Uber and Leet: Remastered

“Don’t go on the South Side. There’s devils there, baby.”

At the time, she’d barely been five, legs too short to keep up with her mama, eyes wide as saucers as they walked past shuttered stores and chain-link fences. She didn’t understand what her mother meant. Devils? Real devils? With horns and pitchforks? And why would they live on the South Side of Brockton Bay, of all places?

She’d heard of the South Side. That was where the rich kids at school lived, the ones with shiny shoes and packed lunches that didn’t smell like leftovers. It was near the Boardwalk, where the shops had glass windows and marble floors, the kind of places she and her mama would window-shop at and dream out loud. To her, the South Side wasn’t scary—it was polished, aspirational, safe.

It wasn’t until she got older that she realized the devils her mama warned her about had names and faces.

Empire Eighty-Eight.

The biggest Nazi organization in the United States. Not a relic of history, not a footnote in some war documentary. Real. Active. Present. And rooted, somehow, in her city.

Didn’t matter what you were—Black, brown, red, yellow, Indian, Hispanic, Japanese, Korean. You could’ve been born on American soil, gone to school with them, laughed at the same dumb cartoons and played in the same sandbox. None of it mattered. If your skin didn’t scream “white,” if your blood didn’t trace back to Europe in some smug, colonial way, they had no room for you.

She grew up on horror stories whispered on porches and posted online. Stories of people being dragged out of cars and hung from lampposts. Of houses torched, families gone missing, bodies that were never found. Of ABB affiliates who got caught by Night and Fog and ended up as nothing but wet meat on concrete. Of Purity reducing a mosque to ash with a single blast of light—and no one doing a damn thing about it.

But despite all that, despite everything she’d seen and heard, she’d still thought—

That won’t happen to me.

Ridiculous, wasn’t it?

A Black girl, liiving in the goddamn Nazi capital of America, and still, somehow, she had believed she was untouchable.

She wasn’t like the people in those stories, she’d told herself. She wasn’t in a gang. She wasn’t stirring up trouble. She wasn’t ‘one of them.’ She was the exception.

Straight A’s. No parties. No weed. No graffiti. No affiliations. No trouble.

She went to Arcadia, for God’s sake. Best school in the city. Got in on a scholarship. Ran for student government. Wrote essays about civic responsibility. She helped with food drives in the winter and summer reading programs for kids at the library. She did everything right. Everything a person was supposed to do to be seen as a good human being, as someone who contributed to society and followed the law.

So why the hell was she bleeding out in a back alley, lungs drowning in her own blood, a dozen holes torn into her chest?

Why was there a skinhead looming over her with regret in his eyes and a gun in his hand?

Why had her mother been right?

There really were devils on the South Side.

And now, one of them was about to send her straight to hell.

"Sorry about this," the man said, his tone casual, almost apologetic. He shrugged, as if what he was doing was out of his hands. "I don’t like this part. The initiation, I mean. Always felt like bullshit to me. We find one of you, six of us soften you up a bit, then the recruit gets the final blow. Never felt fair. Like if we’re building a movement on strength, shouldn't you have to fight for your place? It should be one on one, man to man. Women and kids shouldn’t be involved, not even the ones like you."

She wanted to say something—fuck you, maybe, or go to hell—but all that came out was a choked gurgle. Blood flooded her throat, hot and thick, and her body trembled as if every nerve was giving out one by one.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continued, crouching beside her like he was explaining something important. “You’re part of the problem. Not that it’s entirely your fault. We brought your ancestors here—mostly against their will, sure. And then we didn’t send them back when the Civil War ended. But you could’ve left. Or at least kept your head down and stayed where you belonged. Instead, your people kept pushing for more. More rights, better treatment. You wanted to go to our schools, read our books, play with our children, drive in our cars. You took the food meant for our families. The jobs. The homes. Everything meant for us, wasted on you.”

Tears slipped down her face, mixing with the dirt and blood crusted to her skin. Her chest burned with every shallow breath. 

What the fuck was he even talking about? She was just a student. She had been at a party. A stupid party. She didn’t drink. She didn’t smoke. She left early when things got too wild. She took a wrong turn—and then… this.

Cornered. Beaten. Dying.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to her. Not to anyone.

“See, if we were wearing masks or something, I might’ve let you live, if you could somehow crawl your way to a hospital,” the man said, almost conversationally, as if that mattered. “That’d be God basically saying you deserved another shot. And I would respect that. But you saw our faces. Even with one eye swollen shut, maybe you'd still pick us out in a line-up. John's a dumbass—swings too wide, never checks for witnesses. We’ve lost guys because of that. I’m not risking it again. So I’m cleaning up the mess.”

He cocked the hammer of the gun. The barrel felt cool and final as it pressed against her forehead.

“Sorry, kid. Better luck next time, in your next life, if you believe in that chink bullshit.”

And then—

Laughter.

A harsh, grinding, metallic sound. Animalistic. 

Wrong. 

It echoed across the alley like some cruel spirit had decided to watch her death and found it funny.

Monkey-like. Mechanical. Unnatural.

The man turned his head, his brow furrowing. “What the hell—?”

The skinhead stood abruptly, clutching his gun tight, the weapon shaking slightly in his grip.

“No way. No fucking way,” he spat, voice rising. “Protectorate wouldn’t come this deep into our territory! Not this far out! They want a goddamn war?!”

Protectorate? The heroes?

Her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t exactly trust the heroes, not the way others did. Especially not the Brockton Bay branch. How many times had they let Hookwolf get away? How many times had Lung humiliated them, only for them to retreat like whipped dogs? They only ever reacted. Always two steps behind the gangs. If they were actually here now, though, she’d take back every bad thought she’d ever had of them.

But the thought was cut off by the crack of gunfire.

She flinched instinctively as the shot rang out, ears ringing. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth as she coughed, and her breath hitched from the sharp sting in her chest.

“COME THE FUCK OUT, YOU COWARD!” the man screamed, his voice raw, gun barrel flashing wildly as he fired into the darkness, into every shadow. “COME OUT AND FIGHT LIKE A FUCKING MAN—AURGH!”

Something slammed into him from above, a metal blur. He staggered—

And then a second shape struck his side with brutal force, knocking him to one knee.

A third figure dropped down from the sky, no larger than a child, landing squarely on his back with unnatural grace. Then came the laughter—distorted, metallic, manic.

Three of them. Cackling, shrieking, pounding at him with tiny, brutal fists. The man screamed, thrashing as they clawed at his scalp, pinched his ears, scratched at his face and eyes. One yanked his head back by the hair while savagely stomped on his forearm. The third just beat him over and over, pounding his ribs like a drum.

“NO—NO! FUCKING STOP!” he screamed, a high, panicked wail that cut through the still air.

One of the creatures broke off from the group and landed with a clang beside her.

For a moment, it just watched her.

She froze.

Now that it was still, she could see it clearly under the flickering light of the streetlamp: 

It was a robotic monkey. 

Sleek, almost surgical in its design. Its chassis was dark, metallic black, almost ebony in shade. The joints in its limbs and the sockets around its glowing eyes pulsed with sickly green light. Its face—if you could call it that—split into a grin that wasn’t quite a smile, revealing a triangular, glowing green mouth.

On its back was a tiny thruster, a rocket or jump pack, still hissing softly from its descent. It crouched down, gears whirring, and leaned forward toward her.

It tilted its head. The mechanical fingers—delicate and spindly—reached out slowly. It gently prodded her ribs, as if testing whether she was still alive. Then, with a soft, digital giggle, it drew back, its luminous green eyes narrowing in a gleeful mockery of curiosity.

The air felt heavier now.

There were more of them in the shadows.

She could hear them—chittering, cackling, mechanical echoes reverberating like broken wind-up toys. A whole gallery of robotic monkeys, perched along the fire escapes and rooftops above, their beady eyes glowing in the dark as they watched her bleed out. Watching her die.

Then something heavy dropped from the sky with a metallic thud.

Not another monkey. Bigger. Human-sized. It landed in a crouch, the ground cracking beneath its boots. 

A figure in dark blue armor stepped forward from the dirt and dim alley light, silver gauntlets gleaming as it rose to full height. Its armor was clean and shiny, accented with a silver chestplate, polished pauldrons, and a utility belt lined with compact pouches. Mounted on its back was something that looked like a hybrid between a jetpack and a generator. Twin shoulder-mounted cannons adjusted with a soft mechanical whir, locking onto the bald man who had been groaning beneath the swarm of monkey-bots.

Pshoom! Pshoom!

Two bursts of blue energy lanced out, slamming the skinhead against the brick wall hard enough to crack it. The man slumped, groaning once, then went still.

The new arrival—robot, soldier, something else—turned toward her.

Its face was hidden behind a smooth silver mask with two large yellow lenses for eyes. Those eyes somehow widened as they focused on her sprawled, broken form. The machine knelt beside her, boots hissing softly as pistons adjusted.

The monkey that had been inspecting her earlier let out a high-pitched, hyena-like bark, startling in its sharpness, like laughter forced through a voice modulator. It leapt up, perching confidently on the armored figure’s shoulder, jabbing a finger toward her chest before tapping rapidly on the robot’s pauldron, chittering like mad.

“Shit—Console, we’ve got a civilian down. Multiple chest wounds, heavy bleeding, likely arterial,” the armored figure said, pressing a hand to the side of its helmet where an ear might have been. The voice wasn’t mechanical—it was thin, hoarse, but undeniably human.

Not a robot, she thought distantly, her mind foggy and slipping. A person. A person in a suit. A hero. A superhero actually came to help me.

Too bad it’s too late.

“No, I can’t make it to Brockton General in time. She’s dying right now. I can’t risk moving her in this state.” A pause. “Is Panacea still at the hospital? Could Aegis or Glory Girl fly her in?”

Whatever answer came through the line was not what the hero wanted. He swore, loud and sharp, as his attention snapped back to her.

“Console, I don’t have fifteen fucking minutes to wait for Panacea, and by the time Armsmaster get’s here, she’ll be dead! His armor’s med-kit doesn’t have the capacity for wounds this deep! Fuck!”

She felt his metal-covered hand press gently to her neck, checking for a pulse.

Everything felt distant. The pain was dulled, fading, and her vision was growing darker around the edges. Her lips trembled. She wanted to speak—to say goodbye to her mother, to apologize for ever listening to her—but all that emerged was a wheeze, a wet rattle in her chest, and blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. Tears leaked from her eyes instead.

That was what seemed to push him over the edge.

“Console…I’m gonna try something. Piggot can bench me later if she wants. I’m not letting her die. Not when I can do something.”

His focus snapped to her, voice gentler now, but filled with urgency.

“Hey. Listen to me.” He knelt in closer, his silver mask tilting down toward her face. “My name is Leet. I’m a Ward—Protectorate, Brockton Bay. I’m new. I’m a Tinker, which means I make things. This armor and those bots? They’re mine. And I have a serum. Something I’ve been working on.”

He hesitated, then continued, quieter.

“It’s not finished and it’s not tested. I only brought it because… well, I wanted to to see if I could pressure Aegis into taking it, because the guy seriously needs a buff, but that’s not the point right now: It might help. Might heal you. But there could be side effects. I can’t promise it won’t hurt. I can’t promise it won’t… change you. But it’s this, or…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Just blink,” he said, his voice raw. “Blink once if you want me to use it. Just once. That’s all I need.”

It was so hard to think. So hard to keep her eyes open. But one word broke through the haze of blood and fear.

Heal.

She blinked, sluggish, her mind fogged with pain and exhaustion. The command—his voice—barely registered.

The boy moved fast. Frantic. She saw his hands shake as he fumbled for one of the pouches strapped to his waist. His fingers dug inside, rifling through until he pulled out a test tube—small, glass, sealed with a rough cork stopper. Inside, a violet liquid pulsed dimly, glowing as though alive.

He yanked the cork free with his fingers.

“Bottom’s up,” Leet whispered, more urgency than humor in his voice, and pressed the vial to her lips.

The moment the fluid touched her tongue, it ignited.

Agony flared.

It wasn’t pain like she knew it—not a cut or a bruise or even broken bones. This was raw. Elemental, if that made sense. Like her nerves had been laced with lightning. The liquid was fire given form, cascading down her throat like molten metal, searing everything it touched. Her vision went white, and then red, and then black. She felt it crawl into her gut, surge through her veins, sear behind her eyes. Her fingers spasmed. Her back arched. Her breath caught—

She tried to scream.

But all that came out was a strangled gasp as the burning continued to spread, reaching places pain wasn’t meant to go.

And yet, beneath it all, something deeper stirred—something that burned within and made her feel alive. Her cells trembled, then realigned. Torn muscle began to stitch itself back together. The pain wasn’t just torture—it was transformation.

Somewhere above her, she heard Leet murmuring again—soft, breathless, hopeful.

“C’mon… please work…”

___________________________________________________

White.

That was the first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes. Not just any white—but an uncomfortably bright, sterile kind of white. Eggshell, she thought absently. Or maybe chalk. Did you know there are dozens of names for different shades of white? Cream white. Floral white. Ghost white. Dutch white. They all looked the same when you were a kid with a box of crayons, but suddenly, as you got older, everything became layered. Complex. Uncertain.

Colors got shades. Circles grew circumferences. The world demanded you show your work, give explanations, cite sources. And somewhere along the way, the same world taught you that you could be stabbed twelve times on the way home from a party just for having the wrong skin.

Her eyes adjusted. She blinked slowly, the ache in her eyelids dragging her into the moment.

A hospital room. That was where she was. Stark. Still. There was an IV in her arm, the thin tube taped down carefully against her skin. The faint rhythmic beep of a heart monitor echoed somewhere nearby. Her mother sat next to her, asleep in one of those stiff, unforgiving plastic chairs hospitals always had. Her arms were crossed tight, defensive even in rest, and her face was streaked with the faint chalky residue of dried tears.

She stared at her mother in silence. Then at the ceiling. Then at her own hand.

She was alive.

It didn’t hit all at once. The realization came slow, like warm water soaking into dry earth. She blinked again. Her heart beat. The machine confirmed it. Her lungs moved, breathing in air that smelled like antiseptic and faintly of her mother’s perfume. Alive. 

She was alive.

She clenched her fists, then opened them, just to prove that she could. The fingers moved sluggishly, as if still unsure they belonged to her. She touched her chest next, almost hesitantly. 

Smooth skin met her fingertips—no stitches, no bandages, no pain, nothing aside from the little pads that connected her to the heart monitor. Just the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. 

That wasn’t right. 

She remembered the blade sliding between her ribs. She definitely remembered the seventh stab especially—it had sunk in deeper than the rest. Something important had popped. She remembered that part clearly. Breathing had become a struggle. Her lungs had shrieked in panic, and her vision had narrowed into a tunnel of shadows and blood.

She should be dead.

A soft noise broke through her thoughts.

“Diana?”

Her mother’s voice. Rough. Disbelieving. As if saying her name would wake her from a cruel dream.

Their eyes met. And then her mother was up, slowly, as if afraid she might vanish again. Her hands reached out—warm, trembling—and cupped Diana’s face, thumbs brushing her cheeks like she was something fragile, something precious. Diana leaned into the touch without thinking. That warmth—God, she thought she’d never feel it again.

And then suddenly they were both crying.

Not the soft kind of crying either. The real kind. The ugly kind. Diana clung to her mother like a child, sobbing so hard her chest ached. Her mother pulled her close and rocked her as best she could, her own sobs loud and unashamed. Diana felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks, felt her nose running, felt the trembling in her limbs that wouldn’t stop.

But it was good. It was all so, so good.

Because she was here.

She was alive.

“Oh. I’m guessing this is a bad time to come in,” said a voice, male, tentative.

Diana flinched and turned her head, blinking back tears as a man stepped into the room. She recognized him immediately: Dr. Morris, clipboard in hand, shifting awkwardly as if he’d walked into someone’s funeral by mistake.

Despite the interruption, she didn’t let go of her mother. She knew how childish it probably looked—clutching her like a lifeline—but she didn’t care. Not after everything that had happened. Not after nearly losing her. For now, for just a moment, she wanted to be a little girl again. In her mother’s arms, the world couldn’t touch her.

Dr. Morris hesitated. “I—I apologize for the intrusion. We just got an alert that her heart rate had spiked, so I wanted to check in personally…”

Her mother gently pulled away, brushing her eyes dry with a practiced motion. “No, it’s alright. Everything’s fine now,” she said with a strained but genuine smile. “I’m sorry for the scare.”

He nodded, stepping closer, eyes flicking from the monitor to Diana herself. Then he paused, a frown settling on his face as he leaned in.

“Huh. That’s… unusual.”

Diana leaned back slightly. “What is?”

He glanced at the clipboard, then back at her, as if he were trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what was written down. “According to your medical file, your eyes are brown. But right now, they’re a very vibrant… purple.”

“Purple?” she echoed, blinking in confusion.

He stepped back and quickly jotted something down on the clipboard. “The PRT mentioned the chemical compound they used might cause visible side effects—most of them superficial. But I wasn’t expecting this. If you’re alright with it, I’d like to run a few basic physical tests. Nothing invasive. Just to make sure there aren’t any other changes we should be aware of.”

Diana’s fingers flexed slightly, still tingling from the residual energy she hadn’t fully acknowledged yet. Something had changed. She could feel it—like a current humming beneath her skin.

But her eyes? Purple?

That was new.

Diana exchanged a look with her mother, who lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.

“Um, okay, doc. Whatever you need,” Diana said, trying to stay polite.

The doctor proceeded with the usual physical—tongue depressor down the throat, that tiny flashlight in the eyes, the reflex hammer on her knees. All the while, he kept muttering things like “Hmm,” and “Interesting,” which only made her skin crawl.

What was so damn interesting? Why wouldn’t he just say what he was seeing?

Why were her eyes purple now?

And more importantly, where was the guy who saved her? The one who took out the skinhead and gave her that weird glowing vial when she was barely breathing. She remembered his calm voice, the brief flash of pain that lit up her body like a fire from the inside, and then—everything going black.

“Well,” Dr. Morris said finally, turning to her mother, “Mrs. Folger, your daughter has a clean bill of health. You’re free to leave with her, after someone comes in to speak with you. The PRT has already handled the hospital bill, so—”

“I’m sorry,” her mom cut in, confused. “But you’ve mentioned the PRT several times now. Why? Is it because the boy who helped my daughter is affiliated with them? Did he do something wrong?”

Dr. Morris let out a slow sigh, rubbing his temple. “This isn’t exactly my field—I’m a physician, not a lawyer—but I’ve worked enough cases with parahuman involvement to understand the implications. The PRT doesn’t take kindly to… unauthorized experimentation on civilians.”

“Experimentation?” Diana snapped. “He didn’t experiment on me—he saved me! I was dying. I gave my consent!”

“You may have believed you gave consent,” Dr. Morris said gently, but firmly. “But legally, that consent was given under duress. You were facing imminent death. In the eyes of the law, that makes it a coerced decision. It opens the door for a parahuman assault charge.”

“That’s insane!” Diana said. “You’re saying I could sue the Protectorate for saving my life?”

“You could,” the doctor replied. “Maybe you won’t. But that doesn’t mean the PRT won’t treat it as a liability.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “You think they’ll try to punish the boy?”

“They might bury it quietly. Or assign him to another city. But from their perspective, what he did was unauthorized, unsanctioned, and potentially dangerous. They don’t like unknowns, and a chemical cocktail with unknown long-term effects? That’s a big unknown.”

“He saved me,” Diana repeated, quieter now, her voice cracking. “I’d be dead without him.”

Dr. Morris looked at her with quiet sympathy. “Even so. You should be prepared. There may be side effects. If your body now depends on whatever compound he gave you, your quality of life could be affected. If you need constant doses, or if it alters your biology… This could affect you for the rest of you life.”

That silenced her. She felt her mother gently place a hand on her shoulder.

“As I said,” Dr. Morris continued, “I’m not a legal expert. But I’ve been a doctor for over twenty years. Parahumans messing with the human body...it rarely ends cleanly.”

He paused, putting his clipboard under his arm.

“I’m not saying this to scare you,” the doctor said quietly. “Just… be cautious. Pay attention to your body. And if you notice anything strange—anything at all—come back. Immediately.”

He sighed, long and weary. “A man will be here in a minute. He’ll explain some things. He’s with the PRT, and he’s probably going to make you an offer. I don’t know how it’ll go, but for your sake… I hope I never see you in this ward again, Ms. Folger.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone with her mother and the growing whirlwind in her head.

So. The boy might’ve saved her life—but possibly doomed her in the same breath.

Was that how it worked?

Weren’t there capes like Panacea? Wasn’t healing a thing? What made his method different? He’d said he wanted to give the serum to Aegis—another hero. So it had to be safe, right? Safe enough to be trusted by the Protectorate?

Then why not her?

And more importantly…

Did she even care?

What if it wasn’t safe? What if it was addictive, or dangerous, or left her body relying on it forever? Was that really such a bad thing? Because if it meant seeing him again—talking to him again—learning who the hell he was…

Would that really be so terrible?

The door to her hospital room opened again.

This time, it wasn’t a doctor. A man in a charcoal suit stepped inside, his hair slicked back with military precision. He had dark eyes, calm and intelligent, and a smooth, practiced smile.

And yet, something about him immediately set her on edge.

“Good morning, Mrs. and Ms. Folger,” he said with easy politeness. “I understand you're feeling better this morning?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Diana asked, voice sharp.

“Diana!” her mother gasped, mortified. “Sir, I’m so sorry—”

“Agent Conner,” he said, cutting in with a disarming hand wave. “No need to apologize. I appreciate people who get to the point.”

He stepped further into the room, eyes now fixed on Diana. His tone cooled, his posture shifted—calculated. Professional. Dangerous.

“Let’s address the situation plainly. The PRT—and by extension, the Protectorate—would like to extend a formal apology. One of our Wards, codename Leet, utilized an unauthorized experimental serum on a civilian in critical condition. That civilian being you.”

He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Leet has been placed on suspension for six months. We fully understand if you wish to pursue legal action. That is your right. In recognition of the incident, the PRT is prepared to offer financial restitution: a settlement of five hundred thousand dollars. In return, you would sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding the serum and all parties involved. Standard IRS deductions would apply, of course, but even after taxes, it remains a substantial amount.”

Diana’s eyes widened despite herself.

Five hundred grand.

That was life-changing money. Enough to leave this goddamn city behind. Enough to get her and her mom out of the dingy apartment, out of the dead-end jobs and constant fear of being mugged on the way home from the store. Hell, they could move across the country. Start fresh. Somewhere clean. Somewhere safe.

But her thoughts were already drifting again. Not to the money.

Back to him.

But to say that meant shifting blame—to the guy who gave her another chance at a future, who handed her the chance to see another sunrise, to hold her mother’s hand one more time, to not die alone in a pool of her own blood. 

How do you condemn someone who saved you when you were literally at death’s door?

So, despite her better judgment—despite every warning bell in her head screaming that this was insane—she said softly, “I don’t want to press charges against Leet. He saved my life. If anything... I want to thank him.”

Her mother’s eyes bulged. The silence that followed was tight and suffocating. She could feel the storm behind her mother’s stare—that aching need to scold her, to snap at her for throwing away what was probably a small fortune in hush money. 

But underneath that, she knew her mom understood. 

You don’t punish someone for doing you a good turn. That’s just not how the world should work.

Agent Conners raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. “That’s... interesting. Definitely not the response we expected.” He tapped a finger on his wrist. “So, to be clear, you’re waiving your right to press charges against Leet. Does that also mean you’re willing to waive your right to sue the PRT if any adverse effects later arise from the serum he administered?”

Okay—she wasn’t that nice.

“As long as the PRT helps me if anything bad does happen because of that weird purple liquid, then yeah,” she said, her voice firming. “I won’t press charges.”

Agent Conners gave her a long, unreadable look, as if she were some puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “You’re definitely not what we expected.”

He paused, then continued. “That said, we do have another offer for you—one we intended to present regardless of your decision. Leet gave us a full rundown of the serum he used. He calls it Apex Shimmer. According to him, it’s designed to grant advanced regenerative capability, increased strength and reflexes, a moderate level of durability, and... a host of other traits he didn’t have time to fully catalog.”

Wait. What?

“This is an unusual situation,” he went on, calm but deliberate. “By standard definitions, you do not possess the physical marker typically associated with a parahuman trigger. However, your current state places you in a unique legal category. You may qualify as what we call an Enhanced—a human capable of extraordinary feats due to a parahuman’s intervention. That classification is typically reserved for individuals empowered by Trump-type parahumans or equipped by Tinkers with highly advanced technology.”

Her breath hitched.

No. No way. He wasn’t actually going to say it, was he?

“Enhanced individuals can be formally registered with the PRT and, depending on the strength and nature of their abilities, may be eligible to join the Protectorate as auxiliary members or trainees.”

He met her gaze, steady and unwavering. “So, Ms. Folger... what do you say?”

A pause. The room seemed to still around her.

“Would you like to be a hero?”