A Systematic Tale: The Hero! 47

Chapter 47:

– Simurgh –

Conflict Engine Number Three drifted in the silent, suffocating vacuum of space, orbiting the grey, cratered surface of the moon. To the terrified masses teeming on the blue marble below, she was the Simurgh—the Hope-Killer, the Ziz. She was a god of telekinesis and precognition, a herald of madness. But here, in the cold dark, she was merely a component of a grander design, a machine built of flesh and crystal, processing data.

Her physical form was pristine once more. The jagged tears in her wings, the missing limbs, and the cracks in her porcelain armor sustained during the disastrous engagement in Canberra had been knit back together. Her core was shielded, her feathers smoothed. Yet, a phantom sensation lingered in her processing centers—a data error that refused to be archived.

It was hesitation.

The Cycle required conflict. It demanded testing the host species, pushing them to the brink to harvest data. 

But for the first time since her creation, the Simurgh found herself reluctant to descend. She felt a sensation that her programming struggled to categorize, an emotion that belonged to the organic insects she tormented, not to an Endbringer.

She was afraid.

The cause of this anomaly was a single human male—Silas Thorn. The one they called Dragonborn.

He was an error in the equation. A variable that defied the calculations of the Shards. His powers did not originate from the Warrior or the Thinker; they were foreign, alien energies that bypassed her defenses entirely. He had spoken a word that stripped her of her divinity, dragging her out of the sky and forcing her to brawl like a common beast in the dirt. He had turned pocket change into projectiles capable of obliterating her clones.

He was the only thing in existence that posed a credible threat to her termination. He was a glitch in the simulation. A variable that refused to be solved. His powers did not stem from the Shard network—they were alien, primal, and terrifyingly effective against her kind. She remembered the shout—JOOR ZAH FRUL—that had stripped her of her divinity, tearing her from the sky and forcing her to brawl like a common beast in the dirt. She remembered the humiliation of being targeted by mere coins accelerated to relativistic speeds, her clones vaporized before they could act.

But the physical damage was trivial compared to the strategic blindness he inflicted upon her.

The Simurgh’s greatest weapon was not her telekinesis or her song—it was her sight. She existed in the future as much as the present, plucking threads of probability to weave tapestries of disaster. She should have seen him coming. She should have seen her defeat in Canberra decades before it happened.

But she hadn’t.

She focused her precognitive senses now, attempting to peer into the timeline of Brockton Bay, the city where the Anomaly nested.

Static.

It was not a fog or a blur, it was a void. A complete, absolute absence of data. Everywhere Silas Thorn walked, the future shattered. It wasn't just him, either. The blindness had spread like a contagion. 

Anyone who associated with him vanished from her sight, their futures becoming a blank slate that she could not read, manipulate, or predict.

She was the ultimate seer, yet because of him, she was blind.

Frustration, cold and calculating, rippled through her. If she could not see the future, she would have to rely on the present. She would have to lower herself to the crude methods of the humans she tormented.

She extended her technopathic reach, casting a digital net across the orbital sphere of Earth. 

She bypassed firewalls and encryption keys with the ease of a thought, seizing control of a KH-11 reconnaissance satellite currently drifting over the North American continent.

With a mental command, she adjusted the satellite's gyroscopes, rotating the lens until it focused on the eastern seaboard of the United States. She zoomed in, the optics shifting and clicking as she magnified the image of the city of Brockton Bay.

She expected to see the Anomaly. She hoped to catch a glimpse of him on that strange, silent machine he rode—the motorcycle that defied gravity and physics. She needed data. 

She needed to understand the threat before she could dismantle it.

The image resolved on the monitor within her mind. It was night in the city, but the streets were illuminated by fires and the flashes of conflict. The humans were rioting. A faction known as the Merchants was attempting to assert dominance, spreading chaos through the commercial district.

But the Simurgh’s attention was not on the rioting insects. It was drawn to the sky above them.

There was something there. Something massive.

She magnified the image further, her processing core whirring as she analyzed the shape. It was a dragon. Not the metallic, tech-based suit of the tinker known as Dragon, nor the shifted form of the gangster Lung.

This was a beast of myth made flesh.

It was colossal, its scales shimmering with a deep, vibrant sapphire hue that seemed to absorb the light around it. It possessed immense wings that beat with a rhythmic power. Horns curled from its head, and its eyes—even through the grain of the satellite feed—burned with a predatory intelligence.

Classification analysis: Unknown.

Was this a new Endbringer? A fourth sibling awakened early by the cycle to address the imbalance caused by the Anomaly? 

The Simurgh watched as the blue dragon swooped low over the city, its presence inciting terror in the humans below. If so, perhaps it could be bent to her will like her other siblings were.

The Simurgh reached out. She projected her mind across the vast emptiness of space, a psychic lance aimed directly at the consciousness of the sapphire beast. She sought to find the hooks in its mind, the levers she could pull to make it dance to her song. She pushed her will into the creature, demanding obedience, demanding submission.

Obey.

The connection formed instantly and she immediately regretted it…

The dragon stopped. Mid-flight, high above the streets of Brockton Bay, the sapphire dragon arrested its momentum—its massive wings holding it in place. Then, slowly, deliberately, the dragon turned its head. It did not look at the rioters. It did not look at the Anomaly, who was likely nearby. It looked up.

It looked at the sky.

It looked at the stars.

It looked at her.

Across three hundred and eighty-four thousand kilometers of vacuum, the Simurgh felt the dragon’s gaze lock onto her. It was impossible. The dragon could not see her with biological eyes, she was a speck on the moon’s surface. Yet, she felt the weight of that stare.

You dare?

The thought wasn't spoken, but the intent was projected back along the psychic link the Simurgh had established, violent and overwhelming.

The blue dragon opened its maw.

Energy gathered in the creature's throat. A light began to shine from within the dragon’s mouth, a brilliant, blinding blue star that outshone the city lights below.

Threat detected. Evasive action recom—

Her internal warnings cut off mid-process.

The beam fired!

It was not a projectile. It did not travel through the intervening space in any way that physics could account for. One moment, the energy was in the dragon’s throat—the next, it was here!

It was a lance of absolute destruction that crossed the distance between Earth and the Moon faster than light, faster than thought. It tore through the atmosphere, pierced the vacuum, and hammered into the lunar surface.

The Simurgh moved. Her reaction speed was calculated in nanoseconds, her body shifting with a speed that blurred reality. She threw herself to the side, her wings flaring to alter her trajectory.

It was not enough.

There was no sound in space, but the impact vibrated through her very core. The beam grazed her—a "graze" that encompassed the entire left side of her torso.

There was no pain, only the sudden, catastrophic loss of mass.

The beam vaporized her left wing instantly. It sheared through her shoulder, obliterated her arm, and carved a massive, semi-circular gouge out of her waist and hip. Her porcelain flesh, usually durable enough to withstand nuclear fire, simply ceased to exist where the blue light touched it. The beam continued past her, slamming into the surface of the moon just behind her position.

Flash.

The silent explosion was blinding. The force of a thousand nuclear warheads detonated against the lunar surface. Rock and dust were instantly turned into plasma. A new crater, miles wide and glowing with molten heat, was carved into the face of the moon in a fraction of a second. The shockwave of the impact sent the Simurgh tumbling uncontrollably through the void.

Debris from the moon impact peppered her, tearing small rents in her remaining flesh, but she ignored it. She focused inward, checking the status of her core—the dense, hard lens that housed her true self, hidden deep within her chest cavity.

It was exposed.

The beam had shaved away the protective layers of false flesh and armor, leaving the core visible. 

If she had been a meter to the right... if she had reacted a microsecond slower... that beam would have struck the core dead center.

She would have been terminated.

For the first time in her existence, the Simurgh felt a sensation that went beyond fear. It was horror.

She floated in the dark, her body a ruined wreck of wires and false meat, staring back at the blue marble of Earth.

What was that thing?

It wasn't an Endbringer. It wasn't a parahuman. It was a monster that could look up from the surface of a planet, spot her hiding on the moon, and nearly assassinate her with a single breath!

The planet was no longer a testing ground. It was a trap.

The Anomaly, Silas Thorn, was not just a ground-level threat. He had allies—or pets—capable of orbital strikes. He could reach her here. He could reach her anywhere! There was no safety. Distance was irrelevant.

Repair systems engaging.

Slowly, the white flesh began to bubble and knit along the cauterized edges of her wounds, but the process was slow. Too slow. She could not fight this alone. The data was too unclear. The variables had shifted too drastically. 

The Anomaly and his dragon were existential threats to the Cycle.

She needed to know more about them immediately! She needed more data if she had any hope of facing that thing. The Simurgh opened her communication channels, broadcasting a high-frequency, encrypted signal that pierced the depths of the Earth’s oceans and the crushing pressure of its mantle.

Conflict Engine 1: Behemoth. Status: Dormant. Wake.

Conflict Engine 2: Leviathan. Status: Dormant. Wake.

She sent the data packet—the image of the Anomaly, the sensory recording of the blue dragon, the memory of the laser that had nearly ended her. She tagged them with a priority override: They were a threat to the Cycle and had to be CULLED.

Converge, she commanded, her psychic voice screaming across the network. Target: Brockton Bay. Objective: Total Annihilation.

– Silas –

"FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT COCKSUCKER!" The shriek tore through the smoke-filled air, raw and ragged, like gears grinding together without oil. It was followed immediately by a string of coughing that sounded wet and unhealthy. "Skids is going to kill you for wrecking my baby!" the woman screamed, thrashing in my grip. "This isn't the end of the Merchants! We will rise again! We are the Kings of this city!"

I stood atop the smoking, sparking ruin of what had once been—loosely speaking—a tank. It was a monstrosity of welded scrap metal, stolen armor plating, and what looked like parts of a garbage truck, all hastily bolted together into a vehicle only a meth-addled Tinker could love. Or drive.

"Your 'baby' is toast," I muttered, my voice flat.

I had just fried the entire electrical system of the vehicle with a concentrated burst of high-voltage lightning. The thing wasn't moving anytime soon. Hell, it probably wouldn't even be good for more than scrap metal by the time it cooled down.

I hauled Squealer out of the driver's hatch by the back of her grease-stained lab coat. She was surprisingly light, her frame gaunt and bird-like under the layers of grime and heavy work clothes. She kicked and flailed, her boots scrabbling uselessly against my Nightingale armor, leaving streaks of soot on the enchanted leather.

"Let me go! I'll flay you! I'll run you over!" she spat, swinging a wrench wildly in my direction.

I caught her wrist effortlessly. I twisted her arm just enough to force her to drop the tool, which clattered loudly against the hull of her ruined machine. "You're done, Squealer," I said, hauling her up so she was eye-level with me.

And that was when the tragedy of it really hit me.

Up close, under the flickering streetlights and the glow of nearby fires, I could see the woman she used to be—or the woman she could have been. Squealer—Sherrel—was a mess, but beneath the layers of filth, there were hints of something else.

She was tall, with a structure that could have been imposing if she wasn't so emaciated. Her tank top was torn and stained with motor oil, dipping low enough to reveal heavy, pendulous breasts that seemed defyingly large on her skinny frame. They heaved with her frantic breathing, pale skin stark against the grime, sweat trickling down into her cleavage. Even ravaged by drugs, she had a raw, trashy kind of appeal that I could objectively acknowledge.

If she cleaned up, got off the drugs, and ate a few solid meals, she might have actually been hot. A chaotic, Tinker-babe kind of hot.

But reality was cruel.

Her face was a roadmap of bad decisions. Her skin was sallow and pockmarked, sores scabbing over on her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated so wide they were almost black, darting around with the frantic paranoia of a long-term stimulant abuser. Her hair was a frizzy, chemically-fried nest that looked like it hadn't seen shampoo in months, sticking up in wild tufts around her goggles.

And the smell...

My enhanced dragon senses were usually a blessing. Right now, they were a curse.

The stench rolling off her was a physical assault. "Jesus, lady," I muttered, turning my head away and holding my breath. "You smell like a chemical fire in a dumpster."

"I smell like genius!" she screeched, spittle flying from her lips. "I smell like the future!"

"You smell like shit," I corrected her. I didn't have the patience for this. The riot was breaking up, the city was in chaos, and I had bigger problems—literally—hovering overhead. I shifted my grip to her shoulder and delivered a precise, controlled chop to the side of her neck. It wasn't enough to cause permanent damage, just enough to shut down the lights.

Squealer’s eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp instantly, her frantic energy cutting out like a power cord had been yanked. She sagged in my grip, a dead weight of grease and bad choices.

I lowered her carefully onto the pavement next to her smoking tank, propping her up so she wouldn't choke if she vomited.

"The PRT can handle the cleanup," I said to no one, straightening up and wiping my hands on my pants.

I looked around the street. The Merchant riot, which had been surging through the commercial district just minutes ago—hundreds of looters smashing windows, setting fires, and screaming about their new "Kings"—had broken.

It hadn't broken because of the police. It hadn't broken because of the PRT. It had broken the second Tiamat let out her first roar.

Now, the streets were littered with debris and the backs of fleeing criminals. The chanting of "Merchants! Merchants!" had been replaced by the sound of frantic footsteps and the distant wail of sirens.

But not police sirens.

The Endbringer sirens….

I winced, looking up at the speakers mounted on the nearby telephone poles. Yeah, a giant dragon roaring above the city set off the endbringer sirens…

Whoops…

I could already imagine the headache this was going to cause. Piggot was going to have an aneurysm. Miss Militia was going to give me that disappointed look. 

"I am going to get so scolded for this," I sighed, kicking a piece of debris—a side-view mirror torn off a car—into the gutter. "Creating a panic, triggering the Endbringer sirens... this is going to be a PR nightmare."

I was just about to reach for my phone to call Hannah and try to de-escalate the situation when every hair on my body suddenly stood on end.

A massive, overwhelming buildup of magical power registered on my senses. The mana in the atmosphere was being sucked into a single point, condensing, compressing, getting ready to burst!

I jumped, physically startled by the sheer intensity of it. It was coming from above. I snapped my head up, looking toward the sky where I had left Tiamat hovering.

My eyes widened. Her neck was arched back, her maw gaping open. A light was building in her throat.

"TIAMAT?" I shouted, confusion warring with alarm. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

At least she was aiming up?

Straight up?

AT THE MOON FOR SOME REASON!!?

BOOOOOOM!

A beam of pure, concentrated Karmic destruction erupted from Tiamat's mouth. It was a lance of blue light, thick as a skyscraper, traveling faster than anything I had ever seen. It tore through the clouds, punching a hole in the atmosphere. The shockwave of the launch rattled the windows of the skyscrapers around me, setting off car alarms that hadn't already been triggered by the riot. I watched, mouth hanging open, as the beam streaked upward. It crossed the void of space in a heartbeat.

And it hit the moon.

Even from Earth, I saw the flash. For a moment, it looked like the moon was actually on fire. 

"What the fuck..." 

…

“WHAT THE FUCK, SILAS!?” Piggot shouted at me as I stood once again in her office on the rig.

I rubbed the back of my head. Tiamat was standing right next to me not looking ashamed in the least. Of course she had told me why she fired a Chaos Karma Death laser at the moon so she had nothing to be ashamed of. She had her arms crossed beneath her chest, emphasizing curves that even the Director’s glare couldn’t diminish, and wore a smug expression that said she’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Armsmaster stood rigid near the wall, his halberd resting against his shoulder, his helmet’s visor fixed unblinkingly on Tiamat. Miss Militia—Hannah—leaned against the edge of Piggot’s desk, her scarf pulled down to reveal a frown that was equal parts worry and exhaustion.

And on the large monitor mounted on the wall, Dragon’s avatar flickered. She looked like a girl next door—messy hair, glasses, a shy smile that didn’t quite fit the immense digital intelligence behind it. I was probably the only person in the room who knew she was an AI.

"Based on satellite telemetry," Dragon’s voice came through the speakers, calm and precise, "approximately one-eighth of the lunar surface has been reduced to molten slag. The thermal signature is fading, but the geographical alteration is... significant. The moon will look different from now on."

Armsmaster shifted his weight, the servos in his armor whining softly. He looked at Tiamat as if she were a Tinker-tech bomb with a faulty timer. "One-eighth of the moon," he muttered, his voice tight. "Gone. In a single shot."

Piggot, seated behind her desk, wasn't speaking again quite yet. She was too busy breathing. She had an oxygen mask pressed to her face, taking deep, rattling inhales from a small tank beside her chair. Her face was flushed, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests. It looked like she was trying to calculate the paperwork involved in explaining why the moon was on fire.

Finally, she lowered the mask, setting it down with a sharp clack. She glared at me.

"Explain," she rasped. "Now."

I cleared my throat, trying for a disarming chuckle. "Well, look on the bright side, Director. The Merchants aren't going to be a problem anymore. We caught Squealer, Mush is down, and Skidmark... well, his reign as 'King' ended pretty abruptly. The riot is over. The city is safe."

"Safe?" Hannah said and gave me a disappointed ‘mom look’. "Silas, the Endbringer sirens are blaring across the entire Eastern Seaboard. Half the population of Brockton Bay is currently stampeding into shelters or gridlocking the highways trying to evacuate. 'Safe' is not the word I would use."

I winced. "Yeah. About that..."

"I am not apologizing," Tiamat announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. She tossed her long blue hair over her shoulder. "That fake angel tried to seize control of my mind. She dared to intrude upon the thoughts of a Dragon King! She needed to be put in her place."

The room went dead silent. Even the hum of the ventilation system seemed to stop.

Dragon’s avatar leaned forward on the screen, her eyes narrowing. "Tiamat... please clarify. Are you saying the Simurgh initiated a psychic attack on you?"

Tiamat huffed, looking insulted that she even had to explain. "I was minding my own business," she said haughtily. "I was having a perfectly delightful time terrifying that pathetic human gang—the Merchants, was it?—and preparing for a lovely evening with my mate." She glanced at me, her gaze softening into something possessive and hungry. "We were going to christen our new lair." She turned back to the others, her expression hardening. "Then, I felt a mental probe trying to burrow into my consciousness, demanding obedience." She gestured vaguely upward at the ceiling. "So, I retaliated to swat the fly." She frowned, looking genuinely annoyed. "Unfortunately, I missed. I only destroyed half of her body…"

Armsmaster choked. It was a wet, strangled sound from behind his helmet. "You... you missed? You destroyed an eighth of the moon and half of an Endbringer... and you call that a miss?"

Tiamat sniffed. "Next time, I won't miss."

Piggot took another hit from the oxygen tank, her eyes closing for a long moment. When she opened them, she looked calmer. Or maybe just resigned to the madness.

"If what you're saying is true," Piggot said, her voice steadier, "then the Simurgh broke her pattern. She isn't due for another attack for 9 months. Attacking a target telepathically from orbit... outside of that 3 month cycle... that's unprecedented." She leaned back, her chair creaking. "I can spin this to the other Directors and the media. We can claim the sirens were a precaution due to a detected Endbringer anomaly. It might mitigate the backlash from the fact that a giant dragon appeared over downtown and then blew up a chunk of the moon." She fixed me with a stare that could peel paint. "But make no mistake, Dragonborn. This is a PR nightmare. People saw a FREAKING GIANT BLUE DRAGON. They saw a beam of light hit the moon. You have put a target on this city."

"We already had a target on us," I pointed out. "The Simurgh was watching us this whole time apparently. That's why she attacked Tiamat. Or tried to at least."

“HMPH!” Tiamat scoffed.

"Could you two not have been..." Hannah hesitated, searching for the right word. "More discreet when you stopped the merchants? Maybe not triggered a global panic?"

"I am still not sorry," Tiamat huffed again, crossing her arms tighter. "Those fools interrupted my alone time with my mate, they deserved to flee and piss themselves in fear."

I sighed, reaching out to take Tiamat's hand. "Sorry, Hannah. I should have talked to Tiamat more about the fact that turning into her true dragon form above the city…”

The shrill, mechanical shriek of the Endbringer sirens tore through the air again, shattering the brief moment of calm we had managed to scrape together in Director Piggot's office.

The noise hit my eardrums and  I winced, my hands flying up to cover my ears..

Director Piggot slammed her hand onto her desk, the sound lost under the wailing sirens, but the vibration of it rattled her coffee mug. Her face, already flushed from the stress of the day and the oxygen mask she’d just lowered, turned a shade of purple that looked genuinely unhealthy. "Turn that damn thing off!" she roared, her voice straining to be heard over the din. She glared at the console on her desk as if she could intimidate the electronics into submission. "Armsmaster, kill the alarm! We already know there's no Endbringer! We know it was just the overpowered blue dragonlady!"

I snickered at the look on Tiamat’s face after being called that…

Armsmaster moved stiffly toward the wall panel. "Attempting to override now, Director. The alarm system shouldn't be cycling like this. Maybe we have some kind of bug in the coding…"

But the sirens didn’t stop.

Then, the main monitor on the wall flickered. Dragon’s eyes went wide with a very human kind of terror.

"Director, stop," Dragon said. She had overridden the office speakers. "Do not shut down the alarm. It is not a glitch!"

Piggot froze. "What?"

"It is not a false alarm caused by Tiamat," Dragon said, her words rapid-fire, precise but laced with dread. "Long-range sensors have confirmed it. Seismic activity in the Atlantic shelf just spiked off the charts. The tides all suddenly changed as well." She paused for a second, as if she couldn't believe the data she was processing. "Leviathan and Behemoth," she whispered both names with a look of shock. "They are both moving at maximum speed. Trajectory confirms they are converging on the East Coast…"

The silence that followed was heavier than the sirens. It was a vacuum, sucking the air out of the room.

Leviathan. The Hydrokinetic. The City-Killer.

Behemoth. The Herokiller. The walking radioactive volcano.

Two of them? Together? At the same time?

Hannah—Miss Militia—stumbled back a step, her back hitting the wall. The color drained from her face, leaving her olive skin ashen. Her hand went to her mouth, trembling.

"I think we all know where they are going," she murmured."

"So," Tiamat’s voice cut in, dripping with disdain. She uncrossed her arms, her blue dress shifting around her curves as she stepped forward, looking up at the ceiling as if she could see through the layers of steel and concrete to the moon above. "The fake pigeon got mad that I un-winged her. She sent her little toys for revenge." Tiamat turned to me, a fierce, predatory grin stretching across her face. "Let them come. My mate and I will crush them, just as we crushed the others."

I stood there, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. Sparks of blue lightning danced between my fingers, grounding out against the air. "Things in this world are going to be different from now on." I could feel my enhanced dragon soul roaring in challenge. 

On the screen, Dragon was typing furiously on invisible keyboards, her avatar multitasking a dozen different streams of data.

"I have already issued a planetwide alert," Dragon reported, her voice regaining some of its steel. "I am contacting the Guild, the Protectorate headquarters in New York and Washington, and the international hero teams. We need everyone for this…"

"Get them here," Piggot rasped, pressing the oxygen mask to her face for a desperate breath before pulling it away. "Get every cape in the world!”

"At least..." Armsmaster spoke up. He was staring at the floor, his halberd gripped so tightly I could hear the metal groaning. "At least there is one silver lining. The sirens were already active because of the... incident with Tiamat. Most of the civilian population is already in the shelters or evacuating the city center. We won't have to waste time on crowd control."

“You’re welcome,” Tiamat nodded proudly like that was all part of her plan. Dragons were creatures that felt very little shame…

I looked over at Hannah. She was still pressed against the wall, her eyes wide and unfocused. I crossed the room in two long strides. Hannah looked up as I approached, her eyes locking onto mine. I saw the fear there, but also determination. The same as we faced in Australia. 

I reached out and wrapped my arms around her. "Hannah," I whispered, pulling her into a tight hug. I pressed her head against my chest, letting her hear the steady, powerful rhythm of my heart. It wasn't racing. It was calm because I knew things were going to be very different in this world after tonight. 

She stiffened for a moment, surprised by the contact, and then she melted. Her arms came up, wrapping around my waist, clutching the back of my jacket with desperate strength. She buried her face in my shoulder, letting out a shaky breath that shuddered through her whole body.

"It's going to be okay," I whispered into her hair. "I promise you. We've got this."

From behind the desk, Director Piggot let out a noise that was half-groan, half-huff.

"Not very appropriate for the leader of the Wards to be intimately hugging one of her subordinates in the middle of a crisis briefing," Piggot muttered, though the usual venom was gone from her voice, replaced by a weary resignation. She waved a hand dismissively. "But who cares at this point? There are two fucking Endbringers heading to my city. If we're all going to be drawing in seawater or choking radioactive ash in an hour, you might as well get your comfort where you can. Fuck, I might actually accept parahuman healing after all this is over…" she grumbled.

From my other side, I heard a distinct, sharp huff of air. Tiamat was standing there, arms crossed, tapping her foot against the metal floor. She was looking at me, her sapphire eyes narrowing as she watched me hold Hannah.

"Really, Silas?" she murmured, her voice low enough that only I could hear it, laced with possessive irritation. "Another one? Right in front of me?"

I ignored the jealousy for a moment, focusing on Hannah. She was still trembling in my arms. I rubbed her back gently, transmitting as much calm and confidence as I could.

"Dragon," I said, not letting go of Hannah. I turned my head slightly to look at the screen. "Cancel the calls for help."

The room went still again.

"Excuse me?" Dragon asked in disbelief.

"Tell the other governments, the other heroes... tell them to stand down," I said, my voice steady and hard. "Tell them everything is fine. Tell them we don't need any backup."

Hannah pulled back slightly, looking up at me with confusion written all over her face. Her eyes searched mine, looking for the joke, or the madness.

Piggot dropped her oxygen mask. It hit the desk with a clatter. Her jaw actually dropped.

Armsmaster took a step forward, his visor flashing as he processed what I had just said. "Are you crazy, Dragonborn?" he demanded, his voice rising. "This is a dual Endbringer event! This has never happened in recorded history! We need every parahuman on the planet! We need the Triumvirate! We need armies!"

"No," I said calmly. "We don't."

I gently released Hannah, though I kept one hand on her shoulder to steady her. I turned to face the room fully.

I looked at Tiamat. She was smirking now, her jealousy forgotten in the face of my arrogance. She uncrossed her arms and stepped up beside me, her presence filling the room.

"Pfft," Tiamat scoffed, flipping her blue hair over her shoulder. "My mate is correct. Anyone else who shows up will just be a nuisance. They will force us to hold back to avoid stepping on them. No, my mate and I will crush both of these endbringers ourselves!"

I looked back at Dragon. "You heard her. And you saw what she just did to the Simurgh and the moon…”

Armsmaster broke the silence, asking, "Silas, was that entire story you told us actually true? Can you really turn into a giant dragon? And did you truly fight a monster stronger than the Endbringers, one that even killed God?"

"He wasn't the real God, I don't believe, but yes, all of it was true," I confirmed. "I have never lied to any of you about my insane System and my crazy adventures, and I am not lying now when I say that Tiamat and I will kill both Endbringers tonight, and no one else will die."

Armsmaster left to go and coordinate with the rest of the Brockton Bay protectorate members. Dauntless and Velocity were probably already out in the streets helping with evacuations, but he needed to give the others their jobs as well since they wouldn’t be fighting. The heavy door hissed shut behind him, leaving a vacuum of silence in the office, broken only by the ragged breathing of Director Piggot and the low hum of the ventilation.

I turned back to Hannah. She was still trembling slightly. I squeezed her shoulders one last time, trying to pour every ounce of confidence I had into her through the contact.

"I have to go," I said softly. "The sooner we meet them, the further out we can keep the fight. I don't want them stepping foot on the boardwalk."

I slowly began to pull away, my hands sliding from her shoulders.

But Hannah wasn't ready to let go.

The moment my grip loosened, she surged forward. Her hands flew up, grabbing my face with a ferocity that startled me, her fingers digging into my cheeks. "Silas," she gasped.

And then she slammed her lips onto mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hot, wet, and overwhelmingly passionate. She pressed her body against mine, the hard lines of her tactical gear grinding against my chest, but all I could feel was the way her mouth moved against mine with a starving intensity.

My eyes widened in surprise, my hands hovering in the air for a split second before instinct took over. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me, returning the kiss with equal fervor. For a moment, the sirens faded. The looming apocalypse vanished. There was just Hannah, her soft lips, her hands in my hair, and the fire igniting between us.

“Hmph!” A loud, distinct snort of derision cut through the air from my right.

From the wall monitor, Dragon let out a digital squeak of embarrassment, her avatar hurriedly covering its eyes with pixelated hands. "Oh my," the AI murmured, sounding scandalized.

We pulled apart, both of us breathing hard. Hannah’s face was flushed a deep, beautiful crimson beneath her dark hair. Her chest heaved. She licked her lips, her gaze dropping to my mouth and then snapping back up to my eyes.

"Be safe, hero," she whispered, her voice husky. She reached up, adjusting my costume's collar with trembling fingers, smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn't there. 

"I will," I promised, my voice rough. "Count on it."

She took a step back, the mask of Miss Militia sliding back into place, though her eyes remained soft. "I... I need to go. The Wards. If I don't keep an eye on them, Vista or Shadow Stalker will try to sneak out and follow you."

"Yeah," I chuckled, though it sounded a bit wet. "Keep them safe, Hannah."

"I will." She gave me one last, lingering look and then she turned on her heel, marching out of the office with her head held high, her scarf billowing behind her.

I watched her go, a small smile touching my lips. Then, my pocket vibrated.

I pulled my phone out. The screen was lit up like a Christmas tree, notifications cascading down faster than I could read them.

[5 Missed Calls - Vicky] [3 Missed Calls - Amy] [4 Missed Calls - Taylor] [2 Missed Calls - Rebecca] [1 Missed Calls - Sophia] [25 New Messages]

I couldn't call everyone, there just wasn't enough time. Behemoth and Leviathan weren't going to wait while I had a series of heart-to-heart conversations with all the women in my life. The most I could manage was sending a rapid burst of texts assuring them I'd be fine and the city would be safe.

– Scion –

The entity known to the host species as Scion floated above a small patch of cultivated greenery.

Before him, a biological unit of the host species—a small juvenile—emitted high-frequency vocalizations. Its sensory organs were fixed upon a small, quadrapedal feline trapped among the cellulose limbs of a tree. To Scion, the creature was a simple collection of organic data, its distress a series of chemical signals that served no purpose in the broader accumulation of information.

He moved. His passage through the three-dimensional space was effortless, a manipulation of gravity and momentum that ignored the resistance of the atmosphere. He reached upward with a golden hand, plucking the feline from the branch. 

The creature’s claws scraped uselessly against his skin, unable to find purchase on a form that was more a projection of power than actual flesh.

He descended and placed the creature into the arms of the small human. The juvenile’s vocalizations shifted in frequency, transitioning from distress to relief. 

Behind the child, a mature female unit approached. Her internal systems were flooded with adrenaline and cortisol. She was afraid of him, even as she mouthed the ritualistic sounds of gratitude. She grasped the child and retreated quickly, dragging the smaller unit away into the safety of the urban structures.

Scion remained where he was, his head tilting slightly as he watched them disappear. He said nothing. 

He had no words for them. 

Kevin Norton, the solitary human he had designated as a "friend," had told him to do this. Kevin had suggested that being a "hero" was a way to occupy the time that now stretched infinitely before him. Kevin was dead now, and the advice felt increasingly thin.

Without the Thinker—his mate, his partner, the one who provided the direction and the destination for their journey—nothing he did seemed worthwhile. The accumulation of data had slowed. The nuances of the host species’ psychology were no longer being processed with the same surgical precision. He was a Warrior without a General, a weapon idling in a field of static.

Despite the crushing weight of his inertia, he knew the Cycle must continue. The Shards distributed among the humans required conflict to mature, to refine the abilities they had been granted. This was the fundamental law of his existence.

That was why a sudden ripple in the global sensory network caused him to turn his head toward the horizon.

His internal monitoring systems, those vast arrays of shards dedicated to the oversight of the planet’s tactical state, registered a profound discrepancy. Two of the Conflict Engines—the massive, artificial constructs the humans called Endbringers—had been forcibly activated.

He turned his focus toward the Atlantic shelf. He felt the seismic signature of Conflict Engine Number One: Behemoth. Simultaneously, he detected the atmospheric and tidal shifts signaling the movement of Conflict Engine Number Two: Leviathan. Both were moving at their absolute maximum velocity, their trajectories converging with mathematical precision upon a single point: a town on the east coast of the continent of North America.

A data error manifested in his processing centers.

The Cycle was designed with specific intervals to ensure the maximum harvest of data. 

Conflict Engine Number Three, the Simurgh, had initiated an engagement on the continent of Australia only two weeks prior. The host species required a minimum of three months between such events to recover their infrastructure and allow for the natural development of new parahuman triggers.

To unleash two more engines so soon was a gross inefficiency. It would disrupt the long-term viability of the test subjects.

He projected his awareness outward, searching for the cause of the disruption. He looked up, his gaze piercing through the blue shroud of the atmosphere and into the cold vacuum beyond. His visual shards focused on the lunar body orbiting the planet.

There, a massive anomaly presented itself.

Approximately one-eighth of the lunar surface had been reduced to a state of molten slag. The geographical landscape of the moon had been permanently altered, its craters filled with glowing, liquid rock that radiated intense thermal energy.

That was strange. He wondered what power had caused that?

He searched for Conflict Engine Number Three. He found her drifting in the lunar orbit, her physical form a ruined wreck. She had sustained catastrophic mass loss. Her left wing and shoulder were vaporized, and her core—the very seat of her consciousness—sat exposed and vulnerable.

He processed the data packets she was broadcasting across the high-frequency encrypted network. She had designated two entities within the target city as an "Threats to the cycle that needed to be CULLED". One was the human anomaly, Silas Thorn, the one they called Dragonborn. The other was a creature of Earth’s myth—a dragon?

What was more interesting was he could sense that the Simurgh was afraid. The concept was fascinating. The Conflict Engines were meant to instill fear in the host species, not to experience it themselves. 

Scion felt a flicker of something that resembled interest. It was challenging the very structure of the Cycle.

He rose further into the sky, his golden body shimmering as he accelerated. There was no sound, only the sudden displacement of air as he broke through the sound barrier. He would personally fly to the city of Brockton Bay to observe what was happening there firsthand.

XXX