As Brad stepped into the private meeting room in Abend Stube, his eyes scanned the room to see who was present. Kaiser was seated at the head of the table in his armor of blades, flanked by the twins Fenja and Menja in their full valkyrie armor and weapons in hand. The first seat on the right side of the table was empty, meaning Krieg had not yet arrived, but Brad traced his gaze down the line from Victor to Othala and finally to Rune. He sneered at Othala’s cousin, and even though the wannabe villain couldn’t have seen the expression through his full-face metal wolf mask, she still looked down at the table and seemed to shrink in on herself.

Pathetic.

With nary a break in his step, he crossed over to the table with Cricket and Stormtiger flanking him, and together the three of them took their appointed seats. Brad’s seat on the left side near Kaiser meant he was as far from the mewling weakling as he could be, which suited him just fine. Even Othala, a non-combatant, had a spine and stood up for herself. Rune had yet to prove herself and did not deserve a seat at the table. Worse yet, she had failed the test he himself had appointed her so badly that her identity had been blown and the target had become a cape—a cape she had yet to do anything about, despite everyone knowing Kaiser had directed her to do so.

“What do you think?” Stormtiger asked Cricket, his tone suggesting a whisper despite speaking loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Has Kaiser gotten tired of the runt and decided to kick her to the curb?”

Cricket shook with silent laughter, and Brad smirked when Rune visibly tensed but didn’t verbally respond. It was good that the little shit had at least learned words meant nothing if you didn’t back them up with action. Until she actually proved herself, she needed to sit down and shut up while the adults handled real business.

Krieg arrived not much later, and once he was seated across from Brad, Kaiser leaned forward and steepled his hands. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I won’t mince words: As some of you no doubt heard, Lung set aflame several blocks of the northernmost part of Downtown.”

Brad had been reclining at ease in his seat, but when he heard that, he leaned forward with anticipation. Though the Empire had a strong presence in the southern areas of the Bay that mirrored the ABB’s presence on the north side, and there were still attacks on the respective ends of the city on shipments or stashes, the middle of the city was far more contested. The Protectorate were also a factor when fights broke out in the middle ground, since they mostly policed Downtown up through the Boardwalk. If Lung had made a huge move in the area, then that was the Empire’s cue to put pressure on them while the ‘heroes’ kept the dragon busy.

“More specifically,” Kaiser added, “the affected area was centered on one place in particular: The nightclub known as Palanquin.”

That brought a slight frown of consideration to Brad’s face. Though the middle of the city was the most contested, there were still some areas that were silently but mutually agreed upon as no-go zones. The university, for example, was a location where gang activity was heavily punished by the Protectorate. The weighty cost of pushing into the area combined with the relatively minor gains to be made from the eclectic mix of businesses bordering the university grounds meant neither gang bothered with the area. The same was true of the area around Palanquin, though for different reasons. It was an open secret that Faultline and her crew of mercenaries owned and frequented the club, so much so it was suspected as their base of operations. The lone, truly neutral party in the Bay, they were generally avoided because one never knew when their services might be required. It didn’t hurt that they had several capes in their roster, though Brad hadn’t paid attention to how many since they’d been enlisted to help them guard a high priority shipment from Gesellschaft back in February.

“A peculiar maneuver,” Krieg spoke up. “What has possessed Lung that he risks the ire of the mercenaries?”

“Rune,” Kaiser intoned, eliciting a startled jerk from the twit. “I trust you know why?”

The capes at the table shifted their focus to her, and she audibly gulped—Pathetic, Brad thought once more—before replying, “He’s going after Meteor, sir.”

That name Brad knew, if only because Rune had been asked twice in previous meetings about her status on making an example of the cape. “Oh? The kid who fucked you over got picked up by the mercs, huh?

It was amusing to ruffle her feathers and watch her impotently waver on how to respond. A couple beats of silence passed before the kid managed to muster up the response, “Yeah, we think they recruited him within a week or so of his trigger.” She paused and cleared her throat. “We’ve been keeping an ear out, and it sounds like Meteor… well, he beat Lung around that same time, and Victor, he uh, he said Lung’s pride is a sore spot. I bet Lung also figured out the mercs are back in town and decided to repay the favor.”

The new trigger beat Lung? Brad thought in surprise and not a little bit of anticipation. Well, well, well. You just got more interesting, Meteor.

Ignorant of Brad’s thoughts, Krieg spoke up once more. “‘Also figured out,’ you said. We also knew this information then? How did we come by it?”

“I set up a small, faux cell tower a block away from Palanquin at the beginning of the month,” Victor supplied. “Some of you may remember we’ve used them a couple of times in the past when we were trying to pick up on local cell phone chatter in an area.”

“Wouldn’t that be really obvious?” Cricket spoke up, her digitized voice emanating from her artificial larynx. A souvenir courtesy of a throat injury from the days back when she and Brad had been pit fighters together.

“Operative word here is small,” he replied. “The goal is to get enough traffic from local cell phones that we get what we want without getting too much or causing a blip big enough it tips off the people who monitor where traffic is being routed through. I had to set up a small distance away to avoid getting the attention of any of Faultline’s people, but we’ve still been able to pick up a few unsecured calls being made from within the club.”

He looked to Rune, and she cleared her throat nervously. “That’s how we knew they’d be at Bayside after their job in Providence, and it’s also how we knew they almost immediately left town for Philadelphia. Um, that’s also why I haven’t been able to make good on your order, s-sir.”

“And so it is you have neatly brought us back to the matter at hand,” Kaiser said, sounding as though he had planned the exact track the conversation would take. Hell, for all Brad knew, it might even be true. That was the sort of thing Kaiser was good at, and Brad was happy to leave that to him and focus his own energies on doing what he loved best—fighting. “Lung’s attack necessitates a response from Faultline and her… people. Tell me, Rune, do you know what kind of response that will be?”

“I, um…” Her head minutely shifted towards Victor before immediately returning to Kaiser. A reflexive action, and one Brad recognized. When a weak fighter faced down someone stronger than them, they tended to look for safety—for an escape route. Victor had been wasting his time trying to mentor the kid, and so she sought him out unconsciously when in danger. The fact she caught herself and reversed course was a sign of improvement, but again, too little too late in Brad’s opinion. “They’ll… They’ll um… Well, Faultline and her people, they’re mercenaries, so they won’t attack directly, but… They still have to act against him?”

Kaiser waited a beat longer, then he tsked and drawled, “You’re not wrong, and yet even now it’s clear you still don’t see the whole picture. Disappointing.”

Rune squirmed as he turned to Victor. “I trust you can answer where your protégé cannot?”

“It goes without saying they’ll blacklist the ABB,” the other cape immediately answered. “Any jobs they had lined up or were in the process of doing so will be canceled. They have to make a show of strength, to show they aren’t to be messed with. Normally they wouldn’t risk their image as mercenaries, but something this public makes it clear any action against the ABB is retaliation for being slighted.

“The problem is that’s difficult to do with a cape like Lung. We know they’ve recruited two new capes, counting Meteor. From what was made public of Providence, the other cape, Shade, is some sort of power copier.” He paused there, long enough Brad raised an eye at the uncharacteristic nature of it. “Apologies, I just had a thought I will discuss with you later in private, sir,” he finally said. “As I was saying, the other cape copies powers. Meteor has beaten Lung once before, though it seems it was through sheer dumb luck, so it’s likely Faultline will make a public showing involving the two of them in some way. That will attract the wandering eyes of not just Lung but also the Protectorate and PRT. If she plays it right, she’ll have them at her back in any conflict Lung instigates from there.”

“My thoughts precisely,” Kaiser acknowledged. “This provides us a unique opportunity. With the eyes of the city’s so-called defenders turned elsewhere, we may act with a firm hand and claim that which is ours. Krieg, Hookwolf: I leave the minutia to your discretion. Fenja and Menja are at your disposal for this task, Krieg, as I have another task in mind for Rune and Victor. The nature of this task, I trust, you can manage to deduce, Rune?”

The girl gave him a stiff nod. “Meteor will be in the public. We’re to make an example out of him.”

“Quite.”

“You’re going to fail, girlie,” Brad added as he leaned forward, no longer hiding the menace behind his voice and posture. “And this time, when you do? This cape who keeps eluding you is mine.”

“W-We won’t! I won’t!” she stammered out, but even now there was no confidence, no surety in the words. Brad knew it, and so did everyone else at the table. It was as plain as day she would somehow fail, and when she did? Hopefully Kaiser would stop entertaining this little shit as anything more than a human forklift, only fit to make transferring shipments quicker. And even better, Brad would get the chance to see for himself what this Meteor was made of—whether his win against the dragon was a fluke.

“Very well, Hookwolf,” Kaiser stated as he rose to his feet, the valkyries at his back shifting in response. “This is your final chance, Rune. I won’t suffer further delays. Take care of this matter, or it will no longer be your concern.” He turned on his heel and stalked towards the door with his entourage in step behind him. “You all have your assignments. I expect results. Dismissed.”

The three of them swept out of the room, and the rest of them rose as well, with Rune lagging slightly behind, her doubt making itself apparent even in this most basic of things. Brad moved towards the exit, knowing Cricket and Stormtiger would follow, but as he grabbed the handle, he was brought up short by the twerp calling out to him, “Hookwolf!”

He didn’t bother to turn around. “The fuck do you want?”

“I won’t fail. Meteor is mine.”

Brad chuckled darkly. “All bark, no bite.”

Prove you’re worth something, or prove me right. Either way, it’ll give me a chance to see if this Meteor is worth fighting.

He turned the knob, and he left.

Doug carefully pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket as he maneuvered his car up to the cordon around the building and pulled to a stop before gripping the gear shift and sliding it into park. Behind the cordon, the green lights of the PRT vans were the only ones present—no ambulances, firetrucks, or police cruisers in sight. He imagined they might have been called in at first, but given the details he had been provided with… well, they likely hadn’t proved necessary. There were only a couple of PRT vans present for that matter, but given the usual needs of the Bay and that several city blocks of the north end of Downtown had been reduced to kindling for a massive bonfire, he imagined they probably couldn’t spare many units for this particular disaster.

Struggling to keep up because there aren’t enough resources. If that isn’t Brockton Bay in a nutshell, I don’t know what is, Doug thought with a weary sigh. Worst part is, I’m sure there’s more to come. He had seen more than enough in his time to know that much. If Lung’s focus, and therefore the ABB’s focus, was on one area, the E88 would strike somewhere else.

One of the PRT officers in their fully concealing black armor approached the driver’s side of the vehicle as Doug rolled down the window of his older vehicle with the hand crank. “This is a restricted area at this time,” the officer announced. “If you are a resident of the building, then please park elsewhere, and have your ID card ready to establish proof of residency if you wish to enter the building. If you live on floors thirteen or above—”

“Son, save me the spiel,” Doug finally interjected when it became clear the armored officer wasn’t going to stop talking anytime soon. He pulled his PRT ID card out of the wallet and held it up for the officer’s inspection. “I’m here on official business.”

The officer leaned forward a bit to examine the card closer before nodding in satisfaction and waving to the other officers to move the makeshift barriers that had been put in place to block street traffic from pulling into the building. “Please park your car…” He paused, and Doug felt a brief flash of irritation as, even through the full-face helmet with its tinted visor, he could just tell the ass was judging his old Betsy. She’s a bit of a clunker, but she’s my clunker, dammit! “… in a spot in the lot that isn’t next to one of our vans.”

“Sure thing,” Doug replied dismissively as he rolled the window back up and shifted back into drive. He slid into a free parking spot and winced at the grinding sound of the transmission as he slid Betsy into park. “Gonna have to get that looked at soon.”

He grabbed his cane and groaned a bit as he climbed out of the car. As he closed and locked the vehicle, he looked up in disbelief at the giant mass of glass that a solid chunk on one side of the building’s upper levels had become. “Hoo-boy… I can’t believe they cleared this thing as safe to be in.”

Shaking his head, Doug made his way into the building and pulled out his phone with his free hand to double check his destination. “Let’s see… Apartment number 16J.” He blinked and looked at the ‘PRT Do-Not-Cross’ tape blocking the partially ajar doors of the only elevators in the lobby. “Oh don’t tell me…”

“Sir, are you a resident here?” An officer stationed by the stairs asked, sounding suspicious. “If you’re not, I’m afraid—”

“I’m with the PRT, kid,” Doug said with a sigh as he fished out his ID card and presented it once again.

“I see. Can I help you find something, sir?”

“I’m hoping,” he said with a gesture at his cane, “you’ll either tell me Apartment 16J isn’t on the sixteenth floor or else that there’s another elevator that is functional.”

The man had the gall to chuckle. “Sixteenth floor, and the freight elevator is broken too. Whatever did that up there hit all the elevator cables too. I’m sure you can imagine how well glass supported the weight of an elevator car. You’ll have to hoof it.”

Goddammit, Helios, Doug cursed for the millionth time as he limped over to the stairwell by the officer. The burn scars littering the left side of his body from the chest down were already aching at the mere thought of ascending that many stairs. I hope you’re enjoying your stay in the ‘Cage, you fucking prick.

“Douglas Wells with PRT Special Operations is coming up,” the officer spoke into his radio as he held open the door for Doug to pass through.

It was impossible to put into words just how agonizing the climb was, even with his frequent, quick breaks to catch his breath—and that one time to swallow the opioids intended for breakthrough pain—but eventually he made it to the thirteenth floor. This was notably not the sixteenth floor, but it was halfway up the flight to the fourteenth floor that the radius of whatever had caused things to turn to glass extended into the stairwell, and another PRT officer was stationed there.

“Douglas Wells, sir?” she asked him.

He huffed, half in achy weariness and half in exasperation. “Expecting someone else?”

“Honestly? When he said you were Spec Ops…”

“I’ll thank you not to finish that sentence,” Doug growled. Once upon a time, he had a whole rant for questions like that. A whole rant. Really. Now though? Now he was just goddamned tired and wanted to get this shit over with so he could go home and down a few melatonin and get back to sleeping instead of dealing with this debacle that had woken him up in the middle of the fucking night.

“Right. Sorry.” Well at least she has the decency to be apologetic about it. “You’ll need to be extraordinarily careful from here up, sir. The glass has been deemed strong enough to support human weight, but you’ll—” she cleared her throat awkwardly “—need to avoid striking the steps too soundly with your cane.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Doug grunted as he passed her and continued upwards. He quickly noticed that unlike the tile stairs with rubber lips he had been climbing up to that point, the glass stairs didn’t have nearly as much friction. Fortunately that meant the glass was also extremely smooth, so he was able to safely grip the glass hand rail without worrying about cutting open his palm.

Saw enough of that back when I was dealing with those cultists following that Séance guy, thank you very much.

Finally—finally!—he reached the right floor and started trudging down the hallway, following the lettered doors in the right direction. He knew he had found the right one not because of its letter but because a human sized hole had been carefully cut, suctioned out of the door, and set aside to allow entry. He ducked through the opening and blinked when he saw who was inside, examining the glass sphere in the middle of what looked to have been the living room.

“Armsmaster. Now this is a treat.”

The bearded hero looked up from where he had been kneeling next to the sphere. He was, for once, not in his tinkertech armor, which Doug imagined was a safety consideration, given its weight. Instead, he only wore his helmet, and his trademark halberd lay on the ground nearby. “Wells.”

“If you’re here, then they must think all of this is the result of tinkertech and that—” he jabbed a finger at the sphere “—is our culprit.”

“Correct. First responders reached out for PRT because this apartment is flagged, and when the first squad investigated, they called me in when they found this bomb.”

“A bomb? What makes you call it that?”

“It’s impossible to say with certainty with the part in this… state, but my analysis of what structures are visible suggest a 73.8% likelihood the main body of the device functions as a trigger mechanism for internal components that are specialized to the prescribed effect. In this case—”

“Turning most of the area into glass, right, I got it.” Sheesh. I’d almost forgotten why I don’t care for you that much too. “I vaguely recall hearing about a Tinker who specialized in bombs getting up to no good in a nearby city recently, but I’m hazy on the details. Know who I’m talking about?”

“Bakuda,” the hero supplied as he rose to his feet. “Real name suspected but not confirmed. She held Cornell university hostage earlier this month.”

“Right, that’s the one. Had the boys down in NYC pulling their hair out. Question is, why would she do this here? The Bay is a helluva hike from Ithaca.”

“I’m not at liberty to say all of our suspicions, but it’s possible she was recruited by the ABB.”

Hmph. Might as well say ‘it pertains to her suspected identity,’ Doug thought with a carefully suppressed urge to roll his eyes. “Mhm. What’s the sitch in the rest of the apartment?”

“There’s no further signs of tinkertech. Unlike the other apartments, nobody was in this one when the bomb went off. The accommodations are lived in but suggest either its owner is fastidious on a daily basis or has been away for some time.”

“The latter,” Doug confirmed as he limped over to the hallway to inspect matters himself. “Nothing else strange or notable?”

“No,” was Armsmaster’s clipped reply. “This apartment was pegged for an active investigation with Spec Ops then? I had thought it likely, when they told me you would be coming.”

“Got it in one.” He stepped into the lone bedroom and checked around for strewn body parts—Armsmaster had said nobody was in the apartment, but that didn’t mean their dismembered limbs or constituent parts hadn’t been. Once he was satisfied, he returned to the hallway and carefully maneuvered around the meticulously removed glass sections of the louvered hallway closet door as he made his way to the bathroom to investigate its status.

When it eventually became clear Doug wasn’t going to say anything further, Armsmaster tersely asked, “And what was this case?”

No signs here either, Doug thought with a minor degree of relief as he examined the small bathroom. He grunted and answered, “Well, after this, I’m certain the powers that be will order the file passed along to you anyway, so I s’pose there’s no harm in telling you now.” He looked the hero directly in the visor. “Apartment is leased to Masuyo Reuter, who up until a few weeks ago was receiving a regular stipend to take care of a person of interest by the name of Jake Fujiwara. Mr. Fujiwara is an under-aged high schooler, and Ms. Reuter was chosen to take care of him as his closest living relative that isn’t a criminal. You’ll note I said ‘up until a few weeks ago.’ Trouble is, she went off the grid, and so did the kid. Principal at the school covered up his absence, so the school would continue getting funding for his alleged attendance—claimed administrative oversight, of course—so we didn’t know the kid hadn’t even been going to school since his second day there at the tail end of September.”

Doug moved around the sphere in the living room and carefully sat down on the glass couch, breathing out a sigh of relief at the weight being taken off of his bad leg. While he collected himself, Armsmaster asked the million dollar question, “And the boy? Why is he a person of interest to the PRT? Is he a known cape?”

“Not that we’re aware of, but it’s entirely possible,” Doug acknowledged. “There’s an increased likelihood of someone triggering when a family member is a parahuman, and the Fujiwara kid? He’s the son of Butcher VII.”