreading. The crowd of spectators pressed backward, parents grabbing children, some people shouting. The reporters were in a frenzy, cameras swinging toward the disturbance, microphones thrust forward to catch every word.
The Operator saw it unfolding—the chaos, the fear, the way a single spark could ignite absolute disaster.
So he stopped it.
Khora's hand rose.
The Whipclaw materialized in her grip—living metal crackling with energy. She raised it high.
CRACK.
The sound split the air like a thunderclap.
The plaza went silent.
Every eye turned to Khora. The desperate civilians froze mid-step. The Protectorate heroes paused. Even the reporters stopped shouting.
Khora lowered her arm slowly, letting the Whipclaw dangle from her grip, its tip just brushing the platform.
"Well," she said into the microphone. Her voice was smooth, unhurried, carrying across the silent plaza with easy authority. "This is quite the dramatic entrance."
She descended from the platform in a single fluid motion, her heels clicking against the pavement. The crowd parted before her—spectators and desperate civilians alike—as she walked toward the knot of people who had caused the disruption.
The Whipclaw vanished from her hand as she crossed her arms under her chest, stopping three feet from the front of the group.
"Now then," Khora said, her voice dropping the theatrical queen persona for something more direct. "Someone explain to me what's happening here. One at a time."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the woman who had broken through first—the middle-aged one with the photograph—stepped forward. Her hands were shaking.
"My daughter," she said, her voice cracking. "Nikos Vasil took her. Three years ago. She was walking home from school, and he—he—"
She couldn't finish. She just held out the photograph with a trembling hand.
The Operator took it.
A teenage girl with brown hair and a shy smile. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
"Vasil," Khora repeated.
The Operator knew it. Knew it intimately.
Heartbreaker.
He was one of many assassination targets the Operator had been planning to take out in the future. He hadn't gotten around to it yet because he was waiting for Nyx to appear in the rotation. But she hadn't. And he hadn't built a Specter of her before the armory became compromised, so he couldn't just make one now.
So he'd decided to bide his time, waiting for the perfect solution. Just like the PRT.
Another person pushed forward—a man in his thirties, his clothes expensive but wrinkled, his face haggard. "My wife. He took my wife. I have money—I'll pay anything. I sold my company, I have liquid assets, just—please—"
"Me too." A younger woman, clutching a baby. "My sister. She's only nineteen. She didn't even—she was just visiting Montreal, and—"
"My daughter—"
"My niece—"
"My girlfriend—"
"Please, you have to help us—"
The world slowed as they began talking over each other again, the desperation spilling out in a flood of words and tears and pleas. Photographs thrust forward. Hands reaching out for a savior.
The Operator felt the weight of their desperation—the genuine agony of people who had lost everything to a monster and had been told for years that nothing could be done. The PRT didn't touch Heartbreaker unless he tried for someone important. The fact that most of his fighting force was brainwashed victims made it messy. The Guild had tried and failed. The Canadian government left it to the PRT.
These people had been abandoned by every institution that was supposed to protect them.
And now they were here, begging on camera, because they thought Ten-Zero was their last hope.
He felt something else too.
Wrongness.
The sensation was subtle—a prickle at the edge of his awareness, a sense that something about this situation didn't fit.
He let the scene play out in front of him while his mind worked backward.
The PR event in New Hampshire. Not widely advertised—handled through PRT channels, targeted at the New England region. Ten-Zero's presence had been confirmed only yesterday as a last-minute addition.
Yet here were dozens of people, maybe more still outside the barricades, from all over the northern United States and Canada. They'd traveled—some of them hundreds of miles—to be here on this specific day at this specific time.
Furthermore, Ten-Zero Tower in New York was a public landmark. The lobby was open to visitors. There was even a dedicated intake process for people seeking aid—not publicized, but not hidden either. If these families had wanted to petition Ten-Zero for help, the tower was the logical first step.
Instead, they'd come here. To a PR event that most people hadn't even known Ten-Zero was attending. With photographs and prepared stories and coordinated desperation.
This was organized. Had to be. But from the way these men and women tried to push past each other to speak to him, it wasn't by them.
Someone had pointed them here instead of to the tower. Someone had made sure they arrived en masse, guaranteed to create a scene on camera. Someone wanted Ten-Zero's attention focused on Heartbreaker—wanted it badly enough to orchestrate a media spectacle.
The question was: who? And why?
One of the Brockton Bay gangs? One of Heartbreaker's enemies seeking to use Ten-Zero as a weapon?
Does it matter?
The Operator's focus snapped back outward as Umbra's hand landed on Khora's right shoulder and the Trinity Specter appeared at her left.
The desperate crowd moved like figures underwater. Tears tracked slowly down cheeks. Hands extended with photographs grasped in fingers that seemed to take seconds to uncurl.
Security guards shouted warnings that stretched into garbled distortion. Protectorate heroes stood frozen mid-step.
The woman in front of him—the first one, with the photograph of her daughter—had tears streaming down her face. Her mouth was moving in slow motion, forming words he could barely hear.
"She's my baby. My baby."
He should redirect them. Tell them to file a formal request through Ten-Zero Tower, let Ordis process their claims, and make an informed decision based on sound strategy and proper intelligence rather than emotion.
But that option didn't feel right.
Someone was already using these people's pain as a tool. To compound that cruelty by turning them away here, after they'd done everything short of begging on their knees to secure a personal audience—felt wrong.
It felt... Orokin.
And sometimes—not always, but sometimes—the right choice was the simple one.
His perception returned to normal speed.
The woman's voice came clear again, desperate and breaking.
"—please, I'm begging you, I'll do anything, just bring her home—"
Khora's hand rose.
The metal fingers extended toward the woman.
Gently, Khora clasped the trembling hand between both of her own.
"I'll get her back," she said softly.
The words carried through the microphones, through the cameras, across the plaza.
"Every last one."
----------
Taylor lay on her bed, a book propped against her knees. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting pale rectangles across the worn comforter. Her phone sat on the nightstand beside her, screen dark.
She'd wanted to go to school today.
That thought still felt strange in her head but it was true. She was starting to like school again. With no one stealing her work, her grades were increasing, and she could actually enjoy learning. School was also where Lookout and Isaac were. And honestly, just the thought of seeing Emma's broken nose in the hallway would've made going today worth it.
But her dad had asked her to rest. And after last night, she'd decided to listen. To let him be a father.
So here she was. Reading. Resting. Being a good daughter as her thoughts drifted back to the night before.
----------
The house was lit when she got there. Danny's truck sat in the driveway.
Taylor climbed the front steps, skipping the rotted one on instinct, and unlocked the door with her keys.
Danny was on the couch. He was already halfway to standing when the door swung open. The worry on his face shifted to relief, then tightened again when he got a good look at her—the bruise, the split lip, the scratches.
A pang of anxiety hit her square in the chest.
"Where were you?" he asked. "I was worried."
The instinct to deflect was immediate. Lie. Say she was at the library. At a friend's. Her dad probably still thought Isaac was a thug—and that she was willing to lie to protect him.
The same pattern that had gotten her into this mess.
"The Boardwalk," she admitted. "With Isaac. I needed to clear my head."
Danny's jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to say something. Several somethings. But he held himself back.
"I see," he said tightly. "But you're injured, Taylor. You should be resting."
She didn't respond to that.
The right words to say were there. But they were stuck somewhere between her chest and her teeth. She'd been swallowing them for years. Now, it was time to spit them out.
"Dad. We need to talk."
Danny looked at her. Read something in her face. He sat back down.
"Okay."
She took the chair across from him. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Worked her jaw like she was trying to dislodge something stuck in her throat.
Then she did it anyway.
"What happened today with Emma—that wasn't the first time."
Danny went still.
"She changed. Years ago. Around the start of high school, she started hanging out with Sophia Hess and Madison Clements, and together they decided to make my life hell." Taylor's voice was flat. Like she was reading from a list. "Stealing my stuff. Pouring juice on me. Ruining Mom's flute. The locker. It was all of them. Led by her."
Taylor continued to talk about what the trio did, how the students ignored her, how the teachers and principals refused to help her. And the more she did, the more the color drained from Danny's face. His hands gripped his knees. His breathing got shallow.
Twice, she almost stopped talking.
Every sentence felt like peeling skin off old wounds.
But if she stopped now, nothing between them would ever change.
When she finished, the room went silent.
Her dad was trying to hold it together and failing. She could see the pieces falling apart behind his eyes—the realization of just how badly he'd let her down.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry that you felt like you couldn't come to me. That I was—" He choked. "Unreliable. That my first instinct was to blame you instead of listening. I'm so sorry, Taylor."
A long, ragged breath. Then something shifted. His head came up. The grief was still there, but underneath it was something harder. Anger—not at her. At them. At himself.
"I swear on my life," he said, his voice rough but steady now, "I will make this right. Whatever it takes. Whatever is necessary to make sure you're safe and those girls pay for what they've done."
Taylor felt tears rising. She didn't know why. She took off her own glasses and rubbed at her eyes.
"Thank you, Dad," she managed.
She got up, crossed the space between them, and wrapped her arms around him.
"I'm sorry too," she said into his shoulder. "For lying. For hiding things. For never giving you a chance to fix it even though you were trying your hardest in your own way."
Her dad held her tighter.
"Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. I'm the one who shit the bed. I failed you."
"Please, Dad." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "Just let me say this."
He went quiet.
"I'll try to be a better daughter too."
There was more. So much more. About Lookout. About Isaac. About being a cape. Joining Ten-Zero. But one thing at a time.
Tonight was a night for the simple things.
-------
Her phone buzzed, breaking her out of the memory.
Taylor grabbed it instantly, heart jumping. Isaac, maybe—
The notification wasn't from Isaac.
It was from Tenno's number.
Open the attached file. Then call me back.
Taylor sat up, frowning. She tapped the file.
The video was a recording from Khora's perspective—a first-person view of the PR event in New Hampshire. She watched the desperate families pushing through the barricades. The tears. The photographs clutched in trembling hands. The pleas for help that spilled out one after another like a dam breaking.
She watched Khora descend from the platform, silence the crowd, and take the photograph from the first woman's shaking hand.
Then came the moment that made Taylor's breath catch.
The woman's voice, desperate and breaking: "—please, I'm begging you, I'll do anything, just bring her home—"
Khora's hand rising. Metal fingers extending.
The gentle clasp of the trembling hand between both of her own.
"I'll get her back. Every last one."
The video ended.
Taylor sat there for a long moment, the phone resting in her lap.
She'd known, objectively, that Ten-Zero was heroic. You didn't take down S-class threats and dismantle criminal organizations without being on the side of the angels. But there was a difference between knowing something and seeing it.
This wasn't a battle, a high-profile takedown, or a dramatic rescue. It was an in-the-moment choice to stop, to listen, and promise help to people who had been ignored by every institution that was supposed to protect them.
It was kind.
Human.
Everything a hero was supposed to be.
Taylor saved the video. Then she called his number.
It rang once.
"You watched it." Tenno's voice came through the speaker, calm and measured as always.
"I did." Taylor paused. "That was... really good of you. What you did for them."
"The job's not done yet. But thank you." A brief silence. "I'm contacting you to let you know that I'm leaving Brockton Bay for an extended period."
Taylor straightened. "How long?"
"Eight hours, if I'm lucky. More if I decide to look for the bodies of any victims today." His voice didn't change, but Taylor caught the weight beneath the words. "Heartbreaker has been collecting women for a long time. Not all of them are still alive."
She felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"In the meantime," Tenno continued, "you'll be vulnerable. So I'm assigning you protection."
"Protection?"
"Shade. The drone that assisted you during the Lung engagement. Ordis should be sending you an app to track and communicate with it shortly."
Taylor frowned. "Isn't that a bit... much? Having a spy drone follow me around all day?"
She didn't add that she'd been hoping to see Isaac again. That the idea of a silent mechanical observer her boss could spy through put a damper on any possibility of a repeat of yesterday's spontaneity.
"Especially when you could just leave a Specter in the city," she added, pressing the point. "Having one of those walking around would make all the gangs tread lightly. I've seen the statistics online and you told me yourself—crime drops whenever Ten-Zero operates somewhere."
"True." Tenno's voice carried a note of approval. "You've been paying attention. But I need them to make a move."
Taylor paused. "What do you mean?"
"Someone set this whole situation up, Taylor. Those families didn't arrive by coincidence. They were pointed here by someone who wants Ten-Zero's main focus to be on Heartbreaker."
The implication settled over Taylor like a cold cloth.
"Are you completely sure?"
"No. But that's the feeling I'm getting." A pause. "Ordis is also investigating, but the digital trail is cold right now. Proof enough if you ask me, so I'm taking precautions. The Specters I have around the country are going into hiding in their respective locations. They'll document anyone who tries to take advantage of our absence, just in case the target of opportunity isn't Brockton Bay."
"And you want Shade to watch me instead of the gangs here because..."
"Because I have surveillance of them covered and you are a potential target. Remember, you don't have an anti-thinker effect like all my armors, so it's not impossible for somebody to have discovered our connection via thinker powers and is using this as an opportunity to get to you. Either to hurt me or to leverage against me."
Taylor swallowed. She hadn't thought of that.
"So to keep you safe and my investigation running," Tenno continued, "I need you to accept Shade's presence. And as a bonus..." There was a hint of something almost playful in his voice. "If you say yes, I'll give you the go-ahead for patrols today. Call it a substitute for training."
Patrols.
The word sparked something in Taylor's chest. She'd wanted to do another one for days—but between the training, recovering, and dealing with school drama, it just never happened. The idea of getting out there again, of actually doing some hero work, made her excited.
"Fine," she said, trying to sound reluctant. "I accept."
"Good. Open your window."
Taylor blinked. "What?"
"Your window. Open it."
She stared at the phone for a second, then crossed the room. The window stuck slightly—it always did—but she managed to wrestle it open. Cool autumn air rushed into the room.
Something metal brushed past her cheek.
Taylor yelped, stumbling backward, as a shape materialized in the air beside her bed. Sleek. Dark. Almost organic in its design, with a singular metal eye-thing that tracked her movement.
Shade.
The drone that had descended from nowhere to save her that first night from Lung. Wait a minute—why was Shade there that night? Had it just discovered her on a patrol, or did Tenno order it to follow her before her encounter with Lung?
Taylor shook her head, dismissing the thought.
Those were questions for another time. A time when Tenno wasn't about to capture a serial rapist and rescue abused and brainwashed women.
"You sent it before I even agreed," Taylor said flatly into the phone.
"I expected you to give in after I mentioned patrols." Tenno's voice carried a hint of smugness. "I'm not above bribery."
She grimaced. "That won't work next time."
"Good. But if you're wondering how it got here so fast, it's because Shade and Venari were already in the city scouting Coil's bases for me yesterday. I wanted to make sure that one of them would make for an appropriate graduation test for you."
Taylor's brain stuttered.
"Graduation test?"
"The final assessment before I clear you for independent operations."
"And what's in those bases?"
"Trained mercenaries with tinker-tech weapons."
Taylor's voice came out several octaves higher than intended. "You're sending me to raid a MERCENARY BASE?"
"Not today. Eventually. When you're ready." His tone was calm, almost casual, like he was discussing the weather. "Trust me, Taylor. By the end of your training, with your powers, it'll be a walk in the park."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was insane. But the memory of the forest training exercise gave her pause.
That test was considered a failure. But she'd grown from it, and from Tenno's other training, tremendously. And it hadn't even been a full week since she joined.
So maybe he wasn't crazy.
"I'll hold you to that," she muttered.
"I'd expect nothing less." A brief pause. "I need to go. The families are just about done giving me their accounts, and the sooner I leave, the sooner I return."
"Right." Taylor took a breath. "Do your best."
"Likewise."
The line went dead.
Taylor lowered the phone, staring at the drone hovering in the middle of her room.
Shade's eye swiveled toward her, then away, scanning the walls and furniture. It moved like a creature—not robotic at all, but almost curious, investigating this new space it had been assigned to guard.
"Make yourself at home, I guess," Taylor said dryly.
The drone didn't respond.
Twenty minutes later, Taylor was sitting on her bed with her phone in hand, watching Shade drift lazily around her room.
The app Ordis had sent was simple but comprehensive—a live feed of Shade's visual perspective, a tracking map that showed the drone's position relative to her own, and a series of basic commands that ranged from "patrol" to "stay" to "turn them invisible."
She'd spent the last ten minutes experimenting. Watching the drone respond to her inputs with eerie precision. Feeling, despite herself, a small thrill of excitement at the capability in her hands.
It was like being a rich kid with a high-tech toy. Except the toy was a lethal stealth combat drone.
She also noticed Shade wouldn't go past a certain distance from her. Attempting to command it beyond that radius just earned her silence. Trying to walk out of its radius just caused it to follow, regardless of any orders to stay put.
She was in the middle of having Shade do a slow circuit of her ceiling when her phone buzzed again.
A news notification.
Taylor tapped it absently, still half-focused on the drone—
Then she froze.
BREAKING: Armed robbery in progress at Brockton Bay Central Bank. Hostages reported. Suspects identified as the villain group "The Undersiders."
Her heart hammered.
The Undersiders. She knew that name. Between training sessions with Tenno, she'd spent hours on PHO digging through the Brockton Bay subforum, teaching herself the local cape landscape. The wiki page had painted them as small-time—a crew of teenage thieves who specialized in smash-and-grabs on casinos and jewelry stores. Barely worth a second glance compared to the Empire or the ABB.
But a bank robbery with hostages was not small-time—especially not the day after Ten-Zero had publicly announced they were cleaning up the city.
They were either stupid, desperate, or something else.
Her eyes flicked to Shade.
The drone's eye met hers.
Right now, Tenno was gone. Out of the city, handling Heartbreaker. He'd left her protection and said she could patrol.
He probably hadn't meant this.
Patrols were one thing. Armed supervillains holding hostages was another entirely.
But people were in danger.
And if she waited until she felt ready to help, would she ever become the kind of hero she wanted to be?
Taylor ran downstairs to grab her costume.