It had been months since Missouri. Months since the Operator and his specters had turned the Slaughterhouse Nine into a memory. Since then, Ten-Zero's reputation had grown faster than anyone expected—including the Tenno.
To maintain that momentum, he'd spent the time since building bridges: meetings with PRT directors, coordinated operations with the Guild and Protectorate, and the occasional publicity stunt to keep their image polished. The official apology for Ordis's actions on Parahumans Online had also done its work. The gesture was unnecessary, given how positive public opinion of the Tenno already was, but it soothed certain ruffled feathers in high places—people unnerved by capes who operated without oversight or accountability.
The truth, however, was that Ordis still quietly ruled the site from the shadows. Only the moderators knew, but none could prove it. The Operator would have ordered him to stop, yet after Ordis reported the discovery of an unknown but seemingly benevolent digital intelligence also moderating the site, he had decided to let the cephalon keep watch.
The bounties on the Nine were collected soon after their official confirmations of death. The numbers were obscene—hundreds of millions across the board—and overnight Ten-Zero had become what one news anchor dubbed "the one percent." The Operator hadn't liked that label—too Orokin-sounding for his taste—but he couldn't deny the advantages that came with it.
Most of the wealth didn't stay with them for long. Millions were donated to organizations aiding survivors of the Nine's massacres, all carefully vetted by Ordis. The rest went into constructing a "public headquarters" in Manhattan—a glass-and-steel monument to transparency and heroism. Cameras loved it. People adored it. The PRT tolerated it. Businesses wanted a piece of it, and parahuman merchants—or "Rogues," as they were officially classified—clamored to be part of it.
Construction, however, was still far from complete, leaving the place more of a tourist attraction than an actual command center. The real base would remain the Orbiter—hidden from all of Earth Bet, parahuman or otherwise. During the first week, Ordis and the Operator had discovered that parahuman powers seemed tied to the planet itself, unable to extend beyond its atmosphere. Another piece of proof that the Simurgh was not parahuman at all.
Speaking of her—the Tenno hadn't seen her since that day. They had made sure of it. Every deployment to Earth was carefully calculated, entering from the opposite side of the globe from where she drifted. It wasn't fear that kept them apart—quite the opposite. The Operator wanted a rematch, but he knew that if another fight in Orbit with her didn't end within the opening blows, it would escalate until what was left of Earth's satellite network was obliterated in the crossfire.
Around half of it had already been destroyed during their first encounter and that alone had nearly sparked a global incident once word spread that Ten-Zero had been responsible for the battle in orbit. Certain members of the United States government—most notably the Director of NASA—had been particularly vocal in their outrage. Yet that fire was swiftly smothered by an overwhelming wave of global support.
Ordis had made sure of it. He flooded the net with footage of Ten-Zero striking the Simurgh harder than any army or parahumans had before. For the first time in history, humanity saw its supposed "hope-killer" brought low—and they loved every second of it.
That didn't mean diplomacy and a touch of creative bribery—in the form of promises to help restore the satellite network later—hadn't been necessary. Most governments and organizations forgave them.
Most, but not all.
"Guzzleshaft"—a mocking nickname for Gesellschaft coined on PHO that the Operator quite liked—wasn't among them. Nor were the CUI or several other authoritarian regimes and criminal syndicates that viewed Ten-Zero, and Ordis in particular, as existential threats to their control.
Ordis hadn't gone so far as to reveal their capes' true identities—he knew to play by the so-called unwritten rules, even if only for pretense—but their finances and digital infrastructure had been… appropriated. Classified documents, corruption scandals, black projects, and state secrets had all found their way to the public in spectacular fashion, dominating headlines for weeks.
Many hadn't collapsed completely though—some had plenty of parahuman muscle and too many entrenched assets for that—but the damage was done. And there would be more before the Operator made his way home.
Not that there'd been much progress on that front. The Chief Director remained "too busy" to meet, even after months for a brief talk. The frustrating stagnation was softened only by visits from the Lotus and his siblings, and by the quiet discovery that his arsenal wasn't locked to the frames and weapons he'd first arrived with. Every two weeks, the available set located in the arsenal seemed to reshuffle.
He had learned that suddenly and inconveniently when he placed Ivara back in storage at the end of the first week and found Hydroid Prime in her place the next day. From there on, he had to use an Ivara specter to keep up public appearances until Umbra could slowly take her place as the public face of the organization. But every now and again, he had Ivara and the original trio of specters run missions or fan meet-and-greets to keep up appearances.
Honestly, the Operator considered the entire endeavor a monumental waste of resources—but he had plenty to spare, having long prepared for another Solar System-level disaster after Ballas. He wasn't worried about running low unless he somehow tried to field and outfit an entire army of specters.
Still, resources were precious, and coordinating all of the specters on his own—even with Ordis's help—would eventually risk exposure of their inhuman nature or overextension. That was why he decided to begin investing in Earth Bet's talent pool and developing a new initiative: Echo Zero.
People who could play the role of Tenno Opper…
"We are here."
The Operator's thoughts scattered as Ordis's voice echoed in his mind. He blinked, realizing how long he'd been staring blankly at nothing.
He exhaled through his nose, head resting on one hand, elbow propped against the door as his eyes drifted open. The interior around him was simple—unassuming leather seats, muted console lights. Nothing fancy by design, but far more advanced than it appeared.
Outside, muted daylight filtered through the tinted window. The Operator turned his head toward it, eyes half-lidded, watching the vague blur of motion beyond the glass. The car had stopped beside a curb, and through the smudged window he could see the shapes of students moving in loose groups, backpacks slung over tired shoulders, laughter and chatter dull through the glass.
He caught his reflection in the window—a stranger's face looking back.
Dark skin. Black hair. Eyes a deep, earthy shade that didn't glow with void power. Close enough to be familiar, but wrong enough to unsettle him if he wasn't already used to wearing different bodies.
He groaned softly, glancing down at his new human body—taller than he was used to, broad-shouldered and athletic. He turned his gaze back to the reflection, and for a brief, unwanted instant, the image of someone different yet so similar overlapped with another.
Isaah. Umbra's son.
That quiet, anxious smile he had as he stood beside his father on Lua before Ballas—
The Operator forced the thought away before it dug in too deep. He regretted designing this form but he hadn't realized it was so similar to the boy until it was complete—and Umbra had never conveyed a word about it till now, despite the emotion it stirred.
He turned his head toward the driver's seat. The man there was motionless, posture perfectly straight. Brown skin, dark graying hair, the hard lines of his jaw framed by a tailored black suit. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses, and gloves covered his hands completely.
"Is this really necessary?" the Operator asked.
Umbra didn't answer, but the faintest incline of his head was answer enough.
From the implant in the brain of this body, Ordis spoke again. "It was your idea, Operator."
The Operator groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. "Right. Of course it was."
"I think this might be good for you," Ordis continued, tone bright but with an undertone of concern. "Since Ballas, and especially since we arrived here, you've done nothing but work. A… change of pace could help you, don't you think?"
Umbra nodded once in agreement.
The Operator looked out the window again. The school loomed ahead—a squat, weathered building with peeling paint, cracked steps, and a faded sign that still managed to read Winslow High. Students shuffled through the front doors like a slow-moving current, their laughter and chatter dulled by the glass.
He thought back to his promise to the Drifter—the vow to try living something resembling a normal life, even if only for a little while. He could have chosen a nicer school, even a nicer city, but that would have been dull, unproductive, and counter to his goals.
Brockton Bay, by contrast, was perfect. It had the highest cape-per-capita rate in the US, the weakest Protectorate presence relative to its villain population, and an economy so in the dumps that even minor intervention could tip the scales.
The Operator figured he could kill three Grineer with one kunai by staying here for a few weeks: help the PRT clean up the city and ingratiate them even more to him, give the economy a nudge in the right direction to help the general populace, and maybe recruit a few stray parahumans along the way for his initiative.
He sighed, done trying to find excuses. "Fine," he muttered, reaching for the bag beside him. Slinging it over his shoulder, he felt the weight settle awkwardly against his borrowed frame. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck, Operator!" Ordis chirped as Umbra gave him a thumbs up. "And remember to have a great day!"
The Operator gave a tired half-smile and pushed the door open. Cool air brushed against his skin as he stepped out.
A few nearby students turned to stare—not at him, but at the sleek car he'd just exited. Whispers followed him for a moment, curiosity flickering and then fading as quickly as it came.
He adjusted the strap on his bag and started toward the steps. He spotted, in his peripheral vision, a group of what looked to be young E88 members pointing at him and whispering what was no doubt many obscene and racist remarks—but he ignored them.
He stepped through the double doors of Winslow High. The air smelled of old paint, disinfectant, and faint mildew. The halls buzzed with voices, laughter, the squeak of sneakers against waxed linoleum despite how tragic this place looked.
"Don't look so disappointed," Ordis murmured through the implant in his head. "It's an educational facility, not a Grineer cloning lab."
The Tenno's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "I'd honesty prefer the lab," he replied mentally.
He followed the signs toward his first class—Computer Studies. Rows of aging desktops lined the walls, their monitors thick-backed and dusty. A dozen students filled the seats, chatting or already tapping at keyboards. At the front, a woman in her forties looked up from her laptop.
"You must be the new student," she said, voice brisk but not unkind. "Isaac, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said easily. His tone carried calm confidence, his expression relaxed but unreadable.
A few students glanced up as he turned his head to face the room.
"Well, welcome to Winslow. I'm Ms. Knott. I know you're coming in mid-semester, but we'll do our best to get you caught up. Anything you want the class to know about you?"
He gave a faint shrug. "Not much to say. I'm from out of the city. And, uh… I have narcolepsy, so if I suddenly fall asleep, it's not personal."
That earned a chuckle from the class. Ms. Knott gave a polite smile. "I was already informed by the Principal, but thank you for letting me know. Find a seat anywhere you like, Isaac."
He scanned the rows. There were cliques everywhere—students huddled in pairs or trios, phones tucked between them, eyes half-focused on their screens, each other or him. Only one desk sat isolated, its occupant bent over her keyboard as if trying to merge with it.
The choice was easy after seeing that.
The girl didn't look up when he approached, though he saw her tense slightly.
"Mind if I sit here?"
A beat of silence followed by her quiet, "No. Go ahead."
Up close, she looked… tired. Pale skin, hair pulled back too tightly, shadows under her eyes that spoke of poor sleep. Her hands moved over the keyboard with a strange mechanical precision.
The Operator turned his own screen on and stared at the boot sequence of an operating system that should have been extinct centuries ago, his face showing little interest until he looked at the girl's screen. His lips twitched, almost amused. "So these are ancient computers, looks rougher than what they had in 1999."
She gave him a strange look. "It's not that old but yeah. The school can't afford to upgrade. You'll get used to it."
"I'll try." He frowned at the sluggish load time of his computer, pretending to squint at the interface when he started up the programming program. "What's the difference between this and, uh, other coding languages?"
That caught her attention. She hesitated, glancing toward him like she was trying to decide whether he was mocking her. When she didn't find any ridicule, she began explaining—carefully, methodically.
He listened with genuine interest, nodding occasionally, adding small questions that encouraged her to continue. In truth, he grasped the logic faster than she was explaining it, but he forced himself to go slowly, stumbling just enough to make her feel helpful.
"Thanks for explaining all that. Name's Isaac, by the way," he offered, holding out a hand.
"Taylor." She hesitated before shaking it once, quickly.
After that, they listened to the teacher drone on until she gave them an assignment on the board: a basic coding exercise. Taylor started typing immediately; Isaac decided to stare at the screen for a little longer, not doing anything.
"Do you need help?" she asked after a while, moving her eyes from him to her screen.
He turned slightly, feigning a bit of uncertainty. "Maybe a little."
She decided to help, and by the end of the period both of the assignments were done.
The bell rang echoing through the halls like the end of a battle more than the end of class. Chairs scraped, computers whined as students logged off, and Ms. Knott's voice rose above the chatter:
"Alright, that's all for today! Remember to save your progress—some of you lost work last time!"
Isaac leaned back slightly, stretching in his seat as the rest of the students surged toward the door. Taylor was slower to move, carefully shutting down her computer, methodical even in small motions.
"Thanks for the help, Taylor. You're a good teacher."
"No problem. It's not… hard or anything." She answered easily, though she still looked faintly surprised that someone had said something nice to her at all.
The Operator gave her a faint nod, wondering how much this girl had been beaten down before pushing away from the desk and following the flow of students into the hallway.
"Ordis, she's a bullying victim, right?" the Operator thought as he left Taylor behind.
"Correct, Operator. From what little I could glean from this school's shi-shi-shi—underdeveloped digital records—it seems Miss Hebert has been suffering for at least a year now. Extensive social and physical bullying resulting in slipping grades and increased absences, all culminating in being trapped in a locker filled with biological waste for hours months ago. No one was held responsible."
Isaac's jaw tightened. He didn't slow his pace, but his expression flickered—just enough for anyone passing to mistake it for thoughtfulness instead of anger.
"Names," he asked flatly.
There was a brief pause—Ordis pretending to hesitate. "Are you sure that's wise, Operator? Getting involved may attract unwanted attention."
"Names, please, Ordis."
"Very well," he answered happily. "The primary aggressors are Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements. There are others, but those three are where the complaints were mostly directed."
The Operator's brow furrowed. "Why ignore her though? I understand this place is a dump and people can slip through the cracks, but they shouldn't have any logical reason to ignore Taylor—especially when these girls are so well documented as her aggressors."
"Because," Ordis answered with carefully measured cheer, "Sophia Hess is also a Ward. Codename: Shadow Stalker."
The Operator nearly froze mid-step but continued walking. He knew the PRT weren't exactly one hundred percent clean or righteous—no syndicate was, especially when they occasionally recruited from the morally bankrupt—but letting a Ward moonlight as a high school bully seemed out of character for that PR-obsessed machine of an organization.
Ordis explained that the school benefited from having Sophia, receiving extra funding from the PRT. Having her sent away to juvie would likely cut that revenue stream, so it was more likely the school was covering it up than the PRT being negligent.
The Operator's tone turned dry, edged with faint annoyance. "This is why you have handlers for these types of human assets. Someone's supposed to keep them accountable, not cover up their mistakes."
There was a brief pause before Ordis responded, almost surprised. "She does have a handler, Operator. But it appears they are involved in the cover-up as well."
The Operator almost sighed. "Then it's not negligence," he said flatly. "It's corruption."
"Should I intervene?" Ordis asked carefully. "A subtle correction of files could lead to an investigation into the handler, the school, and…"
"Yes," the Operator cut him off, not needing to hear the rest. "But I don't want to draw any attention to this form by bringing a PRT investigation on our heads. So delay it for a bit. Still…I can't have her terrible treatment continue simply because I'd rather stay hidden from prying eyes. So for now, I'll take it upon myself to protect her and any others like her in this school."
He quirked his lips slightly, a hint of mischief visible in his face and apparent in his mental voice. "I might not know much about high school politics, but I did graduate from Scoria. How hard could this possibly be?"
Before Ordis could answer, a pair of kids from Ms. Knott's class caught up to him in the hall, weaving through the tide of students.
"Yo, Isaac!" one of them called—a lanky boy with a mop of brown hair and an oversized hoodie. "Wait up, man! Are you heading to Mr. G's next?"
The Operator glanced back, slowing his stride just enough for them to catch up. "If you mean Mr Gladly then yeah," he replied.
"Nice," said the other—shorter, wiry, carrying the nervous energy of someone always a little too aware of his surroundings. "We got that class too. Mind if we tag along?"
The Operator shrugged. "Not at all. Free country and all that."
"So, where are you from, anyway? You said you're not from the bay right?" Brown hair asked.
The Operator tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Would you believe me if I said I was an alien?"
Both boys blinked, had a moment of dawning realization, then burst out laughing. "Oh, like an immigrant?" the shorter one said after finishing his snickering.
"Something like that," Isaac replied with a smirk.
In his head, Ordis giggled at the joke as well.
Isaac suppressed his own laughter, shaking his head slightly.
"Alright, since you're new," the shorter one said, adopting a mock-serious tone as they approached the next door, "here's a crash course on surviving Winslow."
The taller one raised a hand, counting off on his fingers. "Rule one: don't mess with any of the gangs. You got the ABB, the Merchants, and E88. If you can't tell who's who, just assume they're trouble and walk away."
"Rule two," the other added, "stay out of the bathrooms if you can. Merchants like to deal there, and E88 uses it for initiations."
Isaac nodded slightly, eyes flicking over the crowded hall and spotting some examples of the two walking by. "Mhmm, got it. So "
"Quick learner," one said with a laugh as they traced his gaze. But then their tone shifted—still casual, but with the undercurrent of something wary. "And, uh, if you're smart, don't hang around Taylor Hebert."
Isaac hummed with curiosity as he glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Why?"
"Because," the taller one said, lowering his voice, "the Queen Bitches—Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, and Sophia Hess—they'll make your life hell here if you do. Like, actual hell. They can get away with anything man. They're all pretty, popular, and Emma's dad's a lawyer so the school won't do squat about them."
The other boy nodded. "They're untouchable, man. You don't want that kind of attention."
Isaac's gaze drifted ahead, to the classroom door just a few steps away. His tone was casual when he replied, "Thanks for the warning."
The shorter boy grinned, taking it as gratitude. "No problem, dude. Just trying to save you some pain. You seem chill—would hate to see you end up on their shit list."
They reached the classroom door then, and one of the boys grinned, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Just looking out for you man. Gladly's class is chill, though—you'll like him."
Isaac offered a faint smile in return. "I'm looking forward to it."
As they filed into the classroom, Ordis's voice hummed quietly in his head, mischievous and amused. "You see, Operator? You're already making friends. Isn't this fun?"
Isaac gave the mental equivalent of a shrug as he followed the boys to their seats. "I appreciate them looking out for me Ordis," he thought back. "But I'll need them to have a little more backbone before I can call them friends."
"Try not to judge them too harshly, Operator." Ordis advised in a slightly chastising tone. "They aren't Tenno and they didn't grow up in the harsh future of the Origin System. Fear here isn't cowardice, it's survival."
He was right, the Operator conceded silently. Life on this version of Earth wasn't easy—he could see that already—but it also wasn't the Origin System, where exploitation, death, and endless war rolled in and out like the tides. Here, people still flinched from cruelty instead of embracing it. Here, they were never left to rot by their only heroes and saviors for years.
He slipped into a seat beside them just as the bell rang, leaning back slightly as he scanned the new room of faces again.
Moments later, Taylor walked in. She didn't look around much, just moved to what seemed to be her usual spot near the side of the room—sandwiched between a kid who looked half-asleep and possibly high, and another with a stiff blonde bowl cut who immediately launched into conversation, talking far too quickly for her to get a word in.
Her eyes flicked up for a moment, meeting his across the room.
He gave her a small, easy smile—nothing too forward, just polite acknowledgment. She blinked once, startled, before looking away almost immediately, her shoulders tensing slightly as she opened her notebook.
He frowned faintly to himself, wondering if he offended her somehow. The question lingered for only a moment before he pushed it aside and turned his attention to the man walking to the front of the room—a short, gregarious, and young-looking man who could easily be mistaken for a high school student.
His class passed fast.
Isaac had paid attention through World Issues because Mr. Gladly was interesting. He bounced from topic to topic with enthusiasm, tying cape politics to global policy, and for all its flaws and sometimes inaccuracy, it was… entertaining. Nostalgic even.
When the bell finally rang, the class erupted into motion. Binders slammed shut, chairs scraped across tile, laughter and gossip rose like a tide.
Isaac stood, stretching slightly before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He lingered long enough to let the rush die down, then made his way toward the door. Taylor was ahead of him, slipping her books into her bag as she moved.
He caught up as she stepped into the hall. "Hey, Taylor."
She turned hunched before recognizing his voice.
"Wanna grab lunch?" he asked, tone easy but not pushy. "Could use a familiar face for company."
For a moment she seemed to consider it before shaking her head. "No, sorry. I usually eat alone."
Her voice wasn't sharp or dismissive, just resigned. She didn't wait for his response before walking off down the hall.
"Dude," a familiar voice called. It was one of the two from Computer class —he really needed to figure out their names. "C'mon, man, don't waste your time."
The Operator turned his head slightly toward them.
"Listen to him," the shorter one said, falling in step beside him. "We told you Hebert's bad news. Not like it's her fault or anything, but… it's like she's cursed, you know?"
"Yeah," the other added quickly. "Trust us, it's not worth it to play prince charming. Don't get dragged into her mess."
Isaac regarded them both with neutrality, eyes flicking toward the where she disappeared. "You guys don't need to worry about me but I'll keep that in mind."
They took that as agreement and sighed, tugging him toward the lunchroom. He let them. He couldn't help Taylor by forcing his way into her solitude, not yet at least.
The cafeteria was alive with noise — a dozen conversations, trays clattering, the smell of overcooked fries and something pretending to be chicken. Isaac took a tray, filled it with whatever passed for food here, and followed the two boys to an empty table.
They sat, continuing to fill him in on the unspoken laws of Winslow, rant about girls, and parahumans. He didn't care for girl talk but parahumans was something he could add to considering he'd met many during his PR campaign.
"Soooo," the taller one asked leadingly after the conversation died down, "why'd you try talking to her, anyway? I joked about you being prince charming but are you actually the white knight type?"
Isaac speared a fry with his fork, thoughtful. "Hmmm, I suppose in a way I am. I don't really like the idea of leaving people I can help alone"
That earned a sigh from the boys.
"Dude, you're gonna need a hell of a lot more than white knight complex if you wanna help anyone in this shitty city, especially her."
Before he could answer, the Operator noticed something small and wet flew across the room. A water bottle, half-full, spinning end over end. He didn't even think — one hand shot up, catching it without looking. Isaac flicked his eyes toward the source — a table full of teenage skinheads with E88 gang colors. One of them was smirking, clearly expecting a different outcome than what was about to occur.
Without a word, Isaac turned the bottle in his hand and tossed it back. It sailed through the air, just barely grazing the space in front of the smirker's nose before sinking into the trash can beside their table with a soft thunk.
A quarter of the cafeteria went quiet for a heartbeat before breaking into a chorus of surprised exclamations and drawn-out "ooohs."
The E88 boy's grin vanished fast, replaced by something angry at being one upped. He half-rose, but froze as one of the teachers across the room turned to look. Isaac didn't move, didn't even glance up again — just returned to his food as though nothing had happened.
The two kids beside him hunched lower in their seats. "Jesus, man," the shorter one hissed under his breath. "You've got a death wish or something."
Isaac, eyes still on his tray, replied. "I'm not too worried about them."
"Well you should be!" The tall one panic whispered. "They're racist and you're black! They might jump you after school because of that stunt."
The Operator knew they meant well but he couldn't bring himself to care for their worry or explain himself more. They wouldn't understand that not only was he as close to immortal as possible, but that a couple of unpowered and untrained teenagers would need more than numbers and a couple weapons to hope to put a scratch on him, even in this body.
Tension slowly ebbed from the room, conversation resuming in bursts when they realized nothing was going to pop off. Then, inside his head, Ordis's voice whispered.
"Operator, I'm detecting anomalous activity nearby. Possibly parahuman. Location… appears to be a female restroom on this floor. There's a strange congregation of local insect life forming there. Shall I dispatch Umbra to investigate?"
Isaac froze mid-bite, eyes widening in excitement for something to do. "No," he answered in his head. "I'll handle it."
"Understood, Operator."
He pushed his tray away slowly then let his body slump slightly, as though nodding off mid-lunch.
The two kids looked at him funny but he kept it up. "Guess he wasn't kidding about that narcolepsy. Do we call the nurse or something?"
By the time one of them leaned over to nudge him, Isaac's consciousness was already gone. The Operator emerged inside the female restroom, invisible and intangible in void mode once more.
Taylor Hebert stood in the middle of it, soaked and trembling with anger, but unafraid of the insects that swarmed around her — crawling, buzzing, filling every surface and corner. But not touching her.
Her face was streaked with drying juice — stains cutting across her clothes and hair. It seems her bullies had struck.
Then, slowly, with a deep, shaking breath the insects retreated. The swarm broke apart like smoke in the wind, flowing out through cracks, drains, and vents until the room fell still again.
The Operator stood there watching as she got herself together and ready to leave. A smile crept across his spectral features — not cruel, but sharp with interest.
"Well," he murmured to himself, before void dashing back toward his body, "I think I've found my first recruit for Echo Zero."
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A/N: NGL guys, might have to switch to a bi-weekly schedule. Sorry.