They don't cuff me.
That would almost be comforting, keyword there being Almost.
Cuffs are simple: metal, weight, here is where you stand in the pecking order.
Instead I get a hand on my elbow and three meters of personal space like I'm an unstable warhead they're trying not to jostle too much for fear of nuclear annihilation.
Grundy is the one steering me. Good choice. He's big enough to throw me over his shoulder if I snap, calm enough to apologize while he does it.
"Wards' old wing..." he mutters, more to himself than me as we climb. "Didn't think I'd see it like this."
The stairs complain. The emergency lighting strobes once, then remembers its job and stays on. A trooper's boot heel slips, but not enough to fall. The railing gives a theatrical creak and then holds.
The building is sulking. Every fix I ever nudged into place is unspooling in slow motion, like tape backing off from a wall.
Sorry, I think at it, which is stupid. I didn't break you. I just stopped paying rent.
We pass the motor pool level.
Voices echo against cinderblock: Mack cussing at an engine that won't turn over, someone else swearing about the coffeepot. The smell of burnt plastic and dried up oil hangs in the air like the bygone of a pitstop crew!s last hurrah.
"Deadman?" Mack appears in a doorway, grease on his hands, eyes catching on the escort and doing a double take. "Hey, what the he-"
"Keep your distance, Sergeant," one of the troopers warns, rifle barel low, voice tight.
Mack's gaze moves from the gun to me, to Grundy's grip on my elbow. Something hardens in his jaw.
"You treat him like a perp, you're gonna have a morale problem," he says. Not loud enough to be heard through the bodycam on Gundy's vest but enough to be heard by all of us. "Sir."
Nobody answers him.
My power does the thing where it wants to help. A patch of oil on the floor that should send a trooper skating somehow refuses to be slick. A socket someone left in the middle of the walkway rolls out of the way before a boot finds it.
Small mercies. Petty, automatic, like a reflex I haven't managed to strangle yet.
We keep climbing.
I don't...think I want to strangle it just yet is the issue...
-
The Wards' wing is wrong by being too quiet.
No posters. No glitter glue. No noise bleeding under doors, no TV echoing something bright and stupid. Just a hallway with paint a shade too cheerful for how empty it is and a faint smell of dust and stale carpet cleaner.
Grundy unlocks a door halfway down.
"Here," he says.
The room is… a room, of all time even. Bed with a real mattress, not bolted to anything. Desk. Chair. A narrow closet. An actual bathroom with actual tile and not the stainless-steel prison chic of the basement.
There's even a window. Plexiglass, sure, but it looks out over the bay. Water. Sky. A sliver of city.
It feels like a trap so obvious it wraps around to being honest somehow.
"Director's orders are as follows," Grundy says, letting go of my arm. "You stay on this floor unless escorted. No labs. No sublevels. No… 'tasks' until the lawyers hash it out." His mouth twists on the last part.
I stand in the middle of the room, too tired to sit. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat.
"How many protocols did I violate?" I ask, because if I stop talking I might start doing something worse, like thinking for myself.
Grundy exhales through his nose. "More than I get paid to count." He nods at the bed. "Sit. Sleep. Whatever it is you do. You got a phone?"
My hand goes to my pocket automatically. The cracked rectangle is still there. Miraculous.
"Yeah."
"Keep it on. Apparently your 'legal counsel' wants you reachable." There's a faint incredulity around the words legal counsel, like this is a phrase he's only ever heard on TV before today, guess they don't really get situations like this a lot. "Food comes on the usual schedule. You need something that isn't on the form, you ask me. Not another trooper. Me."
I blink at him. "…Why?"
"Because I like my coffee machine," he says, deadpan. "And my lungs. And the building not falling into the ocean." He mutters while looking outside of the plexiglass window, his reflection is stormy as fi he's recalling a bad dream and an instant later his gaze sharpens. "And because whatever else you are, kid, you're not a piece of gear."
Kid. That's new. I don't know what to do with it.
He seems to realize he said too much and clears his throat. "Door stays unlocked unless we're on alert. Don't make me look stupid for sticking my neck out, yeah?"
"I'll… do my best to underachieve and not overdeliver," I say.
He snorts once, almost a laugh, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
No lock turning. Just wood, air and the soft click of the door's mechanism latching it onto the wall.
For the first time since ever since the car carrying me rolled into Brockton Bay I am technically not in a cage.
I sit on the bed.
It doesn't collapse. The frame doesn't crack. The mattress doesn't spring a leak and vomit stuffing.
"I get it," I tell the room, low. "You thought we had a deal. Me for stability. I broke it. You're allowed to be mad."
The overhead light hums, then steadies. The temperature draft under the window eases the tiniest fraction.
Not forgiveness. Just an acknowledgment: complaint received.
My phone buzzes.
For one horrible second I expect Piggot, or Reeve, or some unknown Director in a sharper suit.
Instead:
undefined said:Unknown: This is Carol Dallon. Saved your number from Amy's phone. You will not respond to any PRT communication without me present. You will not agree to any 'tests'. You will not sign anything. Sleep. I will be at the Rig at 0900.Another buzz, almost on top of it:
undefined said:Amy: You alive?I stare at the two texts, one under the other.
Weaponized law. Weaponized concern.
undefined said:Me: Define alive.Dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
undefined said:Amy: Conscious. Heart beating. Not a smear on the news.undefined said:Amy: Mom says don't talk to anyone. I say don't let her see this text.I huff something that might be a laugh.
undefined said:Me: I'm in a haunted dorm.undefined said:Amy: Elaborate...?I glance around. The scuffed walls, the too-clean desk, the empty pinboard over the bed with tiny holes where someone once hung pictures.
undefined said:Me: They stuck me in the old Wards wing. Your city's teen cape hotel. Everyone checked out.There's a longer pause this time.
undefined said:Amy: Figures. Can't have you near anything important, like light fixtures and structural integrity.undefined said:Amy: How bad is the rebound?I rub at my eyes. The headache has downgraded from "industrial accident" to "ongoing OSHA violation."
undefined said:Me: Building's throwing a tantrum. Nothing lethal yet. Just… petty. Like me, but with more wiring.undefined said:Amy: Good. Keep it that way.undefined said:Amy: For the record, that was me panicking when I texted "don't do anything stupid." The rest was Mom. She saw your messages, grabbed her briefcase, and turned into a lawsuit with legs.I picture Amy in the Dallon kitchen, glaring at her phone like it personally betrayed her. Carol standing up so fast her chair scraped.
My chest does something complicated and unhelpful.
undefined said:Me: Tell her thank you.undefined said:Amy: Tell her yourself tomorrow. She's already planning your "I sue you, you sue me, we all go home" schedule.undefined said:Amy: Also, I am NEVER hearing the end of "you brought me a client from another department by texting a depressed Trump in a cage."undefined said:Me: Tell her it was a joint effort. You did the smart part. I did the stupid part.undefined said:Amy: That's… unfair.undefined said:Amy: You did the brave part. Don't get used to me saying that.I lie back on the mattress. It squeaks in protest, then decides not to break.
Brave. That's not what it felt like. It felt like drowning loudly enough that someone might throw a rope before the undertow got bored.
undefined said:Me: If this goes wrong, you're going to feel guilty forever.undefined said:Amy: Wow, subtle.undefined said:Me: I mean it. You'll make it your fault. I don't… want that.The dots stay longer this time. Long enough that my brain starts drafting increasingly catastrophic outcomes.
undefined said:Amy: If this goes wrong, I was already going to feel guilty forever.undefined said:Amy: You made it possible for it to go right.undefined said:Amy: Go to sleep, Deadman. Please.There's a lot in that please. More than I deserve.
undefined said:Me: You know I don't sleep right.undefined said:Amy: Then lie there and pretend. Call it rehearsal. Tomorrow's going to be hell.undefined said:Amy: Good night. And if Piggot tries anything, trip over something dramatically and make the fire alarms all go off. That's legal advice. From a non-lawyer. Don't quote me.undefined said:Me: Yes ma'am.The screen dims. The phone, miracle of miracles, does not spontaneously combust.
I stare at the ceiling until the hum of the light blurs into the sound of the bay outside.
The building's resentment is a weight under my skin. It would be so, so easy to let go. To stop holding the coin on its edge and let it choose a side.
You made a call, Armsmaster said.
I did. To Amy.
Tomorrow, I deal with the consequences.
For tonight, I lie in a bed that isn't a slab, in a room that isn't a cage, in a building that is very loudly filing complaints with the universe about my continued existence.
I call that a win.
The light stays on.
-
Morning comes with the subtlety of a flashbang.
My phone alarm trills four times and then short-circuits itself into silence. Not literally. Just the app crashing. Progress: my power has decided software bugs are someone else's department, at least for now.
I'm already awake. I don't remember sleeping. I remember lying there while my brain ran worst-case simulations until it ran out of caffeine and collapsed.
The bay outside is slate and ripple. A gull lands on the narrow ledge outside my window, glares in at me, and shits on the frame.
"Same," I tell it.
There's a knock. Two quick, one slow. Security rhythm.
"Yeah?"
Grundy opens the door a crack. "You decent?"
"In the broadest possible sense."
He takes that as a yes and steps in. There's a paper cup in his hand. Steam curls out of the lid.
"For you," he says. "Compliments of the motor pool. Mack says if you break it, you're buying the next bag."
I take the cup. It's real coffee. Not good coffee, but hot and bitter and not from the cell block vending machine.
"Tell him I'll fix his generator if this scalds me," I say.
Grundy gives me a look. "Try not to threaten the appliances, kid. It makes people nervous."
"Not exactly threatening but you take it how you like it."
He hesitates. "You got a nine o'clock."
"Carol," I say.
He nods. "Director wants you in Interview Two. No restraints. She loses that argument, I'm walking."
Something loosens a fraction in my spine.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet." He steps back into the hall. "Five minutes."
He leaves the door open.
Not an oversight, I realize. A choice. People walking past can see I'm not barred in.
Optics.
I sip the coffee. It doesn't taste like burning. The cup doesn't crumple. The floor doesn't yaw open.
Okay.
-
We walk.
The building is still sulking, but less loudly. Lights flicker in a pattern that might be coincidence and might be an apology. Somewhere, a printer jams in exactly the way that can be fixed by a gentle thump instead of a service call.
"Whatever you're doing, keep doing it," Grundy mutters, as we pass a knot of troopers arguing with a vending machine that finally, miraculously, drops the trapped candy bar.
"I'm literally doing nothing," I say.
"Yeah," he says. "That, keep doing that."
Interview Two is smaller than the last room, and somehow worse for it.
No mirrored glass. Just a table, three chairs, a camera in the corner with a dead red light. My power nudges it into staying dead. Nobody gets to rewind this one.
Piggot is already there. Armsmaster too, armor immaculate, datapad replaced, every line of his body a quiet, contained anger. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the chair opposite Piggot, as if he can move me into it by will alone.
Carol Dallon sits at the far end of the table, back to the wall, briefcase open in front of her. No costume. Just the same immaculate suit as last night, a different blouse, and a pair of reading glasses she probably doesn't need but that make judges take her more seriously.
She looks like an incoming audit given human shape.
"Good morning, Mr. Deadman," she says. "Sit next to me, please."
Mr. Deadman. That's new. The PRT never bothered with honorifics.
I obey. Not because Piggot glares—though she does—but because Carol's tone leaves no space for argument.
Grundy takes up a position by the door. Not looming. Just there.
"Before we begin," Carol says, folding her hands atop the stack of papers, "I want the record to reflect that this meeting is being held under protest from Director Piggot, that my client has not waived any of his rights, and that no recording devices other than that camera—" she nods at the dead eye in the corner "—are present, to the best of our knowledge."
"The camera isn't active," Armsmaster says. "Power fluctuation."
"Oh, how unfortunate," Carol says, in a tone that could strip paint. "Then this will have to be off the record."
Piggot grinds out, "You requested this meeting, Dallon. Get on with it."
"I requested my client be released and returned to his home jurisdiction," Carol corrects. "This meeting is your compromise. So. Let's compromise."
She turns to me.
"Mr. Deadman," she says, and the room narrows to the space between her gaze and mine. "There are three broad options on the table."
I swallow. My mouth is dry. The coffee has evaporated somewhere around my sternum.
"Okay."
"One," she ticks off a finger, "you remain a provisional PRT asset under ENE command, with your contract renegotiated to include explicit protections, oversight, and a prohibition against forced testing. I would insist on an independent ombudsman, regular mental health evaluations, and the authority to pull you at any time if those protections are violated."
Piggot's lip curls. "You are not—"
She lifts a hand. Piggot stops talking. It's like watching someone hit mute.
"Two," Carol continues, perfectly calm, "your loan is terminated. You are recalled to Austin, where Director Reeve has assured me, in writing, that you will not be deployed without your consent. You would be out of this building by the end of the week."
My heart stutters at that. Austin. Heat and traffic and Reeve's office with its neat stacks and terrible coffee. Home-adjacent.
"And three," Carol says, and this time there's the faintest curl at the edge of her mouth, "You resign from the PRT entirely. You would become an independent. I have… connections… so to speak, who would be willing to sponsor your legal status as a cape and provide a protective network, if that is the road you choose."
She doesn't say New Wave.
She doesn't have to.
The word sits between us, unsaid but obvious.
Piggot frowns—confusion, irritation, maybe both—but stays silent. Armsmaster remains statue-still, but I can feel his attention sharpen like he's taking internal notes.
Carol folds her hands. "Before you respond, there is another matter. I've been informed you were responsible for the capture of the Slaughterhouse Nine."
Piggot actually blinks at that, eyes snapping to me. "I'm sorry—what?"
Armsmaster's visor angles a millimeter in my direction. The closest he gets to a double take as far as I can surmise.
"I was there," I say, voice low. "They were trying to kill me, so I stopped them."
That's the short version. The version that doesn't include screaming geometry and the building trying to have a panic attack.
Carol nods once. "Good work. Regardless, the bounty you've received—"
"What bounty?" I ask.
The room freezes.
Carol's brows lift a fraction, the first real crack in her composure. "You… haven't been informed?"
"Informed of what?" I ask as I look around the room.
Piggot's confusion sharpens. "Miss Dallon, my office has received no notice of a bounty payout regarding the Nine."
Armsmaster taps something on his wrist console; the faint hum of data scrolling. "I show no records of a transfer," he says. "However… I am seeing multiple independent bounties flagged as 'pending claimant verification.'"
Carol exhales through her nose, measured irritation rather than surprise. "Of course. Bureaucratic incompetence masquerading as procedure."
She turns back to me, gaze steady.
"Mr. Deadman… the combined rewards for the Slaughterhouse Nine amount to several million dollars. And legally, they are yours."
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Because I'm not from here. I don't have an ID. A bank. A last name that means anything. And they still think I'm just some undocumented drifter Cape who fell through the cracks—not someone who fell through worlds.
Carol mistakes the silence for shock, not existential fraud.
"You have more leverage than you realize," she says softly. "And more choices than they've allowed you to believe."
Piggot bristles. Armsmaster watches.
And I try not to think too hard about how none of this should be mine—not the bounty, not the choices, not the legal personhood they're offering like it's easy.
Not when I'm still pretending to be someone who exists.
But all of that can come later, right now I need to pick, choose what I'm actually going to do with my life now what I have a modicum of choice.
Three options.
All of them have teeth.
Staying means Piggot, Armsmaster, this building and its simmering resentment.
Going back means Armstrong, emails with words like 'asset deployment' and 'federal obligation.'
Leaving means… freedom.
Freedom, and no safety net.
"I can't decide for you," Carol says, softer. "I can only clarify the consequences."
"His contract is still active," Armsmaster says, finally speaking. "He has obligations. The Rig's infrastructure is compromised. We require his cooperation to restore it."
"Correction," Carol says. "You required his cooperation. You chose coercion instead. The universe appears to be enforcing a penalty clause."
I almost laugh. I don't.
Piggot's stare burns. "He is a parahuman in a city hanging by a thread. You want to take him away because he had a bad week in a cell?"
I shouldn't speak.
Carol told me not to speak.
I speak anyway.
"It wasn't the bad week in the cell," I say, voice rough. "It was realizing the cell was the plan."
Silence.
Armsmaster's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Piggot's hand flexes on the table once, like she wants a gun there and doesn't have one.
Carol doesn't look at them. She looks at me.
"Mr. Deadman," she says, very clearly. "What do you want?"
The question sits in the air, heavy as a verdict.
I think of Austin. I think of Delhi. Of storm drains that behaved and doors that opened and Amy in a triage tent, eyes ringed in sleepless purple, telling me to live for her outcomes.
I think of this building—the Rig—sulking and rebounding and trying, in its own petty way, not to kill people despite everything.
Three options.
None of them clean.
My power hums under my skin, coin spinning, waiting for a fingertip to decide.
"I…" I begin.
The fire alarm goes off.
A long, rising wail cuts through the walls, relentless and furious. The emergency lights strobe. The camera in the corner dies completely, a puff of static and the sad little click of its motor giving up.
Piggot surges to her feet. "What now?"
Armsmaster's hand flies to his earpiece. "Control, report. Is this a drill?"
Static answers him. The intercom on the wall crackles, coughs, and spits out three words in Armitage's panicked voice:
"Director—sprinklers—everywhere—"
The ceiling above us emits a tired clunk. Nothing happens. No water. Just the echo of the alarm and the smell of hot circuitry.
The Rig, it seems, has filed another complaint.
Carol turns her head just enough to look at me over the top of her glasses.
"Mr. Deadman," she says, in the calm that lives in the eye of a legal hurricane. "I strongly suggest you make a decision before this building does it for you."
And that's where the universe, because it loves drama, chooses to leave the coin spinning.
I don't know if the Rig has lungs but it's sure as hell trying to hyperventilate.
The alarm keens, the lights strobe, the camera in the corner is a dead insect eye. My power is a hum under my skin, coin on edge, waiting.
I could stall. I could say I need time. I could let the building decide for me.
I'm very, very tired of not deciding things.
"I'm done," I say.
My voice doesn't sound like it belongs to someone important enough to be done. It still comes out, though.
"I'm not going back to the cell. Or the lab. Or whatever euphemism you've got queued up next. I'm not staying on as an 'asset.' I'm resigning. Third option."
Piggot stares at me like I just announced I'm defecting to the Simurgh.
"Absolutely not," she snaps. "You are under an active contract with the Southwest branch. You will remain under PRT authority until such time as—"
"Director," Carol says, and the temperature in the room drops a few degrees, "you have already violated the terms of that contract."
Piggot swings on her. "I did no such—"
"Deadman," Carol says, ignoring her, eyes still on me. "Did you consent to the testing Director Piggot authorized on the Rig?"
"No," I say.
"Were you told you could refuse?" she asks.
"No."
"Were you free to leave?" she asks.
I almost laugh. "Definitely not."
"There," Carol says, finally turning back to Piggot. "Coercion. Unsafe working conditions. Detainment without due process. You don't get to misuse 'emergency authority' as a fig leaf and then cite the same contract you broke when it's convenient."
"This is a Protectorate black site, not a factory floor," Piggot says. "We are facing existential threats. Behemoth, the Nine, Coil, the ABB—"
"And none of those words magically exempt you from basic law," Carol says. "Or from the Unwritten Rules. You took a provisional staffer, misrepresented the scope of his transfer, subjected him to black-box testing, and hid a multi-million dollar bounty that legally belongs to him. If you want to litigate that in the court of public opinion, I will be happy to draft the press release."
The alarm glitches, cuts out mid-wail, then restarts at a lower volume like even the Rig got embarrassed.
"We need him," Piggot grinds out. "The Rig is one bad storm away from coming apart. We have Endbringers. We have gang wars. The Nine are down but their hangers-on aren't. You want to take our last stabilizer because he didn't enjoy his accommodation?"
"It wasn't the bad week in the cell," I say, before I can stop myself. "It was realizing the cell was the plan."
Silence again. Different flavor this time.
Armsmaster's jaw tightens under the helmet. Piggot's hand flexes on the table, fingers curling like she's reaching for a gun that isn't there.
Carol doesn't look at them. She looks at me.
"For the record," she says, precise, as if someone somewhere will be reading a transcript of this someday, "you are choosing option three: to resign from PRT employment, effective immediately, and to retain me as counsel for all disputes that arise from that decision?"
"Yes," I say. "That's what I'm choosing."
The coin in my head finally drops.
"His contract is still active," Armsmaster says. "He has obligations. The Rig's infrastructure is compromised. We require his cooperation to restore it."
"Correction," Carol says. "You required his cooperation. Then you opted for coercion, at which point your 'requirements' became a liability. If you'd like to argue that your infrastructure is literally dependent on continued labor from a single exhausted twenty-year-old, we can bring OSHA in as a friend of the court."
"The Rig is not a—" Armsmaster starts.
"Everything is a workplace when someone's dying in it," Carol says. "And this facility has killed before."
Piggot's eyes flash. "Careful, Dallon."
"I'm being very careful," Carol says. "If I weren't, I would be using the word 'negligence' more liberally."
The alarm finally chokes out and dies.
For the first time since I got here, the Rig is actually quiet. The emergency light over the door blinks once—an annoyed eyelid—and settles into a steady glow.
Piggot looks like it tastes like battery acid when she says, "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Simple," Carol says. "He walks out. Today. You process his resignation, release his outstanding pay, and begin bounty disbursement. You refrain from any attempt to undermine his legal status. In exchange, I do not immediately file for an injunction, an investigation, and ten separate information requests."
"You think you can threaten me," Piggot says.
"I think," Carol says, "you are running a city on a knife's edge, with limited resources, under constant scrutiny, and you cannot afford the kind of attention you'll get if this goes public. I'm not threatening you, Director. I'm giving you a choice."
Piggot's gaze snaps to me. "You walk away, and you're not coming back," she says. "You understand that? No badge, no clearance, no access. If something happens—if an Endbringer hits, if this city burns—you don't get to walk in later and act like we're comrades-in-arms. This is you choosing a side."
"Respectfully," I say, "I don't think you ever saw me as comrades anything."
Something ugly flickers in her expression. Not guilt. Something like… loss, covered in too much anger to admit it.
"We're done here," she says, standing abruptly. "If he wants to throw his life away, that's on him."
"You'll sign the forms," Carol says. It's not a request.
Piggot doesn't answer. She leaves. The door doesn't slam, but it wants to.
For a second it feels like the whole room leans after her. Then the floor remembers itself.
Armsmaster stays. Of course he does.
"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.
My laugh comes out hoarse. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Leaving," he says. "You can still do good with structure and support. Once this has settled, we could revise deployment parameters. Add safeguards. Oversight."
"Like the safeguards you used downstairs?" I ask. "In your lab? Where my safe word was 'please don't?'"
His shoulders tense. "I misjudged the load. I've admitted that. I've adjusted—"
"You misjudged that I wasn't a person but a tool to be used as sparingly as you wanted," I say. "The rest is just calibration and optics, you chose that Colin." Colin...? Where did that name come from...?
He goes still. No flinch, no visible impact, just Armorstatue.exe.
"We could have used you," he says, and somehow that's the closest thing to an apology I'm going to get.
"You still can," I say. "Just not like this, never...never like this."
Carol closes her briefcase with soft, final clicks.
"Mr. Deadman," she says. "Go and collect your things. Anything you brought, anything you bought with your pay. No PRT-issued equipment, no notes, no tools. I'll have the paperwork ready by the time you get back."
Grundy glances at her, then at me. "I'll walk him," he says.
"If anyone tries to impede you," Carol says, eyes flicking briefly to Armsmaster, "call me. Speakerphone."
Armsmaster shifts his weight but doesn't move to block the door.
"Fifteen minutes," Carol says to me. "Don't make me come find you."
"Terrified," I say. "Truly."
I stand. My legs remember what walking is. The Rig doesn't throw a tantrum when I cross the threshold.
That feels new.
Grundy waits until the door is closed behind us before he lets out a long breath.
"Can't decide if I should get her a fruit basket or call a bomb squad," he mutters.
"Why not both?" I say. "Edible explosives."
He huffs a laugh. "C'mon. Let's get you packed before anyone changes their mind."
The corridors feel different on the way back up. Not friendlier. Just… resigned. The flickering light panels above us don't quite manage a clean strobe cycle but they don't burn out either. A door that normally sticks doesn't even squeak when Grundy shoulders it open.
"You know she's right, yeah?" Grundy says, as we hit the stairs.
"About which part?" I ask.
"About you not being gear," he says. "And about the Director pushing it too far."
"I noticed," I say. "Eventually."
"PRT's always been bad at knowing when to stop in Brockton Bay," he says. "Doesn't mean they're wrong about the danger. Just means they're crap at... whatever this is, think it'd be Triage but I'm not sure."
"Triage is Amy's department," I say.
"You and the Dallons," he mutters. "Gonna give us all ulcers."
The old Wards corridor is still quiet and too-clean when we get there. My room looks like I left it: bed, duffel, cracked phone charger clinging to life, the ghost of an attempt at being a person.
There isn't much to pack.
I shove my clothes into the duffel. The hoodie. The tiny collection of personal junk I've accumulated: a keychain someone put in my hand after Delhi with a crooked little evil eye charm, a bent screwdriver I never fixed but kept, two crumpled receipts from a bodega that started putting my order aside without asking.
My wallet sits on the desk. The AUS-17 card inside stares up at me in faded laminate and a photo that looks like I'd already died once.
"You keeping that?" Grundy asks from the doorway.
"It's not real," I say, thumb running over the edge. "It stops working the second I'm not on their payroll."
"Yeah," he says. "But it's proof someone thought you were worth making real once. That counts for something."
I slip it in the side pocket of the duffel.
"Big spender," he adds. "Got everything?"
"Everything that's mine," I say as I set the PRT bullet-proof vest I'd gotten in Austin on the bed, where it'd stay after I left.
"Good," he says. "Let's get you gone before the Rig decides it's grown attached."
The way back to Interview Two feels like going through a level I've already beaten. Less surprise, more checking for missed loot, any nooks and cranies I'd missed on fixing, this is the final act of my resignment, I'd fix everything I could in a passive-state as I was leaving.
A secretary from Admin sees us pass, freezes, and then very obviously makes a show of going back to her paperwork. A trooper nods at me like he's not supposed to, like we're not currently in the middle of a jurisdictional knife fight.
The vending machine that's been robbing people for days coughs, spits out three bags of chips in a row, and goes dark.
"Show-off," I mutter at the ceiling.
When we step back into the interview room, the temperature feels different. The kind of stillness that happens after a storm: everything damp and waiting to see what's left.
There's a small stack of forms on the table now. Carol has arranged them in a neat fan with a pen aligned exactly perpendicular. Piggot is gone. Armsmaster is still there, on the wall, arms folded.
"Good," Carol says. "Sit."
I do.
She slides the top form toward me. "Formal acknowledgment of resignation. Signing this does not waive any claims you may have for mistreatment, unpaid wages, or withheld bounties. It simply confirms what you've already said aloud."
The words on the page swim a little. I blink until they hold still and sign where she taps.
Next form. "Equipment release. You confirm you're not walking out with anything they can come after you for. Bulletproof vests, weapons, tech."
"Just the hoodie," I say.
"Let's not put that in writing," she says, dry. Another signature.
Last form. "Notice of intent to claim all outstanding bounties associated with the Slaughterhouse Nine, to be filed with the appropriate agencies. This starts the clock. It also puts anyone sitting on the funds in an awkward position."
I sign.
Carol gathers everything up, collates, tucks the stack into a folder, then into her briefcase. Snap. Snap. The latches sound final.
"Director Piggot has agreed to process these immediately," she says. "Which is to say, within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and no later than the moment I start cc-ing her superiors."
Armsmaster shifts his weight. "You're making this more adversarial than it needs to be."
"No," Carol says. "You already did that. I'm just adding documentation."
She stands. "That concludes this meeting. Unless ENE intends to physically restrain my client from leaving, we'll be on our way."
Armsmaster doesn't move.
For a heartbeat I'm sure this is where it all snaps. Where he orders lockdown. Where the Rig seals like a clam and I get to find out how deep the sub-basements go as Carol Dallo—no...as Brandish would try to get me and herself out, fighting a losing battle.
Instead, he inclines his head by a degree. "Deadman," he says. "If there is… a future situation in which cooperation is requested, and the terms are different—"
"...I'll still say yes, but this time I won't be under your juresdiction." I say.
He takes that in. Nods once.
Carol gestures to the door. "After you."
Grundy opens it. For me.
I walk out.
No alarms kick up. No doors slam. The Rig doesn't throw one last tantrum to make me earn it.
It just lets me leave.
-
The boat ride back to shore is too short and too long at the same time.
Carol sits on the bench opposite me, legs braced, briefcase on her lap. Grundy stands near the rail, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes on the shrinking bulk of the Rig.
I keep my duffel by my feet and my hands on my knees and try not to think about the fact that I don't technically belong anywhere these waves lead.
Halfway across, my phone buzzes.
Amy: ???
Me: I'm out.
Amy: Legally or did anything explode?
Me: Legally, your mom is scarier than explosives.
Amy: Yeah. I'm aware.
Amy: Where are you now?
I look past Carol at the city. Towers, cranes, the faint smudge of smoke that might just be industry but probably isn't, I have no fucking clue.
Me: On a boat.
Amy: Helpful.
Amy: Stay where she parks you. I'll ask.
Me: Am I allowed to be scared?
Amy: You're allowed to be anything as long as you don't spontaneously explode, or explode any load-bearing beams.
Me: No promises on either count.
She sends back a single middle-finger emoji and then nothing else.
The rest of the ride is the sound of water against hull and the wind trying to undo my hair.
-
It ends up being an office.
Third floor, brick building, slightly-too-steep stairs. No cape logos anywhere, which feels like a feature. The hallway carpet smells faintly of old coffee and cleaning chemicals.
DALLON & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW, the frosted glass on the door says. There's a few names on the plaque wall, Allan Barnes, Emil Lakhaim, John Gilbert, though my eyes stick to Allan Barnes for a second more than it should.
"Not taking me to your house," I say, because my mouth doesn't know when to stop. "That feels healthy."
"Professional boundaries," Carol says. "And my younger daughter would never forgive me if I brought a stranger into the kitchen during finals week."
She ushers me into her office.
It's tidy, but lived-in. Bookshelves, framed degrees, a couple of case photos where everything is blurred enough to be anonymized.
One frame on the wall is New Wave in costume: Glory Girl front and center smiling like she's won everything at life, Panacea off to the side looking like she'd rather be somewhere else. Her Husband Flashbang is at the back holding her shoulder with his left hand and Amy with his right hand, he's smiling, but it doesn't really...reach his eyes.
Brand. Family. Lawsuit bait.
"Sit," Carol says, gesturing to one of the visitor chairs. "We have a small window before I have to start calling people and making their days worse."
Her voice hasn't softened since the boat. It has, however, shifted—less courtroom, more triage nurse telling you where to stand so you don't bleed on anything important.
I can see where Amy gets it from.
I sink into the chair. It doesn't creak, collapse, or eject me into the hallway. Good start.
Carol sets her briefcase on the desk, opens it with two decisive snaps, and starts sorting forms like she's disassembling a bomb—slow, precise, no wasted movements.
"Before I start calling people," she says, "I need context. Honest context, not whatever sanitized report ENE would try to hand me."
I blink. "Context?"
"You've been in Austin for months. You were transferred—mishandled, from the looks of things—to Brockton Bay. You were detained. Tested. Someone in ENE tried to bury a multi-million-dollar bounty payout." She meets my eyes. "If I'm going to keep you from falling through every crack in the system, I need to know where they are."
My fingers tighten on the strap of my duffel. "Where do you want me to start?"
"The beginning," she says. "Preferably without any heroic omissions or self-deprecating detours."
"Oh. So… nothing I normally do."
Her mouth tightens—an expression that might be humor, if humor paid rent.
"Deadman," she says, "talk."
I inhale.
Exhale.
"Fine. Austin."
"I wasn't… supposed to be there," I begin. "Anywhere, really."
Her brows lift a millimeter. Encouragement. Or skepticism. Hard to tell.
"One moment I was—" I stop.
It feels like the room is suffocating me, but I start again. "I was trying to… cash my check and clock out. Permanently." I motion with my hands, miming a gun to my head, not what I'd done but the closest analogy I could muster. the action hung in the air, brittle. "And the next second, I'm face-first on a sidewalk in Austin, and the Slaughterhouse Nine are tearing into civilians like it's their day job, which... thinking about it now... to them it probably is."
Carol does not flinch. Respect the commitment to the poker face.
"So I moved," I say. "Didn't think. Just… acted. And things started happening around me. Guns misfired where they'd hit civillians. Knives slipped. Buildings stopped cooperating with physics."
"Your first manifestation," she says quietly.
"Pretty sure," I say. "No other capes were there yet, so I can't exactly get them to comment on it, unless you want the Nine's account of the events."
"And after?" she doesn't even pause an prompts me further.
"PRT scooped me up," I say. "Not hostile, just… wary. Reeve and Hoyden filed the paperwork, there was a therapist...? On site I mean, she helped me a little. I signed the contract they gave me." I pause to take a deep breath.
In.
Out.
In.
OUT.
"I just fixed stuff around the PRT Base, my contract had pretty clear boundaries, as you saw from the texts. They gave me my own PRT issued ID card, AUS-17." I tap the wallet through the fabric of my duffel. "That was my identity. Still is, technically, until Reeve processes whatever you just sent to their inbox."
"It's a provisional parahuman ID," Carol says, nodding. "It confirms employment and clearance, not citizenship."
"Yeah," I say. "Like a hall pass with a salary."
"Go on."
"I worked," I say simply. "Training ops. Containment. Minor disasters. Random fixes no one could explain until someone put two and two together and got 'him.' Austin wasn't bad. People treated me like a weird coworker you still invite to lunch because he fixes your engine with a look."
Carol exhales through her nose. "And then the transfer."
"Then the transfer," I echo. "Supposed to be temporary. until everything with Director Armstrong, got handled and that fuckhead wasn't trying to put a stranglehold on the Austin branch."
I added onto everything with what I remember, which is hazy at best. "Assist with Rig stabilization. Evaluate potential for long-term… integration? That's the word they used I think."
"Was the word accurate?"
"It was not." I say, quiet. "They had me in a lab within forty-eight hours. Armsmaster running tests that should've had three different safeties and stops according to my contract. Piggot acting like I was a malfunctioning fire extinguisher instead of a person. Every time I said 'no,' they heard 'not yet.' And somewhere in there, someone decided that keeping me in a cell was the most efficient way to control an environmental hazard."
Carol's expression flickers. Not pity—calculation. Assessment. Lines on a map shifting.
"And you didn't tell anyone," she says.
"Who?" I ask. "Reeve? He was three states away and drowning in his own job. Armstrong? Overworked. Every staffer in ENE looked at Piggot and saw their careers flash before their eyes."
"And Amy," Carol says, not a question.
I swallow. "Yeah."
That lands between us with the heaviness of something that shouldn't be said in an office with frosted glass windows.
Carol closes her briefcase. Not gently.
"Deadman," she says, voice low. "What they did to you was unlawful."
"I guessed," I say, "around hour eleven."
"And the bounty?"
I huff out a laugh, humorless. "News to me. If I'd known I could buy my way out of Brockton Bay, I would've asked for the deposit slip."
Her jaw flexes once. "What else haven't they told you?"
I rub a hand over my face, my few day old stubble rubbing against my palm. "I don't know. That's the problem. Every time I thought I had the full picture, someone opened a new door labeled 'authorized personnel only.' It's like I'm not privy to information that's about me! Like for example the BOUNTIES I had no fucking idea about, or the fact that—"
Carol's gaze sharpens and interrupts me. "Deadman. Think. Anything withheld, anything inconsistent, anything that—"
A brisk, irritated knock interrupts her.
Three taps. Pause. Two more. The kind of knock that means I'm coming in whether you like it or not, but I'm giving you five seconds to pretend you have dignity.
Carol's shoulders go very still as we both take a deep breath to calm our nerves.
"Amy," she mutters. Half warning, half resignation.
The door opens.
Panacea steps inside, hair still damp from a rushed shower, she's not in costume this time, just a simple jacked and a pair of sweatpants. She looks like she sprinted the whole way here and cursed every stair or minimal elevation in the road as she did so.
She sees me.
Her posture loosens by maybe three millimeters, but... progress I suppose, the sight warms me but I don't knw why...
Don't want her to have a heart attack because of me. "Okay," she says, exhale sharp. "Good. You're upright amd alive."
Then her eyes flick to her mother.
Immediately, the temperature drops five degrees.
"You told me to stay where your mom parked me so I did," I say.
"So you did." She folds her arms. "But then you didn't answer your phone for an hour. Do you know what an hour does to my cortisol levels?"
Carol clears her throat.
Pointed, formal. "Amy, I'm in the middle of a legal intake. You can wait outside."
"I'm not waiting outside," Amy says, already moving closer to me. "He looks like he got put through a blender inside a panic attack at the disco. I'm checking him."
"Amy—"
"Mom."
One syllable, heavy as a slammed door.
There's something there that's just not clicking, for me at least....
Carol inhales, slow and controlled, the way you do before the headache fully blooms.
I sit very still as the two most dangerous women in Brockton Bay argue about my immediate health like I'm a defective appliance they disagree on replacing.
And then Amy turns to me again.
"Give me your hand," she says.
Not a request.
Amy's hand is already outstretched, impatient, fingers twitching like she's resisting the urge to grab mine herself.
So I do.
I give her my hand.
Her palm closes around my wrist.
Cool, steady, clinical. The shift is immediate: Panacea, not Amy. Her eyes unfocus just slightly, a doctor listening to a heartbeat only she can hear, or sense in her case but the point still stands.
Carol folds her arms across her chest and steps back just enough to look like she's not hovering, but not far enough to actually stop hovering. Classic.
For a moment, none of us speak.
Then Amy's brow creases. Not deeply though, just enough to mark something she doesn't like.
"You're exhausted," she mutters. "You haven't slept. Not properly. Your neurotransmitters are doing… whatever that is." Her frown deepens. "Your stress hormones look like a Richter scale."
"So… normal," I say weakly.
Her glare snaps up. "Don't joke about that."
Behind her, Carol's jaw flexes again. Not anger... alarm disguised as irritation something in the back of my mind whispers, the only flavor of concern she allows herself.
Amy keeps going, attention already sinking back into the data flowing through her hand.
"Adrenal fatigue. Elevated cortisol. Muscles torn and healed and torn again. Blood pressure's a disaster. Why didn't you say anything? When did you last eat? Why—no, don't answer, I can see it."
"It's fine," I say.
"No," she says, sharper than she means to. "It isn't."
Carol's voice enters like a scalpel: precise, controlled.
"Amy. Keep your tone level."
"I am level," Amy says without looking up.
"You're not," Carol replies, quiet but firm.
That earns Carol a tight, brittle exhale—Amy's version of an eyeroll she refuses to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing.
She refocuses on me.
There's something gentler in her touch now. Not soft—Amy isn't soft—but careful. Intentional. Like she's trying not to bruise me even though her powers could fix anything she breaks.
"…You're malnourished," she says at last. "And deficient in about five different things. Potassium, magnesium, your cortisol receptors look like they're filing a union grievance right next to the Union leader at the dockss. You should've been eating more. Or sleeping more. Or—"
"Amy," Carol warns again.
Amy snaps, "He's falling apart and YOU AREN'T LETTING ME HELP HIM!"
Her voice cracks on the last word.
She clamps her mouth shut instantly.
Carol inhales through her nose—only trained ears would notice it—but says nothing.
I swallow. "I'm… okay. I'm out now."
"That's not how bodies work," Amy mutters, but lower. "You don't get better just because you walk out a door."
Something cold unwinds in my chest at that.
Amy's thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist—barely there, almost accidental.
"…You're not bleeding internally," she says, voice steadier. "Your heart's fine. Your bones are fine. Nothing's going to kill you in the next ten minutes."
"That's a big improvement over yesterday," I say.
She does not laugh. But her shoulders loosen a fraction more.
Carol steps closer—one controlled stride—and looks between us.
"Amy," she says quietly, "is he medically stable?"
Amy hesitates.
Then she nods. "…Yeah. As long as he doesn't push himself."
"Good," Carol says. "Then let him breathe."
Amy releases my wrist like she forgot she was holding it.
Her fingers linger a half second too long.
Amy drops my wrist like it suddenly weighs too much.
Her hand hangs in the air a moment longer than she'll ever admit, then falls to her side.
Silence settles over the office.
Not peaceful.
Not comfortable.
The brittle kind, like the air itself is waiting to see who breathes wrong first.
Carol clears her throat softly. A professional sound. A distancing one.
"Deadman," she begins, "there are procedures we need to—"
I don't think she finishes the sentence.
Because Amy moves before anyone registers the impulse.
One step.
Another.
Sudden, graceless momentum — like someone pushed her from behind or like she just stopped caring about the distance she usually keeps between herself and other human beings.
Her arms go around me in a tight, abrupt motion that feels halfway between a hug and a tackle.
Her forehead presses against my shoulder.
And she holds on.
Not gently.
Not prettily.
Just… like someone who has been terrified for hours and hasn't had permission to show it until now.
My hands hover, unsure.
Then, slowly, I lift them and return the hug.
Carefully, like she might shatter or I might and at this point I don't know which it'll be.
"I'm okay," I say quietly.
"Don't lie," she muffles into my hoodie. "You're not. Not even close."
I don't argue. It would feel stupid.
Amy's shoulders shake once—barely a tremor, barely there.
But I feel it.
And Carol sees it.
That's when the temperature in the room changes.
Subtle, but not subtle enough.
She does not like US.
Or she does not like...her.
...what?
Carol's face doesn't move much — she's trained for that.
But I see it.
Her jaw tightens, a clench so small I wouldn't notice but I would
Her eyelids lower half a centimeter — a sign of emotional bracing.
Her posture straightens, shoulders drawing back, chin lifting a degree, pulling her expression into something controlled.
And underneath all of that: a flicker.
Not of fear, disproval, anger.
Of Pain.
Something painful in the way only Carol Dallon feels pain — privately, under ten layers of self-discipline, repression and where no one is allowed to name it, not even herself.
She does not tell Amy to stop, doesn't pull her back.
She simply watches.
Amy finally loosens her grip, stepping back with a small, embarrassed breath. She keeps one hand on my sleeve, like she's grounding herself through fabric.
Her voice is low. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," I murmur.
"You should be, asshole." She says, but it's soft. Too soft.
Carol inhales. Slow. Controlled. Practiced.
"Are we quite finished?" she asks, tone neutral enough to be weaponized.
Amy doesn't turn around. "No."
Carol's mouth pulls tight at one corner — annoyance hiding a dozen other things she'll never say aloud.
But she doesn't repeat the question.
Amy doesn't let go of my sleeve.
Carol doesn't move from her spot, arms folded with the kind of precision that says she is not reacting.
I try to breathe.
It comes out shaky.
Carol is the first to break the silence, of course.
"Now that the… emotional concerns have been addressed," she says, voice clipped like she's trimming hedge branches that offended her, "we should return to the matter of logistics. Deadman needs—"
"He needs support," Amy interrupts.
There's no heat in the words.
Carol's head turns a fraction of an inch — a movement that in Dallon language means this is a line you are choosing to cross.
"Amy," she says, fully composed, "he needs immediate legal structure, documentation, housing, a stable environment—"
"Like I said. Support," Amy repeats, voice a little louder this time.
More emphasis.
More danger.
I lift my hands a little, palms out, not sure who I'm trying to placate. Possibly the universe.
"I… uh. I'm still in the room," I say.
"Yes," Amy snaps. "That's the only reason Carol and I aren't screaming."
Carol exhales slowly, nostrils flaring, a microsecond of restraint visible before she resets every line of her posture.
"Deadman," she says, turning her attention to me instead of the argument forming like a thundercloud beside her, "your resignation is processed. Your provisional ID will lapse within seventy-two hours, at which point you will not legally exist within the PRT framework. Before that occurs, we need to discuss next steps."
Amy rounds on her.
"A legal ID. A place to stay. Food. Rest. Protection, if Piggot decides to be vindictive. And—"
"And that is what we are discussing, or a t least we were until you barged in." Carol says, calm to the point of frightening. "You may offer input when appropriate."
Amy bristles.
"Appropriate for who?"
"For him," Carol says.
That actually stops Amy.
Not long.
But long enough for the room to stop vibrating.
Carol turns back to me.
"You have three immediate options," she says. "One: temporary lodging arranged through civilian contacts. Two: an interim legal guardian or sponsor from outside the PRT network." Her eyes flick to Amy, only briefly. "Or three—"
She hesitates.
Not much.
Just a heartbeat.
Then:
"—you can accept sponsorship under the New Wave umbrella."
The room freezes.
Amy goes still beside me.
I blink. "…New Wave?"
Carol lifts her chin, formal.
"This would be a temporary legal arrangement, not a recruitment. Sponsorship means we secure your ID, ensure you are not detained or harassed by ENE, and provide stability while we resolve your documentation and bounty claims."
Amy swallows.
Hard.
Carol notices it.
But pretends not to.
I look between them — the lawyer, the healer, the minefield of all the things they can't say in front of each other.
"Is that…" I start. "Is that even allowed?"
"Yes," Carol says.
"No," Amy says.
We all stare at her.
She flushes, then tries again.
"…It's allowed," she mutters. "But it's… it's complicated."
"It is not complicated," Carol says crisply. "It is a legal sponsorship, the kind we have extended to other capes in crises. It places you under our protection and authority. You would be expected to follow certain standards and avoid conduct that reflects poorly on the family, but otherwise—"
Amy steps in front of her.
Actually steps in front of her, like she's physically blocking a blast.
"No expectations," she tells her mother. "He's not a PR project."
Carol's eyes narrow by a fraction — not anger, but something quieter.
A warning without teeth.
"Amy," she says, voice very even, "I am offering him a lifeline."
"I know," Amy says, without backing down. "I'm making sure it's not a leash."
Something in Carol's expression twitches.
So small it might be imaginary.
I rub the back of my neck. "Look… I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I don't want to complicate things for either of you."
Amy looks like I slapped her.
Carol looks like I said something sensible and tragic at the same time.
"You would not be complicating anything," Carol says, though her tone implies several caveats she will not say in front of her daughter. "You need a sponsor. You need legal status. Without it, Piggot or anyone else in the PRT could detain you the moment you appear on a public street."
Amy's voice is quiet:
"She's right. You need someone."
I swallow. My throat feels tight.
"I just got out of a cage," I say. "I don't want to walk into another."
Amy flinches.
Carol doesn't.
She just nods once, acknowledging it without conceding.
"A reasonable concern," she says. "Which is why I'm telling you plainly: sponsorship is not ownership. You would have autonomy. Agency. And if New Wave is not your preference, we will find someone else. I will find someone else."
Amy looks at her mother, startled — not by the offer, but by the we in it.
Carol pointedly ignores the glance.
I look down at my hands, at the faint scuffs and stress-lines Amy's power didn't bother smoothing.
"I need…" My voice wavers. "I need a second to—"
Then Amy says quietly:
"You can stay with us."
The air leaves the room, just as it does my lungs. I-I can't...
God fucking damn it Amy.
Why'd you have to make things so complicated?
Carol's expression shutters so fast it's almost an audible snap — a reflexive, brittle mask clamping down over something raw and unguarded.
"Amy," she says, restrained steel. "That is not—"
"He needs somewhere. He needs people who won't look at him like Piggot did. He needs…"
She stops. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed on the carpet.
"He needs safety," she says, small and fierce.
My chest aches.
Carol's face softens.
Barely.
But it does.
Just a hairline crack in the armor.
"…We can discuss temporary lodging," she says. "Separately."
Amy's shoulders drop — not in defeat, but in a kind of exhausted relief.
Carol steps back, hands folding in front of her.
"Deadman," she says, fully composed again. "You do not need to choose this moment. But you will need to choose soon. Your legal window is limited."
Amy looks at me.
Hopeful.
Afraid.
Trying not to be either.
And I — fuck I can't...
I know what I have to do.
"I…" I manage. "I'll take it."
Carol nods.