Chapter 24
"I'm simply stating my opinion," Shirou said as we patrolled through the city.
Today's patrol route took us through what local authorities might charitably label a "lower-income zone." A more accurate term, at least by my standards, would be economically terminal. In any sane urban environment, this would be categorized as a developing slum—already metastasized, just waiting for someone to declare it officially dead.
Then again, perhaps that was my own bias talking. In my first life, I'd measured urban decay against the post-redevelopment districts of Tokyo. In this one, it was the heavily subsidized wards of post-Behemoth Manhattan.
Even after an apocalyptic kaiju leveled the city, New York managed to rebound—thanks to federal stimulus, parahuman rebuilding efforts by the nascent Uppermost, and the sheer political necessity of resurrecting a city with too much symbolic weight to let die
Brockton Bay, on the other hand, was allowed to rot.
The southern was half still economically viable and operational. Tourism. Clean business parks. Institutions that hadn't yet bled dry. There was a functioning commercial sector—tour guides, financial outfits, major employers like Medhall operating out of sanitized high-rises.
Either a mask of prosperity stretched over a corpse, or the last salvageable organ in a system gone septic. Depends on how optimistic you are.
But here, deep between Arcadia High and the Boat Graveyard? This was structural collapse in slow motion.
Block after block of crumbling infrastructure— roofs collapsing in on themselves, roads cracked and cratered, their surfaces etched with bullet holes, impact scars, and what looked an awful lot like claw marks
None of this was surprising. Cities are built around industry—it's the oldest formula in the book.
From the Iron Age to the Information Age, a strong industrial sector attracts workers. Workers fuel population growth, which gives rise to supporting commercial services. That's how cities grow—organically, predictably, and sustainably.
Until someone gets clever.
Historically, elected officials—in their infinite short-sightedness—have always harbored a fetish for the commercial sector. They shift focus to tourism, retail, and abstract financial services with glossy returns and rotting foundations.
Industry? Too dirty. Too slow. So it gets gutted—outsourced, overtaxed, or drowned in red tape
Before long, the city spends more than it earns. A slow, stupid suicide.
The pattern is well-documented: Stagnation, Decay, Detroit.
Usually, it takes decades.
Brockton Bay managed it in under ten years.
It wasn't even economic incompetence that doomed it—but deliberate sabotage. The moment the dockworkers, allegedly, scuttled their own infrastructure—literally sinking a container ship into the harbor as protest—they effectively shot the city's lungs and then blamed it for choking.
Whoever proposed that tactic probably fancied themselves a revolutionary—if they were thinking at all, which is debatable. In practice, they engineered the most efficient economic death spiral since the Treaty of Versailles.
No ships meant no trade. No trade meant no jobs. No jobs meant the residential sectors collapsed into poverty.
No surprise, then, that the only growth industries left were gang violence and cape-related collateral damage.
Granted, we were deep into the Docks now. The outskirts— especially that buffer zone between the Docks and Downtown— still pretended to be respectable.
"We literally have proof that Earth Aleph exists," Dean argued. "We have an established contact and regularly exchange media," Dean countered.
"There could be any number of explanations for that," Shirou replied. "I'm not denying there's something on the other side of that portal—but an entire alternate timeline? I don't think so."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because it makes no sense. If a stable connection like that really existed, the world would have crushed it already."
"And how do you know that?"
"I know."
Wonderful argument.
I idly considered smacking his helmet with my new wand. After testing, Image was fairly easy to convince to let me carry it. All it cost me was having to regularly sprinkle it with glitter.
"And the movies? Revenge of the Sith: Earth Aleph Edition drops next week," Dean added.
"Could be anything," Shirou gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe a distorted image of the movie from here, reflected back from whatever's on the other side."
"That theory only works if you assume Earth Aleph can't exist from the outset," I pointed out. "To which end you have yet to offer any actual evidence, Shirou."
"And you've yet to prove it is," he shot back. "Been there yourself, sister?"
I had lived two lives in two alternate realities. The idea of a portal to another Earth didn't strike me as far-fetched—certainly not as much as it seemed to bother my brother.
If anything, I was quietly relieved it existed—and on American soil, no less.
That meant if Earth Bet went full apocalypse, there was an exit strategy. All it would take was for the U.S. government to swallow its pride and beg its dimensional counterpart to start accepting refugees.
"The U.S. government believed in Earth Aleph enough to consider the threat of interdimensional war," I reminded him.
Shirou gave me a flat look. "How would that even work? Two worlds at technological parity—trying to wage war through a single chokepoint?"
I blinked.
Okay. Fair point.
But before I could work out the logistics, our debate—sparked by Dean's plans to take his girlfriend to see a movie—was abruptly cut short by a call from Console.
"Gallant, multiple Empire groups initiating hostilities across the city. Move to the designated coordinates," Aegis's voice came through the comms.
"Roger. ETA on Protectorate?"
"Unknown. They're tied up escorting the prison transports. Wards are to suppress hostilities until the convoys are clear."
They were moving prisoners today? Why weren't we notified?
Well, I suppose it was part of the compartmentalization and information security routine—but clearly, that hadn't worked.
There was no way the Empire kicking off riots at the exact same time was coincidence.
"How many hotspots?" Dean asked, voice tightening.
"Dozens," Aegis replied. "New Wave has been contacted, troopers are en route, and I'm moving out with Kid Win. Rerouting Console to PRT dispatch. Over."
"Roger. Gallant out."
Dean turned to us. "Let's move."
-/-/-
Dean
The skinheads were hard to miss—marching in tight formation, weapons raised like they were in some kind of parade.
The usual chants rang out: racial slurs, cheers for the Empire. Loud enough to echo across the blocks.
They moved in from the side and took cover in a nearby alley.
Armiger summoned his twin swords with a shimmer of light.
"We'll start with range," he said, calm as ever. There was certain focus to him now. "Then I'll move into melee while you two keep up covering fire."
It was a solid plan. Of the three of them, Armiger was the best suited for close-quarters combat—his Brute and Thinker powers made him all but designed for close combat.
Dean could hold his own, at least on paper. His armor's servos gave him a little extra force behind every strike, but against a mob this size? He'd be swarmed and dragged down fast.
Supporting from range alongside Argent while they hit hard and fast would be the smarter move.
Unfortunately...
"We have to offer them a chance to surrender," Dean said miserably. His gaze drifted across the line of marching skinheads, still shouting slurs and waving guns, bats, and pipes.
Armiger's aura stilled as he turned to look at Dean. Whatever focus or simmering tension had been there before, it fractured into a single pulse of confusion.
"They aren't technically engaging in illegal activity," Argent explained. "While offensive, their actions are protected under the First Amendment right to free speech and assembly."
"We know they're looking for a fight," Armiger said, incredulous. "We were sent here for that exact reason."
Argent's aura flared—cold, iron-gray, sharp-edged like her tone. "Until they commit a crime, these hairless gentlemen are law-abiding U.S. citizens under our protection. Equality before the law means patience for the stupid, brother."
"So we just give up our advantage and hope they grow a conscience?" Armiger asked, the thin flare of frustrated red in his aura undercutting the calm sarcasm in his voice.
"No," Argent said smoothly. "We give them enough rope to hang themselves with."
She stepped forward and cleared her throat, already moving before Dean could react.
"Attention, national socialists!" Argent called, her voice crisp and authoritative. "You are disturbing the public peace. Cease your insipid praise for a defunct regime led by a madman. Disperse and go home."
The crowd fell silent, visibly thrown by the sight of a diminutive girl in a dress issuing orders like a PRT sergeant.
She didn't wait for a reply.
"I recommend you rethink your life choices, cover your ugly tattoos, and seek gainful employment—perhaps at a nice Mexican restaurant. Supporting small businesses will do more for the economy than staging street pogroms while cosplaying as the losers of the Great War."
Silence again.
Dean could feel the confusion ripple through the crowd—and not just them. His mouth parted slightly. Even after months of working with her, Tanya's delivery still caught him off guard. Especially when it came wrapped in words like pogroms and cosplay.
Then again, maybe it was the dissonance. The princess outfit—and the glittery scepter now—everything about her presentation screamed childlike innocence. Even the breastplate, vambraces, and heavy boots were stylized to look decorative. Just another example of that signature Brockton Bay hero aesthetic: futurism layered over familiar themes.
The visor helped. It hid the sharp, exacting look in her eyes.
"We ain't socialists!" someone shouted, earning himself a slap to the back of the head and a low whisper.
The crowd parted, and a new figure stepped forward from the back.
Dean immediately recognized the Empire's heavy hitter.
Crisp hue of green superiority over cold confidence and a core of tightly coiled anger.
"Fuck," he muttered, clicking on comms. "Console, this is Gallant. Krieg is on the premises. Requesting support."
"Roger, Gallant. Stand by."
Krieg advanced, composed and theatrical, lording his sharp attire over the dirty mob. Long coat snapped with every motion.
Visually, Krieg was the poster child of the Empire. Class and civility.
His uniform was immaculate, modeled after some bastardized SS officer getup. Matte black with silver trim, stylized high collar, and perfectly shined jackboots. A row of medals glittered across his chest.
He wore a sleek helmet, shaped vaguely like an old WWII German design but modernized: stylized vents, reinforced cheek guards, and red lenses that burned from within.
Dean couldn't see Krieg's face, but he could feel where the man's attention was—fixed on Tanya.
To Gallant's vision, Krieg glowed with viridian arrogance.
That specific hue—dense and sloshing—marked a person who believed, deep in their bones, that they were better.
Dean had seen shades of it before, to various degrees, in other Empire members. It crept in slowly, like rot—seeping into them as their ideology took root.
But Krieg was fully marinated in it. Radiated instead of flicker and pulse.
"Ah, fräulein," Krieg began, with a courtly nod that dripped condescension. "I'm affraid zat zese gentlemen are stout varriors of ze cause. Zey vill not be sffeid by vords alone."
Dean could hear it, slick and practiced smile in his voice.
"You haff passion und steel in your voice," the cape continued, "but you are also, unfortunately, misguided. But fret not. You are still young. Zere is ample time for you to see ze light—being, as you are, a fine fräulein of ze right race."
Argent cringed.
Her expression barely changed, but Dean caught the twitch.
The girl's aura recoiled in confusion for a moment, before a tight, flickering silver shot through. Dean didn't know what that particular combination meant, but curiously, he oftentimes saw similar silver streaks whenever Armsmaster was in the room with Dauntless.
"Herr Krieg," Argent said smoothly, "finden Sie nicht, dass das Tragen unverdienter Auszeichnungen ein wenig geschmacklos ist?"
Krieg's amusement vanished. His posture stiffened; now his aura recoiled into tight confusion.
"Vat?"
He wasn't the only one thrown. Even some of the skinheads turned to stare.
Argent pressed on, her tone clipped and effortless. "Und ich glaube auch nicht, dass Sie tatsächlich ein Standartenführer sind."
Krieg bristled. "Ich bin Ordnung! Du bist... ruhig!" he snapped, but the confidence was missing.
Argent didn't respond immediately but her expression said enough.
"...You don't actually speak German, do you?"
The silence was instant—and loud. All eyes were on him now.
Dean saw the wire of Krieg's emotional control snap, a faint ripple of humiliation tightening into jagged streaks of rage.
"Männer... Angriff!" he shouted, the words awkward and forced.
No one needed translation to understand the meaning.
Argent's arm moved in a blur, her forcefield activating just as the first shots rang out.
Dean ducked behind the barrier, heart racing as bullets pinged off the surface.
"That's criminal behavior, right?" Armiger crossed his arms, not moving an inch.
"Attacking officers of the law—us, in this case—is a clear case of criminal offense," Argent said, as if discussing paperwork. "Do you really have to ask?"
"Given the apparent nuance involved in mob suppression? Yes, I have to ask," Armiger replied, rolling his eyes.
"You're supposed to know these things already, brother. We had training on the Wards' code of conduct. Everything I've said is in the handbook you promised to read."
"Did I promise that? Must have slipped my mind."
Terrifyingly, after the initial deployment, the forcefield only lit up when hit. Meaning that between each bullet, Dean had to look at the firing line and pray the barrier was still there.
And yet, the other two were chatting like they were back in the Wards' quarters.
"WHY ARE YOU SO CALM?" Dean shouted.
He wasn't exaggerating. Their auras were tranquil and undisturbed. Steady hues of earthy brown and cool steel, flowing like nothing was wrong at all.
"Relax," Argent said, completely unfazed. "This barrier can deflect shells. Let them waste ammo."
Dean wasn't feeling particularly relaxed. "Console! We're under live fire!" he snapped into his comm. "ETA on Protectorate backup?"
"Protectorate members are currently engaged with Empire capes," the operator replied. "PRT reinforcements are en route."
"What about other Wards teams?"
"Vista and Clockblocker are engaged with Othala and Victor. Aegis and Kid Win are moving to support. Shadow Stalker is suppressing gang activity near the ferry."
Argent sighed and keyed her comm.
"Console, Argent speaking. Situation under control. Repeat—situation under control. Reroute reinforcements to other Wards teams."
Dean stared at her. "Argent, what are you doing?"
"Argent, this is Director Piggot," came the override. "Confirm: Krieg is present at your location."
"Confirming," Tanya said. "We can take him."
"Are you certain?"
"Positive."
Dean's stomach dropped.
"How much collateral should I expect?"
Argent tilted her head. "Minimal? Krieg manipulates kinetic vectors in a radius. My optical formula—beam-based attacks—should pass through that unaffected. While the beams deliver force on impact, the method of delivery lacks kinetic transmission."
"So?"
"Barring unforeseen power interactions, collateral should be negligible."
"Do it," Piggot ordered. "They already got Hookwolf back. I'm not letting Krieg walk."
Shit.
"Roger. Argent out."
Dean flinched as a Molotov cocktail shattered against the forcefield. Flames licked across the pavement, crackling just feet from his boots.
"Just to be clear," Armiger said, casually rolling his shoulders, "you do realize your optical formula doesn't actually fire lasers, right?"
"How so?"
"The beam's fast, sure, but I can still track it. Real lasers don't have visible recoil. And they definitely don't have kinetic impact."
Argent let out a small laugh. "You're not wrong. The formula is meant to generate a directed photon stream. It is faster the more power you put into it, but I had never observed it reaching light speed. And yes—it starts to produce recoil at higher output."
"Sounds like the formula fails to fully actualize," Armiger mused. "Might just be imitating a laser's behavior using raw 'energy' instead of light."
Argent tilted her head, briefly thoughtful. "That's actually plausible. It is possible to fire energy directly without a formula, but the cost is prohibitive. Still just a theory, though."
Seeing that the bullets failed to make a dent, Krieg barked another order—and the mob surged forward.
"Alright," Argent said briskly, "I'll focus on Krieg. Gallant, give Armiger covering fire."
She dropped the forcefield without hesitation, stepping into the open and opening fire. Her 'not-laser' beams cut through the air with deadly precision, aimed straight at Krieg.
The first beam struck him center mass—but either it lacked power, or the man weren't fully reliant of his Brute rating and wore armor under his coat. Which made sense, considering he lived in the same city as Pelhams.
Krieg dropped back, slipping behind his men like it was choreographed. The skinheads weren't so lucky—several screamed as searing energy lanced across them, the air filling with the stink of burned flesh
The opening was all Armiger needed.
He surged forward, blades flashing into motion.
Each swing left someone screaming. More than once, Dean watched a precise kick bend a knee the wrong direction.
At one point, Armiger vaulted off a goon's back, using the man like a springboard to escape a partial encirclement—delivering a savage kick to the side of the head on the way out.
Dean fired in support, sending wave after wave of emotional suppression into the crowd. Fear. Lethargy. Confusion. He didn't need to aim in a group like this—just keep the pressure on.
Some of the skinheads staggered or hesitated, eyes wide and limbs unsteady.
Then again, that might not have been his work. Not entirely.
The sound of bones breaking carried clearly even from where Dean stood.
When a fresh volley of gunfire lit up, Argent dropped back behind her forcefield. Beams cut off mid-shot as the barrier shimmered back into place.
Krieg surged forward, heading straight for Armiger—who was starting to slow. Dean saw the shift immediately: Krieg's power was reaching him.
But Shirou noticed, too.
With barely a hitch in motion, he pulled Armsmaster's halberd from out thin air and fired a grappling hook launching himself out of range, slamming into a nearby wall.
Krieg shouted, furious.
The skinheads obeyed instantly, splitting like a school of fish—half toward Dean, the rest toward Argent.
Dean backed off, firing waves of fear and lethargy into the oncoming mob. It slowed them. Some hesitated, others blinked in disorientation, but not enough.
The moment fresh mob crossed the line of sight between her and the shooters, Argent dropped her forcefield in a blink and sprinted across the line, heading straight for him.
She held her princess scepter like a cudgel, barreling into the nearest skinhead with surprising force.
Despite being on the verge of a savage bearing and potentially death, Dean had to do a double take.
Her aura was practically singing—bright spirals of joy and exhilaration pulsing like fireworks.
Argent, tiny even compared to Vista, crashed into the gang like a one-girl demolition crew. Fast and nimble, her scepter came down again and again: knees, groins, jaws, skulls. Blood flew. So did teeth.
Dean actually paused for a moment, and he was sure the nazis near him did too, because a sight of a little girl brutalizing grown man with a wide Slaughterhouse Smile was just too surreal.
"Welcome to the Beer Hall Putsch, swine!" she called out, swinging wide. "Second time's the same as the first!"
This is fun for her. Jesus fuck. Is this what people feel when they see Bonesaw?
Dean spotted Armiger mid-air, hurling swords as he flew, before creating another halberd and shooting grappling hook.
Krieg was hard to see, surrounded by a whirling storm of blades. They flowed around the cape like water over stone—his power redirecting them in graceful, infuriating arcs.
But the moment Armiger threw another pair, they all rushed back at Krieg like swarm of angry bees.
Dean continued his covering fire.
Lethargy. Fear. Lethargy. Fear.
Dean kept cycling his aura bursts, alternating emotions in rapid succession. The effect was cumulative—skinheads slowed, hesitated, lost cohesion. Some dropped to the ground in confusion. The ones still standing? Easy targets for Argent who carved through them with savage brutality.
For a moment, the fight settled into rhythm.
Then two blades whirled into the cluster near Argent—followed by half a dozen more. The last of the mob went down in a coordinated sweep.
Suddenly, Krieg stood alone.
A flash.
One of Argent's beams struck his leg. Krieg dropped with a scream, clutching the wound.
"The fight is over, Herr Krieg," she called, tone bright. "I advise you to surrender. Should you resist, the next one might find your head."
The words should have been absurd coming from a little girl making a finger-gun gesture. Yet seeing her smile, Dean felt the urge to raise his own hands in surrender.
Krieg didn't respond. Too busy screaming writhing on the ground.
"Well, just to be sure," Argent said cheerfully.
Another beam lanced into his other leg.
Krieg passed out.
"Console, Argent speaking," she said, voice smooth and controlled again. "Krieg is down. Send transport for him and..."
She glanced around at the field of moaning bodies.
"...approximately forty other detainees."
"Copy that, Argent. Over."
Her aura, once electric with euphoria, had settled into a soft blend of satisfaction and calm. She turned toward Dean with a faint praise.
"Good job, Dean. Your support was instrumental to winning this fight."
Dean's gaze drifted over the scene—bloodied faces, broken limbs, groaning bodies twitching in the dust.
He swallowed hard.
I wasn't even a factor.
"Yeah..." he said. "You too."
A/N
If you want to read 4 chapters ahead or support me visit my p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / kirunax