The call confirming the Ward's status came precisely two minutes after Glory Girl had arrived at Brockton General, according to the time stamp on Dragon's initial alert. Gallant. Dean Stansfield. Deceased. Another child soldier dead on my watch. The thought landed flatly, devoid of the sharp horror it might have evoked in someone less acquainted with the grinding reality of this city. It was simply another entry in the ledger, another cost incurred, another fire to stamp out before it consumed everything else.
My office felt like a bunker, screens casting a cold blue light on the utilitarian furniture. Outside this room, the city was coming apart at the seams. Bakuda's parting gifts were ticking clocks scattered across neighbourhoods already tense with the Lung's brazen escape and Purity's brief, disastrous capture-and-escape. Evacuations were still underway, EOD teams stretched impossibly thin, gangs were skirmishing in the power vacuum, and now… this. A dead Ward.
A chime indicated an incoming priority message. The synthesized voice of Dragon's liaison system filled the quiet space, calm and precise as always, a stark contrast to the chaos it was reporting. "Director, confirming circulation of unauthorized images related to Ward Gallant's condition on Parahumans Online forums. Images depict fatal injuries. Timestamp suggests leak originated from within or near Brockton General ER approximately nine minutes ago."
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course. In this city, even grief was a commodity to be exploited, splashed across the internet for gawkers and conspiracy theorists before the body was even cold. Faster than vultures.
"Acknowledge," I said, my voice flat. The familiar dull ache throbbed in my side, a counterpoint to the headache building behind my eyes. "Initiate Code Sierra protocols. Prepare the preliminary documentation for a Kill Order authorization targeting the parahuman known as Hookwolf, Brad Meadows. Cite hostile action resulting in the death of a Ward member, aggravated assault against Wards Vista and Aegis, resisting arrest, and associated charges. Send it to Deputy Director Renick for immediate review and countersignature. I want it ready for transmission to Chief Director Costa-Brown within the hour."
"Understood, Director. Code Sierra declared. Documentation prepped and forwarded to Deputy Director Renick."
Procedure. Cold, hard, necessary procedure. Hookwolf had crossed a line today, even for a murdering neo-Nazi piece of scum like him. Killing a Ward wasn't just murder; it was an attack on the system, on the fragile truce that allowed us to pretend putting teenagers in masks on the front lines wasn't insanity. There had to be consequences. Swift, brutal, undeniable consequences. A Kill Order was the least of it.
Another chime. Feedback on my earlier requests for reinforcement. The synthesized voice read the summary without inflection. "Response from PRT Command Northeast: Request for Protectorate rapid response deployment from Boston and New York divisions denied. Assets required for ongoing Endbringer alert simulations and priority stabilization in Earth Aleph transit zones." Of course. Paper threats and political sensitivities always trumped actual blood on the streets here. "Request for full Dragon Suit squadron deployment partially denied. Authorization granted for deployment of one combat pair, ETA ninety minutes. Request for National Guard assistance approved. One battalion, specializing in urban pacification and EOD support, mobilizing from Fort Devens, ETA four to six hours."
One pair of Dragon suits. A battalion of Guardsmen who'd arrive long after the immediate crisis peaked. Token gestures. Enough to say they'd helped, not enough to actually turn the tide. Brockton Bay, the boil on the nation's backside, left to fester. I bit back the acidic comment that rose in my throat. Yelling wouldn't bring reinforcements faster.
"Acknowledged," I managed. "Task the Dragon Suits with EOD support upon arrival. Prioritize known devices near critical infrastructure. Coordinate with incoming Guard command structure for deployment zones – keep them reinforcing police cordons and handling civilian movement, away from direct cape engagement unless absolutely necessary."
"Confirmed. Additional advisory, Director. Youth Guard National Office has filed a formal protest regarding Ward Gallant's death. Preliminary filing cites 'systemic negligence contributing to unsafe deployment environments'. Expecting official inquiry requests."
Predictable. The Youth Guard, always circling like well-dressed sharks smelling blood and funding opportunities. They cared more about liability waivers and PR optics than the kids themselves. "Are the remaining Wards clear of active duty?"
"Affirmative. Wards Vista and Aegis are under medical observation at PRT infirmary. All other Wards recalled to headquarters pending further assessment, per existing protocols following a Code Sierra event."
Good. One less fire to fight, though pulling the Wards now only deepened the hole we were in operationally. The public would scream, but losing another Ward tonight was unthinkable. Gallant's death… it was going to be bad. The forums were already a cesspit, and the official news cycle hadn't even picked it up properly yet. Bakuda's bombs had primed the city for panic; a dead Ward would ignite it. I could already feel the heat heading my way from Washington. I made a mental note to have Renick start prepping contingency plans, leadership transition protocols, just in case. Someone always needed scapegoating when a Ward died under questionable circumstances.
As if summoned by the thought of PR nightmares, another alert flashed. This one tagged 'Public Relations – Urgent'. The liaison system brought up the video feed without comment. Grainy cell phone footage, shaky, filmed from a rooftop overlooking a street brawl. Empire thugs, maybe half a dozen, facing off against… Glory Girl. Her white and gold costume was unmistakable, as was the incandescent rage radiating from her. She wasn't arresting them. She wasn't using proportionate force. She was hitting them like they were punching bags, her force field flaring with each brutal impact. One thug went flying, hitting a wall with sickening force. Another crumpled, clearly unconscious or worse, and she still kicked him. It wasn't heroic. It was raw, ugly vengeance.
"Video is trending on PHO and local news aggregators," the voice reported unnecessarily. "Tagged 'Glory Girl Rampage', 'Hero Brutality'. New Wave comms channels are currently unresponsive to PRT liaisons."
I swore under my breath. Dallon's brat. Of course. Gallant was her boyfriend. Understandable grief, maybe, but utterly unacceptable execution. "Get me Carol Dallon. Now. Patch her through directly."
"Attempting contact… Stand by." A pause. "Brandish is not responding, Director. New Wave primary comms rerouting to voicemail."
Defensive. They were closing ranks already. Shielding the girl instead of controlling her. Goddamn independents. Thinking the rules didn't apply because they paid for their own costumes. "Send a formal request. Demand they bench Glory Girl immediately pending an internal investigation. Cite PRTA Accord Section 7, Use of Force violations. Make it clear non-compliance will result in official sanctions and potential revocation of their Protectorate affiliation status."
"Request logged and transmitted, Director."
Another headache to deal with. Friction with New Wave was the last thing I needed. But letting Glory Girl run wild, feeding the public perception that heroes were just thugs with better PR? Not on my watch.
I leaned back, the chair creaking under my weight. Bombs, gangs, dead Wards, rogue heroes, insufficient backup, political vultures circling… Just when I thought the night couldn't possibly vomit up any more catastrophes, the liaison's calm voice cut through the low hum of the office again.
"Director, receiving reports from Brockton Bay Emergency Services dispatch. Confirmed detonation event. Location: Port Authority Power Substation 4-Delta. Not on the list provided by the anonymous informant."
My blood ran cold. "Casualties?"
"Early reports indicate facility destroyed. Three confirmed fatalities – civilian engineers working overtime. Multiple injuries reported, severity unknown. Significant power outage affecting dockworker housing sectors and adjacent industrial zones."
Three more dead. Because the informant missed one. Or withheld one. Another variable, another unknown in an equation already spiralling out of control. The substation hit would cripple port logistics, deepen the economic misery, and likely fuel more unrest in the already volatile dock areas.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing down the wave of weariness and fury. No time for that. Only action.
"Submit another priority request to PRT Command Northeast for that rapid response squad," I said, my voice hard. "Cite confirmed civilian casualties resulting from ongoing terrorist bombing campaign, inadequacy of current EOD resources, and failure of prior intelligence to account for all devices. Emphasize immediate threat to further critical infrastructure and civilian life. Use the substation bombing and the three dead engineers as leverage. Make them understand this city is bleeding out, and tourniquets aren't optional anymore."
"Submitting revised request now, Director."
I stared at the main screen, a tactical map overlaid with flashing icons – bomb threats, gang sightings, emergency calls, resource deployments. A city tearing itself apart. And me, sitting here, trying to hold the pieces together with regulations, requests, and sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness. The night was young. And it was going to get worse before it got better. If it ever got better.