Gloryhound(Worm/Jujutsu Kaisen SI) Chapter 15

The crush of bodies surged around Taylor like a living tide, and even with her swarm buzzing visibly in a protective halo, it barely made a dent in the mass of panicked people. The insects buzzed and flitted in tight, agitated loops around her head and shoulders, a warning barrier that should have warded people off. But fear made people stupid, and only when someone caught a glimpse of her costume—realized she was a cape—did they stumble back with wide eyes and muttered apologies. Most didn’t. Most just kept pressing forward, shoulder to shoulder, driven by the kind of primal fear that steamrolled over rational thought.

There were easily a thousand people packed into the immediate block, all pushing against each other like cattle. The crowd didn’t move with any purpose beyond the general knowledge that they needed to escape—surge forward, reach a shelter, survive. Police barricades at key intersections tried to direct the flow, officers shouting orders with tired voices, their expressions tight with stress. Squad cars and yellow tape cordoned off alternate routes, herding the masses toward the city’s multi-level emergency bunkers.

Everyone knew what to do in an Endbringer attack. There were flyers. Seminars. School assemblies with bright cartoon mascots who broke it all down into manageable steps: Bring only what you can carry. No vehicles. No large pets. Stay calm. Move quickly. Follow police instructions.

And yet… none of that seemed to matter.

Taylor saw it in real time: rules crumbling in the face of real terror. A woman tugging two oversized suitcases that clattered over the cracked pavement, forcing people to trip and stumble behind her. A teenager hugging a lizard tank to his chest, the poor reptile thrashing wildly as the boy was jostled on all sides. Dogs barking, yanking at leashes, snarling at other pets, tripping up panicked owners. People screamed at each other, shoved one another aside, trying to create space where none existed. Two sedans were slowly inching forward through the chaos, horns blaring like war trumpets, as if noise alone would clear a path.

The wailing of the air raid sirens had become a dull, ever-present scream in the back of her skull. Between that, the yelling, the horns, and the buzz of her own swarm hdiidng in her hair, Taylor couldn’t hear herself think. It felt like the noise was compressing her brain. Every instinct was screaming at her to leave—to run, to find her dad, to protect the dockworkers she’d spent months looking out for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She had to get to the command center.

There was no room for emotion now, no room for empathy. No time to think about her father, her city, or the people she might not see again. Not if she wanted to make a difference. Not if she wanted to do something against Leviathan. She didn’t know how much good she could do with just bugs, but even a small edge might matter. Even a distraction could buy someone precious seconds. She was determined to help, no matter how small her contribution might be considered.

Pushing forward, she spotted a trio of police officers manning a barricade—two cars angled to block incoming traffic, yellow tape fluttering in the wind like weak string trying to hold back a flood. One of the officers, a stocky man with graying hair and a sharp jaw, looked up, and his eyes widened in recognition.

She’d worked with him before. Maybe not directly, but she’d made a habit of contacting the police after encounters, giving them statements, relaying intel, doing what she could to show she wasn’t like the villains running wild in the Bay. Unlike most capes, she treated them like allies,a nd that in turn meant that most of the BBPD gave her a lot more respect than she’d expected.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the younger officer next to him placed a hand on his arm and subtly shook his head. Without a word, the younger man reached through the open window of the police car, pulled out a packet of papers, and pressed them into her hand.

She glanced down.

“Parahuman Response,” the top read, printed in bold, utilitarian font. Below it was a rough black-and-white map with highlighted streets and hastily scribbled notes—a path through the chaos, straight to where the capes were gathering.

It was her invitation to the war.

The location wasn’t far—just a short jog east of the mall where she used to hang out with Emma before their friendship had curdled into betrayal. The thought stung, a quick pulse of hurt and anger that she shoved down as she picked up her pace toward the PRT building.

As she moved deeper into the city, the crowd began to thin. Most civilians were already fleeing toward designated shelters, some herded in different directions by patrols and loudspeakers. One group in particular looked like they were being redirected due to some unseen danger up ahead, and she made sure to circle wide around them, slipping into quieter streets.

Then she saw it—a streak of smoke arcing down from the sky like a comet. It landed with a heavy, metallic thud just a block ahead. She skidded to a halt, her breath catching. From the smoke emerged a sleek armored suit with angular lines, metallic wings, and a heavy-duty jetpack system still hissing steam.

Dragon.

Taylor felt the tension ease from her shoulders. It was probably wrong to feel so relieved, but she couldn't help it. Dragon wasn’t just competent—she was one of the best, top ten capes in the world. You could count on one hand the number of people who’d defeated her more than once, and most of them were either Endbringers or terrifying Tinkers in their own right. If Dragon was here, then maybe—just maybe—things wouldn’t be so bad.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth under the mask as she jogged the last few blocks, eventually arriving at a wide four-lane road that separated her from her destination. On the other side, sitting alone atop a grassy hill, stood the PRT building. It wasn’t much to look at—six stories of brown brick with dark-tinted windows—but it was heavily fortified. Four of the five vehicles in the parking lot were PRT vans with turret-mounted hoses, riot armor, and reinforced plating.

That told her all she needed to know. This was the rally point.

To the side of the building, crouched on the open field like some titanic beast, was Dragon’s latest mech suit. It looked like a fusion between a spider tank and a mobile launch platform—four legs, a central jet turbine, and two massive missile racks on either side of its shoulders. Each launcher was already preloaded with warheads longer than she was tall. The thing radiated menace and calm control, completely still as it faced the bay like a gargoyle ready to strike.

She followed its gaze and felt her heart skip a beat.

Out over the water, a storm loomed. Not just any storm—a solid wall of dark clouds and torrential rain, churning like a living thing. It was far off now, but closing steadily. 

Leviathan was coming.

A squad of PRT officers noticed her approach and waved her over. She broke into a light jog again, just as a sharp, muffled boom echoed across the lot. A gust of displaced air followed, and suddenly, a half-dozen figures stood in the center of the parking lot where no one had been a moment before.

Taylor stopped dead in her tracks.

Awestruck. 

There was no better word for it. No exaggeration. It wasn’t just admiration or intimidation—it was that breath-stealing moment where she truly felt the weight of presence.

Alexandria stood at the forefront.

She moved with purpose, her helmet scanning the surroundings. Her long, black hair flowed behind her like a battle standard, her cape brushing the ground with every step. She looked like something out of myth—tall, athletic, muscular, but undeniably elegant. Her black and gray costume gleamed in the late afternoon sun, with a stylized tower emblazoned on her chest.

Behind her, the rest of her strike team spread out in loose formation: Rime with her frost-wreathed silhouette; Arbiter and his sharp, formal armor; Auroch’s heavy frame; Vantage and Usher walking like they’d done this a hundred times before; Flambé and Leister, fire and fury incarnate.

And then there was someone she didn’t recognize. A new face. A broad-shouldered man without a mask in a black jacket over a violet shirt, dark jeans, and black boots that thudded softly against the pavement. He looked like the kind of guy you’d find on the cover of a romance novel: confident, handsome, with a knowing grin. As he passed her, he winked.

Her cheeks flushed under the mask.

Sue her, she liked her men with a bit of meat on their bones.

The only one who stayed behind in the lot was a man in a dark blue and black uniform, cap tilted low over his brow. He surveyed the area silently, then vanished with a muted crack and a rush of displaced air, quieter than the teleportation boom that had preceded the team’s arrival.

Taylor exhaled slowly, steadying her breath as best she could. Her heart thundered in her chest, rapid and relentless.

This was it.

The Big Fight.

And she was here for it. It was still crazy to think about; that she, the the little kid who’d dreamed about being the next Alexandria, was about to fight next to her. True, it wasn’t exactly the thing she wanted, but hey, no looking a horse gift in the mouth, right?

She circled the parking lot, careful to stay clear of the open space designated for incoming teleporters. The air was thick with tension and the rising wail of sirens. She was nearly at the lobby doors when another group arrived behind her in a flicker of light—the same kind of teleport Alexandria had used earlier. This group, however, was younger. Teenagers. Heroes from Boston, if she remembered correctly.

The teleporter barked a command, though his voice was drowned out by the sirens. Still, the newcomers obeyed without hesitation, falling into a quick, purposeful march toward the entrance. At the head of their group strode a shirtless boy whose appearance made her falter for just a second.

His body was entirely metal, a dusky, dark gray alloy streaked with swirls of lighter steel like veins through raw ore. He moved with heavy grace, each step quiet but deliberate. His musculature was defined like a statue—an Adonis sculpted from alien metal. Silver lines traced his arms and chest like inlaid circuitry, and his eyes gleamed with the same color, stark against the matte gray of his face. Two silver streaks ran down from the corners of his eyes, skimming over high cheekbones and following the sharp lines of his jaw.

Weld.

She recognized him instantly. One of the most well-known monster capes alive. A living legend in the making—and, she noted with only slight shame, very easy on the eyes.

That alone might have made her day, but the fact that he gave her a nod and clapped a heavy, cool hand on her shoulder as he passed? That earned a blink and a tight smile in return, even if he couldn’t see it. She probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that contact as much as she did. But hey—she was about to fight a kaiju. If she wasn’t getting a medal, she’d settle for having a hunky boy be nice to her.

She followed his squad into the lobby.

Folding chairs had been hastily set up in neat rows facing a trio of widescreen TVs, each mounted above a sleek command terminal. Beyond them, large windows looked out onto the beach. The waves crashed in the distance, turbulent and foaming, as black clouds rolled across the horizon. The storm was coming.

But what truly drew her attention wasn’t the ocean. It was the people.

Or rather… how few there were. There were barely one hundred people in the room altogether. She figured that for an Endbringer, you’d get both heroes and villains from all over the world to attend, but right now, it just seemed to be mostly made up of American heroes.

The Travelers were present, the only villains in the city who had bothered to show up. She’d read about them on PHO—enigmatic, powerful, and unusually quiet for a villain group. Every other villain group in the city, though? Gone.

The Empire and the ABB were finished, eaten alive by Fester and his giant cockroach monster(which was something she still needed to take care of). Not that she expected them to show even if they’d survived. For all their posturing and theatrics, they’d never had the guts to attend Endbringer battles. It was one thing to bully the Bay into submission; it was another to throw yourself into a fight with what was essentially a god. The Undersiders were petty thieves, so this was way out of their ballpark. Uber and Leet were losers, and Leet’s inventions basically made it so that they could’t be trusted to help in the fight. Circus was a petty thief, and Faultline’s group were mercenaries, so unless someone was handing them a check, they weren’t showing up.

The local heroes, however, had shown up in force. That didn’t surprise her. Optics mattered, especially in a city like Brockton Bay, where the heroes were always on the backfoot and expected to be at their best. Missing an Endbringer fight wouldn’t just be career-ending—it was basically a betrayal to every ideal they stood for. But even so, she liked to think it wasn’t just about appearances.

She wanted to believe they were all here because they cared. 

That this wasn’t just an obligation or pressure, but a choice. That in the face of annihilation—when the world teetered on the edge of despair—these people, these strangers, had still chosen to stand together for something greater than themselves. That they wanted to save her city because they were the good guys.

The thought was comforting, in a way. She was here, after all. Taylor Hebert. Not a hero with accolades or a polished name, not someone with national recognition. She’d fought dealers, petty thugs, the dregs of the city. Skidmark, Mush, Squealer. Street-level trash. And now she was standing here with the best in the world.

Aegis stood off to the side, locked in discussion with Weld. Around them, at least fifteen other teenagers gathered in scattered groups. Most were trying to lighten the atmosphere—jokes thrown around, flashes of forced laughter. It was a coping mechanism. You laughed to keep from breaking. 

Taylor understood that better than most.

She guessed they were all Wards. Probably from three or four different cities, shipped in by the dozen. It showed in the cliques forming: kids who knew each other gravitated into little circles, others hanging around the edges, quiet and alert.

New Wave stood close to the Wards, but they weren’t fully part of the conversation. Glory Girl and Gallant stood hand in hand, her posture tense despite the gentle grip. Panacea straddled a chair backwards beside her sister, her eyes distant, fingers idly scratching the ears of what looked like a massive white dog—or possibly a wolf. It was nearly the size of a motorcycle, its fur thick and pristine, posture regal and composed. Panacea whispered something into its ear, and to Taylor’s shock, the creature nodded as if it understood.

She didn’t remember New Wave having a superpowered pet. Then again, today wasn’t exactly a day for familiarity.

Further off, the adults of New Wave had rearranged folding chairs into a loose circle, huddled in conversation. There was tension even there—shoulders tight, mouths pulled taut—but also a quiet confidence. This was routine for them. Maybe not the end of the world, but close enough. She couldn’t recall if New Wave had faced an Endbringer before, but they had fought Lung, who was like a tiny Endbringer, on multiple occasions, so hopefully the skills would transfer.

Then there were the Protectorate members. Not just from the ENE Branch; This was the big leagues. Armsmaster stood taller than she remembered seeing him on TV, confidence radiating from the way he adjusted the twin halberds mounted to his back—sleek, brutal-looking weapons that glowed softly with some internal power source. He was speaking in low tones with Miss Militia, Legend, and Mahito—the newest monster cape healer whose reputation was already nearing mythic.

Just a few feet away stood Brockton’s other heroic monster cape, Velyra. Taylor had seen both of them on television once or twice. Everyone spoke of Mahito like he was some kind of miracle worker, and even now, the way he carried himself… It was hard to describe. Calming. Measured. Dangerous, too, but in the way a scalpel was dangerous.

It took Taylor a moment to process the full weight of what she was seeing. This was it. Hero central. Nearly ninety percent of the people in this stadium were heroes—real ones. Legends in training. And she was standing among them. Just a girl in a black bodysuit with insects in her hair and nerves made of frayed wire.

She shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Legend. His suit was skin-tight blue, marked with stylized white lines that danced somewhere between lightning bolts and flames. His posture was relaxed, but even so, he radiated strength. Charisma. Hope. He looked like he belonged on a comic book cover—perfect jawline, perfect teeth, windswept brown hair, and a gaze like he could see the stratosphere.

Seriously. Was it some kind of unwritten law that all male heroes had to be absurdly, unfairly handsome?

It was getting ridiculous at this point.

Anyway, if Alexandria was the benchmark that every other flying bruiser measured themselves against, then Legend was her counterpart when it came to ranged devastation. The man didn’t just throw around lasers—he defined what beam-spamming looked like on the battlefield. She’d seen videos of his power in action, watched him level buildings with a single shot. His beams made Purity’s light blasts look like someone shining a flashlight through fog. It was one thing to be strong. It was another to be a living anti-aircraft platform with the smile of a movie star.

With two out of three of the Protectorate’s top dogs spotted, she scanned the crowd for the third. Myrddin was easy to pick out in his tattered brown robes, complete with a wooden staff that made him look like a wise old wizard from some old RPG. Chevalier stood proud in his gleaming silver-and-gold armor, that oversized cannonblade resting on his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Bastion was there too, though his reputation had taken a nosedive recently. A video had gone viral of him shouting slurs—specifically, calling a fan ‘spic’—after the kid had asked for a picture. Not a great look, no matter how cool your power was, and kind of disappointing, considering he was the leader of the Boston Protectorate.

Then her eyes landed on the last member of the Triumvirate.

Eidolon stood at the back of the room, partially obscured behind one of the massive flat-screen monitors. He wasn’t mingling. He wasn’t talking with anyone. Just watching the skyline through a pane of reinforced glass like he was waiting for something to go horribly wrong.

His costume was unique in its own right—a deep blue-green bodysuit that expanded into a voluminous hood and billowing sleeves that draped over his hands like a sorcerer’s robes. The inside of the hood and sleeves weren’t dark, as one might expect, but instead glowed faintly with a green light, soft and unnatural. There was something… off about him. Not in the way that villains seemed off, or the way capes with lethal powers were off. Eidolon radiated power, yes—but also something heavier. Like being in the room with a walking doomsday contingency.

Debating which hero was strongest was practically a pastime among students, fan forums, and even capes themselves. She and Emma used to do it all the time. Alexandria versus Legend? Boston’s Protectorate against Brockton Bay’s? Could Myrddin take Chevalier if you leveled the playing field?

Eventually, though, the conversation always circled back to the real heavy hitters. The ones nobody wanted to include because they made the conversation too short. "Well, yeah," someone would inevitably say, "but besides the big five."

Scion topped that list, of course. His power wasn’t just devastating—it was incomprehensible. The fact that he even chose to use it to help people was, in and of itself, one of Earth Bet’s greatest mercies.

Eidolon, though—he was different. If Scion was the golden god with the power to crush cities, Eidolon was the wildcard. The paradox. He didn’t just have one power. He had every power—at least, in theory. The catch was that he could only hold on to a few at any given time. No one knew exactly how many. Some said three. Others guessed five. 

But it didn’t really matter, because whatever he chose was always what the situation required. If Alexandria was strength, and Legend was precision, Eidolon was adaptability incarnate.

He was a living armory. A one-man war machine. The nuclear option.

Sure, some diehard fans might argue Legend was stronger, or that Dragon’s tech or Alexandria’s unbreakable body gave them the edge. But when it came down to raw, undefined potential?
 

When the question was, "Who do you call when the world starts ending?"

The answer was simple.

You called Eidolon.

But as she stood quietly on the edge of the gathering, Taylor couldn't help but notice all the little groups forming around her. Wards and Protectorate capes talking in low voices. New Wave standing in a tight, confident cluster. Dozens of heroes exchanging nods, subtle handshakes, or shared grim expressions.

She was surrounded by capes—heroes she’d known since she was a toddler—but the truth hit her like a punch to the stomach.

She was still alone.

She hadn’t been part of the big battles that defined the city’s current landscape. Not against the ABB’s rampage or the E88’s brutal takeover attempts. While the city had burned, she’d stayed close to the Docks, guarding her father and his coworkers—blue-collar men who remembered her only as “Owl,” a quiet, eerie vigilante who showed up just in time. She had their respect, even their gratitude.

But no one knew the girl beneath the mask. Not even her Dad.

She didn’t patrol where other heroes walked. She didn’t talk to them. In the grand chessboard of Brockton Bay’s cape scene, she wasn’t a knight or a bishop or a pawn.

She wasn’t even on the board.

So maybe that was the saddest part of it all—out of costume or in it, Taylor Hebert was still very much alone.

She was so deep in her thoughts, so wrapped up in the pity coiling in her chest, that she didn’t notice someone approaching until it was too late. A faint crunch beneath a boot. One of her bugs—one of the large daddy longlegs she’d been using to monitor the area—was crushed underfoot, and she was alerte by its death.

Startled, her head snapped up.

Mahito, the new healer cape, was walking toward her. The kind smile on his face caught her off guard. A few feet behind him stood Armsmaster and Legend still deep in discussion, whilst Velyra kept her eye on Mahito, her expression unreadable.

“Hey,” Mahito said gently, stopping a respectful distance away. “Sorry to bother you. Would you mind calling your bugs back in? They're starting to freak a few people out.”

Taylor’s face turned red instantly.

“Shit—I mean, sorry. I forgot. That other people get uncomfortable around them. I wasn’t trying to—um, it won’t happen again,” she stammered as she summoned her bugs back to her. She was too sued to having them spread out and covering the area around her, giving her a three hundred and sixty degree field of vision.

Mahito waved a hand casually, still smiling. “It’s okay. You’re nervous. Everyone’s got their own coping methods. No judgment here.” He offered a gloved hand. “I’m Mahito. You’re Skitter, right?”

Taylor hesitated. Then, quietly, she shook her head.

“I know who you are—I mean, I’ve heard of you,” she said quickly. “But I go by Owl. Not Skitter.”

He blinked in surprise. “Owl? Doesn’t quite match the bug theme.”

“I know.” She gave a small, nervous laugh. “I thought about names like Arachne, or Weaver, or Scorpia, but they all felt... too on the nose. And a lot of capes name themselves after their powers, which I think is kind of dumb. Why advertise what you can do, right? So I went with Owl. They’re my favorite animal, and the name means a lot to me. It’s not taken, it’s simple, and it works. At least, I think it does.”

Oh god. She was rambling.

She hadn’t done this in forever—gone on one of her tangents. Not since Emma and her friends tore her down for it, back when she used to blurt out facts in class or over-explain things. She thought she’d buried that part of herself after years of relentless bullying.

But Mahito wasn’t laughing at her. If anything, he looked… interested.

“That’s actually good reasoning,” he said thoughtfully. “Most heroes pick names that tie into their power for branding. Back in the Golden Age, deity names and big ideals were the trend—Zeus, Titan, Paladin, stuff like that. Nowadays, it’s all about being memorable. ‘Mahito’ was different for me. I didn’t have a civilian identity, so I needed a name I could use all the time. One that I felt comfortable owning, both in and out of the mask.”

Taylor gave him a small nod, her shoulders easing ever so slightly.

She hadn’t expected anyone to talk to her tonight. Definitely not someone like him—the kind of person who seemed too put-together, too respected to notice someone like her. Friendly, well-adjusted, and already part of the unspoken circles of trust. But here he was.

Mahito didn’t move closer, didn’t push, just stood beside her with the quiet ease of someone used to being listened to.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said after a beat. “No offense intended, but your power isn’t exactly built for fighting something like this. We heard you were new. You could have gone to a shelter, and no one would’ve blamed you for it. Why come?”

Taylor shrugged, folding her arms. “Because this is why we’re here. Why we exist.”

His expression shifted slightly, a curious frown knitting his brow. “Why we exist?”

“Parahumans, I mean,” she clarified. “Thirty years ago, people with our kind of powers were regarded as myths. Folktales. Then suddenly, Scion appears in 1982, and after that, powers start cropping up all over the world. It doesn’t make sense. Evolution doesn’t work like that—nature doesn’t just... decide to do something unless it has to. There’s always pressure. A need. Something in the environment that forces change.”

Mahito tilted his head, listening.

“Then, ten years later? 1992? The Endbringers show up. These unstoppable monsters no human weapon can touch, and the only ones who can push them back? Us. Parahumans.”

“You think we were meant to fight them,” he said slowly. “That parahumans are a response. An adaptation.”

Taylor nodded. “It fits. It’s the only thing that makes sense, to me, at least. Powers aren’t random—they’re built to deal with threats. Not just human threats. Existential threats. And maybe this isn’t the first time. Think about it—we have all these legends of myths and gods. People with the power to hurl lightning, fly, heal with a touch, fighting back monsters from the deep, from the void. Maybe those stories were records of the last time something like this happened. Maybe we’re not the first generation who were given powers in order to fight monsters. For the Greeks, it was the Titans. For the Norse, it was the Giants. And for us…we get the Three.”

She trailed off, realizing she might’ve gone too far. Her voice was tighter than she meant it to be, her hands clenched at her sides. She didn’t liek talking about her theories; the few times she’d talked about them in school, it had gotten her labeled a psycho, and it made people think she was blaimg people like the heroes for Endbringers appearing, and that meant even less people wanted to talk to her than before.

But Mahito didn’t scoff or look angry

He nodded.

“That’s a fascinating theory,” he said. “And a compelling one. Very logical and pattern-based. Honestly? Its not a bad idea. The prevailing theory is that Endbringers are parahumans whose powers have overtaken them, but we know of S-class threats from all over the world who have had similar things happen to them, and they don’t act like the Endbringers do. So your theory has merit.”

Taylor blinked. Her face flushed under her mask. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “Not many people want to listen when I talk like this.”

He opened his mouth to respond—but before he could, Legend cleared his throat at the front of the room. His voice carried, steady and commanding, drawing every eye without trying.

“We owe thanks to Dragon and Armsmaster for the early warning. Because of them, we’ve had time to gather and prepare. That’s rare. And it gives us a brief window—just a few more minutes to plan, instead of diving in blind.”

A hush fell over the room.

“With that in mind,” Legend continued, “you should know your odds. Given previous encounters with this creature, even with every advantage, a good day still means one in four of us won’t live to see tomorrow.”

That silenced whatever whispering remained.

Taylor’s gut twisted. She knew the risks, but hearing it said so plainly—it made it real.

“But,” Legend continued, his voice firm, “Brockton Bay has given us two things we’ve never had before. The first is that one of the locals engaged Leviathan before he even made landfall—and has managed to hold him at bay. That’s given us more time to prepare than ever before.”

A murmur spread through the assembly like a gust of wind through dry leaves. Beneath her mask, Taylor’s eyes widened. Someone from Brockton Bay was holding off Leviathan? Alone? She mentally tallied every parahuman she considered strong enough to delay an Endbringer—and realized with growing unease that all of them were already in this very room.

Then, the three widescreen monitors lining the wall above the briefing platform flickered to life, bathing the room in cold LED light.

“This is live footage one of my drones captured minutes ago,” Dragon explained, her voice steady. “The parahuman in question is a known Master-class Villain operating under the name Fester. He’s infamous in Brockton Bay for his aggressive, territorial tactics and highly destructive minions. We previously assumed he’d sit this battle out, as many Villains do, but it appears he’s chosen to engage Leviathan directly. He is accompanied by another villain—Oni Lee, of the ABB. I considered deploying support to their location, but frankly, they appear to be managing far better than expected for a team of only two parahumans.”

Taylor’s attention locked onto the screen.

Leviathan hadn’t yet stepped onto land. He stood knee-deep in the water at the edge of the docks—though "knee-deep" was relative when you stood over thirty feet tall. But he wasn’t advancing. Something was physically stopping him.

Wrapped around Leviathan’s towering form was Fester’s newest creature: the same grotesque, serpentine dragon that had killed Purity. The creature was massive—easily the size of a plane—and currently coiled multiple times around the Endbringer’s torso, arms, and neck. Its body looked like a twisted blend of solid muscle and delicate looking scales, slick with a glistening sheen, and its clawed hands raked across Leviathan’s tough green skin in a continuous flurry. Its oddly human-like teeth were clamped down hard on the base of the Endbringer’s neck, refusing to let go even as geysers of high-pressure water burst from Leviathan’s skin and hammered against its sides.

Still, it held.

But that wasn’t the only thing harrying the Endbringer.

Taylor squinted at the screen, realizing that Leviathan’s entire lower half was teeming with movement. Brown, gleaming shapes covered his legs and arms—tiny at first glance, but larger than any normal insect. They shimmered like coins under the ambient light of the storm, crawling, digging, burrowing into the body of the monster.

Roaches. Fester’s roaches.

Giant ones, each the size of a clenched fist, clinging to the Endbringer’s flesh. Some of them had begun to burrow into the gaps between Leviathan’s scales, and even with the onslaught of water, they stayed fastened to him with a desperate, mindless determination.

Taylor inhaled sharply. 

She had grown so accustomed to the low, background hum of Fester’s roaches—the constant, instinctive rhythms of feeding and nesting—that she barely noticed it anymore. But now, the hum had turned into a scream.

She could feel them. Not just as a dull pressure or hazy awareness, but a raw, searing flood of sensory overload. They were dying in droves… and yet, somehow, they were making progress.

If she could just see through them, anchor herself in that alien perspective...

Taylor stumbled into a nearby folding chair and dropped into it, barely hearing the clatter of metal as she sat. She shut her eyes and pulled in a long, steadying breath, forcing her mind to still. Not think. Just feel.

Calm, she told herself. Sink into the swarm. Don’t analyze. Don’t control. Just listen. Let go.

Don’t think, just sink.

Don’t think, just sink.

Don’t think, just…sink.

Legend’s voice faded behind her like distant thunder. Then everything went dark—before erupting into sensation.

Salt and sea. A crushing pressure that made her limbs feel like they didn’t exist. Flashes of green, rocky flesh. Bursts of kinetic water that tore limbs off her in chunks. But it didn’t matter. The swarm was infinite. For every one that died, ten more burrowed deeper. And deeper still.

There was something bitter in her—their—mouths. The instinct was to spit it out, but no. She had been told to eat, and she would obey. Because the command was simple, primal, and absolute.

She felt her brothers and sisters around her, millions of them embedded in Leviathan’s flesh like parasites too deep to scratch away. The deeper they got, the harder the flesh became. Not like stone—but something… alive. Hardened by will. Reinforced by instinct.

And then—

A mind. Not hers. Older, wiser, more bloodlusted.

It rifled through her thoughts like someone paging through a book written in a language they only half understood. Ancient. Brutal. Less refined. But powerful.

A voice, not with words but meaning, thundered into her skull:

“Leave. You are distracting me.”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cruel. Just… focused. Commanding.

And the fragment of herself  that was still human obeyed.

And in the next moment, Taylor gasped, her lungs seizing as she was yanked back into reality. The room rushed back into focus—chairs, screens, heroes. Legend’s voice rang sharply in her ear, steady and grounded, anchoring her like a tether tied around her spine. The phantom impression of that other mind—something wild, alien, distant—still echoed faintly at the edges of her consciousness.

“Hey. You okay?” Mahito’s voice was softer than Legend’s but no less concerned.

She blinked, surprised to find him seated beside her. Most of the capes had taken a seat now, fatigue or strategy setting in. She hadn’t noticed. Mahito had one hand gently resting on her shoulder, his eyes searching her face, watching for signs she hadn’t bounced back.

“I—I’m fine,” she muttered, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her skin was clammy, a fine sheen of sweat gathering at her brow. “Just felt sick for a second. I’m okay now.”

The moment passed, but her thoughts lingered on what she’d seen—or sensed. Fester was fighting. That surprised her. She hadn’t thought he’d be present, not when most of the city’s villains had opted out. The Travelers barely counted—they were nomadic, always drifting. And yet Fester was here. Not only that, but he was fighting Leviathan.

More curiously, he was fighting with Oni Lee.

She blinked at the screen again. Oni Lee—who many had assumed was long dead—was now fighting alongside Fester. Working for him, even, despite the fact that Fester had been the one who got his former boss eaten alive. That was a kind of loyalty she didn’t understand.

The screens showed the ongoing fight in full detail. Leviathan had driven the battle into deeper water, wrestling the massive dragon summon beneath the waves. The Endbringer was trying to drown it, pummeling its head and coiling body with clawed strikes, but the dragon was holding on like a limpet latched to rock. It refused to let go, even as Leviathan thrashed and bled.

Then—explosions.

Two of them. Different origins.

The first came from Oni Lee. His clones were appearing across Leviathan’s exposed body, clinging to scale and muscle before pulling the pins on grenades strapped to their chests. A chain of concussive blasts followed, the force of them knocking Leviathan sideways, briefly submerging it. But the dragon held firm, forcing Leviathan deeper underwater.

Back in its element, yes—but not in control. Not completely.

That didn’t mean they were safe. The waves battering the coastline were growing larger by the minute, crashing into the city like the fists of a furious god. The storm above had intensified, rain pelting the windows with a sharp, steady fury. Not drops—bullets.

The second explosion came from Fester himself.

One of Dragon’s aerial drones zoomed in, revealing his position: a rooftop several miles from the docks. He knelt there beside his massive cockroach beast—its chitin gleaming wet in the rain—and a strange woman in a flowing white dress. Her long black hair cascaded past her waist, obscuring her face completely. She didn’t move. She didn’t have to.

Fester’s hands were clasped together in front of him, trembling with focused energy. Between his fingers, a bloom of pale light pulsed like a living thing.

And then he opened them.

A creature launched forward—cicada-like, but monstrous. A bulbous body, stinger-faced, with a disturbingly human mouth twisted into a permanent grin. Its wings flared once, and then it shot through the air with terrifying speed, leaving a vapor trail behind it.

It struck Leviathan’s flank—and exploded.

The force was comparable to Oni Lee’s grenades, maybe stronger. Taylor watched the impact ripple through Leviathan’s body, forcing it to rear back. And then, as the creature turned to ash in the rain, Taylor glanced back at Fester.

His hands were clasped together again, the light already beginning to bloom once more.

He was summoning another.

She wanted to believe it would be enough. That these summoned beasts—the dragon and the roach demon—could bring down the Endbringer. 

She wanted to believe Leviathan could be killed.

But despite the blackened patches of scaled skin, despite the monstrous serpent wrapped around its limbs, squeezing tighter with every breath, despite the relentless swarm of insects tearing into its flesh and the barrage of explosions hammering it from all sides—

The storm was still growing.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the steady voice of Legend. He stood at the front of the briefing room, his presence grounding despite the dire circumstances.

“—and we have another critical advantage that could shift the tide in our favor,” he said, turning to gesture toward the monster cape beside her. “We have Mahito. The first healer who can provide live support during battle.”

A few heads turned. Eyes sharpened. Taylor felt it too—that faint spark of hope tempered with caution.

Mahito offered her a quick wink as he stood and gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Wish me luck,” he murmured with a crooked smile, then faced the room.

“Good afternoon, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mahito. I’m a powerful healer—and a rather accomplished shapeshifter.”

To demonstrate, he altered his face in a seamless wave of motion. First into Legend’s, then Alexandria’s—helmet included—and finally Weld’s unmistakable metal features, before returning to his own youthful, smiling face.

There were a few impressed murmurs.

“But why does this matter?” he continued. “Because my shapeshifting is so advanced, I can actually split off parts of myself.”

As he said this, he held up his right index finger with his left hand—and pulled it clean off.

There was no blood. No wound. No pain. The severed digit twitched, pulsed, and then morphed into a dull, grayish orb of flesh.

Taylor’s eyes widened beneath her mask.

“In seconds,” Mahito continued, holding up his newly regrown finger, “I can generate replacements. These pieces of me? They still function. I can channel my powers through them. So long as one of these is touching your skin, I can heal you in real-time—regardless of where I am on the battlefield.”

“What’s your range?” Alexandria asked, tone clipped, all business.

“I haven’t pushed it to its full limits,” Mahito admitted. “But I’m confident I can maintain the connection at least across a city block. Maybe further.”

“And if you’re wrong?” she pressed. “If the connection fails mid-battle, people die.”

He shrugged, calmly but not carelessly. “That’s true. But people are going to die anyway if I have to run between every injured cape like it’s a first-aid triage line. And I’m not convinced the hospital’s any safer—Endbringers have hit medical centers before, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. This gives us the best chance of survival. We don’t have the luxury of perfect options.”

Taylor watched him closely as the room fell into a heavy silence, the full weight of his words sinking into the assembled heroes.

Real-time healing.

Across the battlefield.

Any wound—instantly mended.

Bones snapped like twigs could be knit together in seconds. Ravaged organs, torn ligaments, crushed ribcages—repaired before death could set in.

She'd seen the videos before, like everyone else in the country had. Mahito's power at work. Casualties that should've been fatalities turned into recoveries. People who’d been turned to dust or glass being brought back agaisnt all odds.

Now that same power was here, in the middle of the battlefield, under their control.

It wouldn't guarantee victory. It wouldn't make this easy. But it was hope—a tangible, undeniable advantage they could grasp.

And sometimes, in an Endbringer fight, that was the difference between total disaster and a fighting chance.

"That’s all we need," Legend said finally, his voice steady, carrying a rare but sincere optimism. A small, determined smile crossed his face."With healing like this on our side, our odds of surviving this fight have just skyrocketed. I won’t insult you by promising a casualty-free Endbringer battle—because there’s no such thing. But I will promise this: We will use every advantage we have to make sure as many of us as possible come home when this is over."

He glanced around the room, meeting every gaze in turn.

"Now. Let's make a plan to save this city."

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