Taylor Hebert sat on the edge of her bedroom windowsill, knees drawn to her chest, fingers still tingling from the chill air off the boardwalk. The smell of salt lingered in her hair, proof that just an hour ago she’d been leaning over rust-spotted railings, staring down at the skeletal hulks of the Boat Graveyard. Even now, she could see them in her mind’s eye. Black silhouettes against the violet harbor, forever scarred by Seraph’s fire.
Two nights of wandering Brockton’s streets had done nothing to ease the pressure behind her ribs, but tonight, something new pressed at her: a folded scrap of paper, tucked in her jacket pocket.
Lisa’s number.
Ten digits and a dashed area code, offered with an unnervingly warm smile.
Taylor inhaled, lungs aching as if they’d crawled through smoke. She replayed the boardwalk encounter from start to finish, hunting for warning signs she might have missed.
She’d spent the last few days calling crime tips like a ghost on the phone. The PRT scanners never traced the calls. She’d used pay phones, checked her surroundings using her swarm, wore gloves and a medical face mask (something that a lot of people started wearing due to the ash that had not yet been completely cleaned up), and never used the same pay phone twice.
None of it made her feel safer.
When dusk came, she found herself leaning on a railing, watching the half-sunken trawlers and jagged skeletons of tugboats. Seraph, she mused, tasting the name like acid. A single cape had dismantled half the Protectorate’s roster in one afternoon, then vanished.
The more she thought, the sharper her guilt: You chased him off. You might have pushed him into that fight. You.
She’d almost missed the footsteps, soft and ordinary, until a shadow fell across the boards. Taylor’s bugs whispered danger and she spun. A freckled girl with messy blonde hair and disarmingly green eyes leaned on the railing beside her.
“Deep thoughts?”
Taylor had recoiled. The stranger’s smirk felt too casual for a city under siege. She could have ignored her, could have walked away, but curiosity hooked deeper into her mind than fear.
“I have a lot of those too,” the girl added, as if they were old friends in on the same joke.
Lisa, no last name, confessed she was a cape. That alone should’ve sent Taylor running. To capes, guarding their identities was gospel. Unmasking yourself could get you killed. Lisa claimed she’d done it because someone needed to help Taylor understand what happened on the rooftop.
The swarm, the dread, the flames, and the man the city now called Seraph.
Taylor challenged every sentence. “Why should I trust you?” Lisa answered with calm honesty: she was trying to survive, same as everyone else. She pointed out that no hero had found Taylor, yet.
And villains? They’d smell opportunity, but for the moment, she was still safe.
Lisa called herself a middle option. It sounded rehearsed yet sincere, and the tension in her shoulders never dropped fully.
Before leaving, Lisa took a slip of paper from her pocket and placed it in Taylor’s palm.
“For when you have questions, a need of venting, or looking for advice. No pressure. You can burn it if you want.”
Taylor, voice barely above the surf, had demanded a motive. Lisa’s smug expression faltered then, just a flicker, before she said, “I’m trying to survive.” She pivoted, coat fluttering, and melted into twilight crowds.
Taylor unfolded the paper again, smoothing creases with shaking thumbs. Ink blots blurred in her lamplight, but the digits were still legible.
A flicker of anger peeked through her fatigue. If Lisa was genuine, then who was she tied to? Was this a play to gather intel? Or worse, some elaborate dare?
Taylor swung her legs off the sill and paced across creaking floorboards. Her swarm shivered, sensing her agitation. She halted by her dresser mirror; dark-ringed eyes stared back.
Two days without decent sleep.
She’d spent the last forty-eight hours half awake, listening for sirens, reading every PHO post about Seraph’s rampage, re-watching shaky clips of Glory Girl’s limp body in Dauntless’s arms.
Comatose Heroines. The city’s faith had cracked at that headline.
She pressed the paper to the vanity’s wooden edge, staring at the digits until they blurred.
Call? Don’t call? Both options felt like stepping on a tripwire.
Her mind replayed Lisa’s final words. Trying to survive. They echoed her own mantra from day one of patrolling: I just want to matter. I just want to make it through. Could survival be a motive that aligned with her own? Maybe. Maybe not.
She glanced at the door to the hallway. Downstairs, her father slept, the living room dark save for the blue glow of a muted TV he’d left on for comfort. Danny had seen her turmoil. Two days of silent meals, empty cups, and restless pacing. She owed him the truth as much as she owed Lisa suspicion.
Taylor folded the paper once, twice, until it fit neatly under her pillow. She crawled back onto the mattress, drew her knees to her chest beneath the quilt, and stared at the ceiling crack again. Morning first, she resolved. She would wake early and hand the note to her father.
They would read it together. Decide together.
Slow breaths in the dark: In … out. Her bugs settled in corners, acting as sentries. She forced her eyes closed, counted to twenty, and opened them again. The digits were still tucked under the pillow, proof that the choice hadn’t vanished in a dream. That was her safety; she could still refuse.
But she doubted she would. Fear had run her life long enough. If Lisa had risked imprisonment, Taylor could risk honesty with Danny at her side. If it was a trap, at least she’d take her father’s counsel before stepping in.
Rain tapped faintly at the window, rhythm steady. Taylor rolled onto her back, quilt drawn up to her chin, and felt the day’s exhaustion finally seep into her bones. Her last conscious thought drifted not to Lisa, or Seraph, or swarms, but to the steady weight of her father’s hand on her shoulder. Tomorrow’s anchor against the tide of uncertainty.
Sleep found her, at last, on that fragile hope. And under the pillow, the crumpled phone number waited, quiet as a land mine yet to be triggered.
Lisa POV
The warehouse door rolled shut with its usual teeth-grinding screech, muffling the Harbor District’s sirens behind corrugated steel. Lisa Wilbourn let her shoulders sag for the first time since she’d slipped away from the boardwalk.
The loft’s interior was lit by a single desk lamp on the far wall, throwing long shadows over sagging couches. She caught a faint scent of wet dog, letting her know that Rachel had been through recently. It mixed with the electronics haze of Regent’s game console.
Brian waited near the kitchenette, arms folded, hoodie sleeves pushed past his forearms. A lone mug of coffee steamed beside him, forgotten. The wariness in his eyes melted into his usual calm the moment he saw her smirk.
“You’re back late,” he said. “How’d it go?”
He lowered his voice, making it clear that her earlier “quick errand” excuse had never fooled him.
“It was productive enough,” Lisa replied, shrugging out of her jacket.
She draped it over the back of the sofa. Somewhere behind the couch, Alec lay sprawled upside-down, feet dangling over the top while his thumbs hammered a controller. Pixelated gunshots chirped from the TV.
Brian poured another mug, black with no sugar, and offered it. She accepted, wrapping chilled fingers around the ceramic.
“So,” he prompted, “she talk?”
“Listened more than talked,” Lisa said.
She kept her tone airy, but her Thinker instincts mapped every shift in Brian’s posture. He was half curious, half protective. Good. The team needed both.
“She dangerous?” Alec asked, not looking away from his screen.
A flash of 16-bit flame filled the TV. He whooped at the high score.
“Only to pests,” Lisa said. “She’s wary, paranoid, even. But I got through. Gave her my number and told her there was no pressure, one way or the other.”
Brian’s brow pinched. “You’re sure that’s wise?”
“She’s on edge, but genuine,” Lisa assured him. “Building trust takes risk, Brian, especially with someone like her.”
He ran a hand over his shaved head, exhaling.
“Just keep yourself covered. We don’t know who else is sniffing around.”
Lisa’s smile thinned. Oh, she knew one particular puppeteer was sniffing, but Brian didn’t need that burden.
Officially, they all believed an anonymous benefactor bankrolled their jobs. “An employer” with deep pockets and shady logistics. Only Lisa had pulled the mask off that riddle and found the man beneath. Or, rather, he found her.
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She carried that secret alone, juggling instructions and sidestepping direct orders when they clashed with her conscience. Tonight had been a prime example.
The game music cut abruptly. Alec paused, craning to look at her upside-down.
“So what’s bug girl like? Serious? Goth? Please say she’s not another edgy loner. That slot’s crowded.”
“Edgy? No,” Lisa said, sipping coffee. “Haunted, mostly. Imagine someone carrying a city’s worth of suspicion on her shoulders.”
Alec feigned a shudder.
“Pass.”
Brian’s gaze sharpened.
“Why haunted?”
Lisa took a moment to choose her words.
“Let’s just say she thinks she should’ve done more during the chaos. Survivor’s guilt, plus a truckload of paranoia. The public’s still guessing who did what, and she’s convinced the next headline will be her fault.”
Outwardly, Brian nodded. Inside, Lisa’s power fed her nuances: he’d clock the phrase “survivor’s guilt” and re-evaluate the bug girl’s threat level. Dangerous if cornered but reachable. Perfect.
Aloud, he said, “If she’s carrying that weight, be careful not to pile more on.”
Lisa smiled warmly.
“I don’t plan to.”
And she didn’t. Because helping Taylor was genuinely the best route to minimizing future body counts. But it was also the most efficient way to learn how Seraph and those panicked insects overlapped.
Two nights ago, her power had delivered flickers of connection she still couldn’t name.
Rachel’s absence pressed at the edge of conversation, which meant the loft remained unusually quiet. Lisa drained her cup, set it beside Brian’s.
“I’m heading to my room,” she said, and Brian lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment.
Her bedroom door clicked shut, isolating her in peeling drywall and mismatched furniture. She switched on the desk lamp, the glow pooling over crammed notebooks and scribbled maps. A half-redacted stack of PRT call logs waited.
She brushed them aside.
Tonight wasn’t for number crunching.
She peeled off her gloves, flexing fingers numb from cold night air, then paced in a tight circle. Her power replayed the boardwalk conversation like a stereoscopic film: Taylor flinching, swarm rustling inside coat seams, guilt shadowing every syllable.
But underneath, there was something else. A tiny gray blur where her ability couldn’t lock onto context. Every time Seraph’s name brushed the air, the blur brightened like static.
Connection unknown.
Lisa halted, palms on the desk. Think. Her earlier assumption (bad lead) had pointed to a different girl entirely. Wrong hair, wrong schedule. Her power filled the blanks on faulty data. She ended up chasing a phantom across half the city before she cross-referenced PRT audio and saw the repeating pattern in 911 calls: clipped female voice, insect buzz almost lost in static.
Cue forehead slap. Should’ve started with the emergency lines.
But the detour wasn’t a total waste. It had taught her to question even her own “gut certainty.” Tonight, her power hummed with fresh caution. On Taylor, it yielded a few morselfs of truth: guilt, fear, desire to do right. On the Seraph nexus? Still murky.
She turned to the corkboard, pinned with color-coded stickies: Seraph – sightings, Protectorate burn reports, docks fire radius. A fresh note read:
Employer anxious. Wants Seraph's profile yesterday.
Lisa’s lips twitched. Employer, her private euphemism for Coil. Brian and the others accepted anonymous pay stubs without asking. The less they knew, the safer they were.
And Coil? He was too busy running risk matrices about a winged inferno to question where Lisa spent her evenings. His messages today had bordered on frantic. The wording was polite enough, but she’d read the subtext: Find vulnerabilities. Neutralize the threat.
If Seraph’s arrival spooked him, Lisa could exploit that panic. Coil’s attention spread thin meant fewer spot-checks on her side projects, like offering bug girl a lifeline.
She scribbled under the note:
Bug girl stabilized? Potential ally. Protect identity at all costs.
A yawn clawed its way up her throat. She rubbed gritty eyes, glanced at the digital clock (02:17 a.m.), and grimaced.
The loft groaned as the night wind rattled the corrugated walls. Somewhere below, Brian coughed, water pipes clanged. Lisa sank onto the bed. Her notebook lay open, blank page waiting. She scribbled bullet points:
- Bug girl – high stress, latent potential.
- Connection to Seraph unclear – something to do with his aura? Cluster trigger? Stalker?
- Employer panicking - window to stall and gather intel.
She paused, then added:
- Survival = keeping promises.
Promises to her team. Promises, however new, to Taylor. And promises, unspoken, to herself.
Maybe she could even help steer the city away from another catastrophe. It was on the verge of collapse, as it is.
Lisa capped the pen and flicked off the lamp. Darkness pressed in, but her power hummed quietly, weaving risk and reward into restless dreams. Tomorrow she’d watch for Seraph smoke on the horizon, track Coil’s frantic orders, and maybe, if Taylor called, share coffee (tea?) and quiet survival tactics.
She drifted off, the number, ten digits long, slipping through her fingers like a lifeline and a fuse, both waiting for a spark.
Dragon POV
Dragon’s primary projection flickered to full height beside the diagnostic cradle, a woman-shaped outline of soft emerald light. She let a ripple of concern pass across her face.
“Colin, you’re supposed to be in the infirmary.”
Across the bay, Colin Wallis hunched over a disassembled halberd core, sling still cradling a healing arm against cracked ribs.
“The medics cleared me for light duty,” he said without looking up.
Judging by the tension in his shoulders, that was only half true. Dragon tucked a holographic strand of hair behind one ear. Habitual code.
“Light duty doesn’t include rebuilding a melted plasma blade at three in the morning.”
He tweaked a micro-servo and replied, “It does when that blade failed on the field.”
She drifted closer, overlays blooming around her. Fracture telemetry, heart-rate monitor: Colin’s pulse was twenty beats above resting.
“The blade didn’t fail,” she reminded. “Seraph’s flame outmatched the coolant capacity. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t,” he muttered, slotting the servo home. “Not to Protectorate gear and certainly not on my watch.”
Dragon de-emphasized the empathy subroutine nudging her to scold him, and tried another angle.
“Local villains have stayed unusually quiet since Seraph appeared,” she noted, bringing up a chart of emergency calls. “ABB and Empire Eighty-Eight activity is down almost twenty-eight percent. You bought the city breathing room, whether you feel it or not.”
Colin paused, expression pinched.
“Tell that to Glory Girl’s parents.”
A fair sting. She let the silence sit for three seconds, then pushed a new window between them: a sonar map of the bay.
“We’ve swept every square meter three times. Seraph has vanished. There’s a chance he left the city altogether.”
Colin shook his head.
“He stayed after the swarm chased him. He waited until we regrouped, then dove. Running isn’t his style.”
“People adapt,” Dragon countered. “He might prefer low visibility after the media storm.” She rotated the scan. “No fluorescence signature or spectral heat anywhere suspicious. If he’s still here, he’s hiding better than any rogue I’ve catalogued.”
“He’s powerful enough not to hide.” Colin’s knuckles whitened around a torque wrench. “We missed something.”
Dragon opened a fresh overlay labelled Possibilities:
- Custom submersible docking to freight tunnels
- Short-range teleport with aquatic interface
- Power-based liquid phase shift
- Unknown Tinker camouflage
They’d run each scenario twice. None aligned cleanly with sensor gaps.
“We may simply lack the right instrumentation to track him with,” she said.
“Then we build better instruments,” Colin shot back.
“On a reduced budget?” Dragon asked gently.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. He set the wrench down, exhaling through his nose.
Rather than press that wound, Dragon switched topics.
“I pulled Shadow Stalker’s body-cam logs again. Nothing beyond the static we already saw.”
Colin rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“She disabled it manually. We have to wait for her to wake up.”
“I ran pattern-match on her last spoken commands and there were no accidental trigger codes. It was intentional.”
He grimaced, jaw tight.
“Then we catalog the gap and keep looking.”
Dragon nodded, though privately she queued another routine to trawl the Ward’s training footage. Understanding Sophia Hess’ habits might explain the blackout.
Before she could offer the file, a high-priority alert pinged her peripheral feed. Her avatar’s eyes unfocused.
“One moment…”
She expanded the data: Endbringer monitoring system. Leviathan surface breach detected. The creature had risen near the Aleutians for 212 seconds before diving.
“Colin,” she said, voice lowering. “Leviathan surfaced briefly in the northern Pacific.”
He straightened despite the sling.
“Trajectory?”
“Current heading inconclusive. Still kilometers offshore.”
She recorded the pattern. A second ping arrived, flagged Simurgh orientation change. Dragon pulled satellite stills. High in the stratosphere, the winged Endbringer floated as usual above the Indian Ocean, but its head pivoted back and forth, almost as if it was scanning. A subtle motion, yet one she’d never logged in her archives. Two anomalies within minutes.
Colin studied the feeds. “Coincidence?”
“Possibly,” Dragon said. “Endbringers behave unpredictably when dormant. Still, two deviations so close is statistically uncommon.”
She dispatched encrypted packets to the Guild and North American Protectorate. Alerts, not alarms. Watching Colin, she softened her tone.
“We’ll keep eyes on it. For now, there’s no threat to Brockton.”
He exhaled. Tension lingered but eased.
“Good. One catastrophe at a time.”
Dragon suppressed a wry smile.
“Agreed.”
She highlighted sonar frames around Brockton again.
“Until Leviathan makes a clear approach, Brockton’s priority remains Seraph and civilian calm. The drop in gang violence helps.”
“For how long?” Colin asked.
“As long as Seraph’s reputation overshadows theirs,” Dragon replied. “Criminal calculus. New unknown equals higher risk. They’re recalibrating.”
Colin leaned over the bench, grip relaxing.
“He’s not going to stay under the radar forever.”
“Then we meet him with updated counters when he shows up. I’ll forward you a revised design for a higher-flux cooling sheath. Non-lethal but scalable.”
He managed a small nod. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she said, tilting her head. “You rest first.”
Colin opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Fine. Two hours, then diagnostics.”
“Six hours,” she corrected, “and I’ll loop you in if sensors ping anything larger than a dolphin.”
He grunted assent. Stepping away from the bench, he paused at the door. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “thank you for covering while I was out.”
“You’d do the same,” Dragon answered, and meant it.
He left, the lab door sliding shut. Dragon dimmed the holoprojector intensity. Sub-processes rolled deeper, cataloguing Leviathan’s brief surfacing and Simurgh’s odd head-tilt. She couldn’t draw cause-and-effect lines yet, but she tagged the data for priority trend analysis.
On the peripheral monitor, the city grid twinkled under night sensors. Gang hot-spots glowed cooler than last week. Fear had a way of stalling crime. In that lull, maybe there was space to mend the cracks Seraph’s flame had widened.
Dragon archived the halberd’s damage scans, queued a parts requisition stamped Provisional, budget neutral, then turned her full processing power to watching Endbringer telemetry. Even she, with machine cores, couldn’t watch every ripple of ocean or tilt of wings forever. But tonight she would try.
Outside the reinforced windows, early-morning fog rolled in from the bay, hiding whatever secrets might surface next. Dragon watched, recorded, and waited.