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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warnings:
Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death
Category:
Multi
Fandom:
Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Characters:
Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverLisa Wilbourn | TattletaleAlec | RegentBrian Laborn | GrueRachel Lindt | Bitch | HellhoundEmma Barnes (Parahumans)Sophia Hess | Shadow StalkerAmy Dallon | Panacea | Red QueenVictoria Dallon | Glory Girl | AntaresUndersiders (Parahumans)Brockton Bay WardsThomas Calvert | CoilMadison Clements
Additional Tags:
Mystic Eyes of Death PerceptionConceptual DeathHorrorPsychological HorrorBody HorrorCosmic HorrorExistential DreadSad girl hoursAlt-Power Taylor HebertPower CorruptionIdentity CrisisCharacter StudyBeing Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Is SufferingTaylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Needs a HugMagicInsanityMurder
Language:
English
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Published:2025-06-21Updated:2025-11-06Words:56,264Chapters:9/?Comments:252Kudos:757Bookmarks:293Hits:29,582
She Who Sees Death
TheSmilingFox
Chapter 8: The Slasher
Chapter Text
1/Interlude
The Slasher
Dean woke up with something heavy pressing against his chest.
Not sadness. Not exhaustion, either. It felt more like... weight.
He sat up, the room around him still dim, the rain gone but its scent clinging to the curtains. His sheets were warm, his bed too soft, and yet the heaviness didn't lift. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, trying to shake it off. The air stayed thick.
He felt it then: faint lights in the fog of his mind. Two of them. His parents were awake. He could tell without listening, without seeing: small, steady flickers of emotion glowing through walls, through distance.
He noted it absently. Then the weight deepened.
Not a cloud, he realized. Not really. More like the world itself had gone hollow, every breath dragging through syrup. He knew this feeling. He'd felt it before and could compare it to… the morning of a factory fire, a call from the Docks, a funeral with too many black coats and not enough words…
His heart lurched.
He was out of bed before the thought finished, barefoot on the cold floor, running down the hall. The house was warm, polished, expensive, but every step felt heavier, slower, as if wading through ash. His mind raced ahead of him.
What happened? Mom, Dad? Someone at work? Victoria—?
He burst into the living room.
"Something—" he started, breath catching. "—Something happened. What's going on? Are you okay? Is it Victoria?"
No answer.
His father stood in the corner, still and rigid, the morning light cutting across his face. The shadows swallowed half of it, leaving him expressionless, or maybe just emptied. His mother sat on the couch, dressed already, posture perfect, eyes wide and glassy. Her lips trembled, then steadied, as if preparing herself to speak.
She didn't. She only lifted a shaking hand and pointed.
Dean turned.
The TV flickered blue and white. The news anchor's voice was low, sterile. He didn't hear the words at first. Only the rhythm of tragedy, calm and professional.
Then he saw the text crawl across the bottom of the screen.
'FOURTEEN CIVILIANS FOUND SHOT DEAD AT 17TH AND HARBOR — SIX CHILDREN AMONG THE VICTIMS — AUTHORITIES SUSPECT GANG INVOLVEMENT AT THE DOCKS.'
The air left him. His knees nearly followed.
He steadied himself as he often did at tense meetings and gathered oxygen. Clenched his fists, his jaw. Tried to ground himself, to ignore the scent of soot wafting around, the taste of copper settling heavily on his tongue.
He'd been there last night. Left before midnight.
Fourteen people killed. While he slept like a baby.
He swallowed something that wasn't quite there. Something bitter, catching in his throat.
His father moved, maybe. A nod, or just the flicker of one. His mother's hands rose to her chest, fingers trembling as if she meant to pray. Dean couldn't tell. The world had congealed around him, his thoughts too slow, a black fog settling between him and everything else. There was a heat under it too, small and steady, burning somewhere low in his gut.
He turned for his room. Jogged into it with an urgency he couldn't articulate just yet.
Didn't even make it to the closet before his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
One glance… he saw missed calls stacking up. Wards. Supervisor Shane. Miss Militia. A string of unread messages crowding the screen until his vision blurred. He picked it up and scrolled to the latest.
A single text.
Director Piggot: Gear up and come. Now.
He was already moving before he realized it.
There was something about standing in front of a crowd that made Dean's stomach tighten. It wasn't nerves – he liked people, liked being seen. It was more like sitting in a room with his parents before they started arguing, that fragile quiet when everyone knew something was wrong but no one said it aloud.
He could feel it now. The tension humming beneath the bright lights, the cameras, the hollow shuffle of reporters setting up.
The PRT had commandeered one of the city's halls, hastily turned it into a stage for damage control. Director Piggot had called for the conference before the morning's chaos could spiral any further.
By the time Dean and the other Wards were ushered in, the room was already packed. Grey faces, flashing bulbs, the space swollen with something invisible.
The suit helped. It let him hide the small betrayals of his face behind layers of metal and circuitry. Still, standing shoulder to shoulder with the team—Armsmaster rigid as iron, Miss Militia composed but taut, the rest of the adults carved from stone—, it was hard not to shift his weight, hard not to feel like a kid pretending to be calm while the house burned down.
He could hide it, maybe. But he couldn't unfeel it. Couldn't tune out the pulse of emotion pressing in from every side.
For Dean, empathy wasn't metaphor. It was sense. Hearing color, in a way… only sharper, invasive, too much. Every person around him carried their own weather, and all of it poured into him at once: static, heat, smoke. The hall was packed tight, and normally that kind of crowd blended into white noise. But not here. Not today.
This was standing too close to a bonfire.
Anger radiated off the crowd, raw, directed. Some of it at the ABB. Some of it at the heroes standing before them. Now and then the flames licked his own armor, and though he didn't think he deserved it, part of him understood.
He could pick out the cold spots too. Reporters whose outrage wasn't outrage at all – just gleaming, predatory curiosity. They weren't angry. They were hungry.
He turned slightly, letting his eyes trace the line of the team. Vista looked tiny beside the adults, a splash of green and white against the dull suits and black cameras. She shifted from foot to foot in perfect rhythm – timed, a performance of composure. Dean didn't need to guess what lay beneath: fear, revulsion, a powerlessness that tasted of metal.
Clockblocker and Aegis stood still, arms crossed, both simmering. He couldn't separate their anger from his own anymore. Kid Win twitched beside them, nerves sparking bright and erratic. Dean almost smiled. He really couldn't blame him.
…Shadow Stalker was absent. Probably for the best. He didn't want to know what she was feeling. Not right now.
The adults were easier to read but harder to stomach. Miss Militia was all discipline, with something ugly smothered down, a flame trapped under glass. Armsmaster was… quieter. A slow churn of disgust, frustration, and something else. A waiting, coiled pressure. Expectation. For what, Dean couldn't tell. Maybe Piggot's words. Maybe for the chance to stop talking and start fixing a city that was, right now, bleeding out in real time.
The rest of the adult capes weren't much different. Dauntless radiated calm, a steady pulse that anchored the space around him. Velocity, on the other hand, was a storm in a bottle, impatience grinding against the walls of his restraint. Assault looked composed, though the tremor underneath told another story. And Battery…
Battery hurt.
Sadness rolled off her in quiet, rhythmic waves, so raw it almost stole his breath. She hid it well, but he could feel it anyway. He pictured himself standing close enough to hear someone crying through a wall. He wasn't sure if it was her or her emotions that felt… small. Compacted. As if she was mourning something tiny. And that was somehow worse.
He forced himself to mirror her calm. Empathy was dangerous in moments like this.
Then there was Director Piggot.
She stood at the podium, thickset and immaculate, the perfect image of bureaucratic control. Her hair precise, her suit crisp, her gaze sweeping the restless crowd as though she were measuring its pulse. Cameras clicked. Reporters leaned forward. Piggot didn't flinch. She let them wait, dangling the silence as bait, offering them the promise of outrage, of justice, of something to print in bold before noon.
To most, she looked unreadable. To Dean, she was worse.
Sorrow, rage, confusion... he didn't feel any of those.
He just sensed the faint throb of a headache, and beneath it, cold and pure and bottomless hate.
It wasn't like the sadness or anger rippling through the crowd. Piggot's emotions were colder, directionless, yet perfectly contained. Emotional frost on the glass of her mind. Dean couldn't decipher if she hated the ABB, the situation, or everyone in the room for making her face it. Maybe all of them. He stopped himself from probing deeper. Some feelings were better left unexamined.
When the last murmur faded, the doors shut, and security gave the all-clear, Director Piggot stepped forward. She straightened her jacket, brushed a finger against the microphones, and drew a collected breath.
"Good morning," she said. Her voice carried easily. Measured, steady, cutting through without needing to rise. "I am Emily Piggot, Director of the Parahuman Response Team for the East-North-East branch. Some of you know me already. For those who do not, I regret that our introduction must occur under such circumstances."
A beat of silence. The room held still. Cameras clicked softly, cautious not to break the spell.
"I will be brief," she continued, folding her hands over the podium. "At approximately three o'clock this morning, emergency services received multiple reports of gunfire and screams from residential areas near the Docks. Within thirty minutes, PRT units stationed on the perimeter registered a significant detonation. Upon arrival, they discovered that a full block had collapsed, with additional structural damage extending into adjacent streets."
She paused again. The faint hiss of her breath slipped into the microphones, sharp and sterile.
"There were no civilian casualties resulting from the detonation," she said. "However, as units responded to the distress calls, they discovered several residences forcibly entered. Multiple individuals were unaccounted for. Based on the evidence at hand, responding officers suspected coordinated abductions. PRT and police personnel initiated a joint sweep of the surrounding area, assisted by local heroes. The search did not locate the missing persons or any suspects."
Another pause. No one spoke, the silence itself bracing for impact. Dean's chest felt tight. He forced himself to breathe.
"Approximately two hours later, at around five-thirty," Piggot went on, her tone unchanged, "emergency services received additional reports of gunfire near the Docks. Law enforcement arrived on scene and found fourteen deceased individuals laid out along 17th street. Among the victims were six children, none older than ten."
The last sentence hung in the air, brittle, unreal. Cameras clicked, hesitant, as if unsure whether the moment was over. Director Piggot gave the grim, calm reassurance that it was not.
"The Parahuman Response Team has confirmed that both the kidnappings and the subsequent executions were carried out by the criminal organization known as the Azn Bad Boys – the ABB," she said, steady, almost mechanical. "The detonation was likewise traced to the parahuman designated 'Lung.'"
Her expression didn't change, but her words sharpened by a fraction as she went on. "Preliminary forensics indicate the victims were executed with military-grade assault rifles, weapons acquired through illegal channels."
Dean didn't need his powers to feel it – the crowd's anger flared, close and snarling, a suffocating heat. The room was full of people searching for somewhere to throw their outrage, and the woman at the podium was the nearest target. Cameras clicked faster. Someone drew in a sharp breath.
Then Piggot continued, cutting through the rising tension with surgical precision.
"Negotiators were not engaged because there were no demands," she said. "This was not a hostage situation. There was no ransom, no contact, no claim of responsibility. At the time, every indication suggested an internal dispute within the ABB… until it was too late to intervene."
A pause. The faintest creak of the podium as she leaned forward, weight braced through her arms.
"Let me be clear," she said, each word clipped. "This was not random gang violence. This was a coordinated act of terror, one that claimed fourteen innocent lives. A message written in blood."
Her voice didn't change—the same even cadence, the same cool timber—but whatever lived beneath it sharpened, a blade drawn from its sheath. The feeling that crawled under Dean's skin pressed down, focused; whatever Piggot harbored wasn't vague disgust anymore but purpose honed to a point.
"Whatever their intent," she said, flat and relentless, "it is irrelevant. They crossed a line. They abandoned any pretense of discernment and acted with military force against civilians, adults and children alike. They aimed to shatter the peace this city has fought to keep."
She straightened. From where he stood Dean could see the hard geometry of her face. No plea, no wavering, only verdict. Whether it was conviction or a long-made decision, it felt like iron.
"For those reasons, effective immediately," Piggot continued, "the Azn Bad Boys are designated as a terrorist organization under federal classification for premeditated acts of violence and endangerment of civilians. Resources—time, equipment, manpower—will be directed to dismantle this group, seize their assets and illegal armaments, and bring every responsible party to justice."
The room exhaled. Cameras stilled. Reporters' mouths hung open. The silence had weight; it lingered in the stillness, something waiting to be filled with consequences.
"The PRT and the Protectorate will bring justice to Brockton Bay," she finished, folding her hands on the podium with a practiced calm. "That is all."
Everyone went silent. Resolve and doubt wound together as tightening wire. Dean resisted the urge to step back. The air itself seemed to press against him, heavy with the reporters' hunger – the cruel, desensitized hunger for answers, for a story. Some, he realized with a flicker of disgust, weren't mourning the dead. They were savoring the scoop.
Director Piggot, immaculate in her stillness, finally broke the spell with a single phrase.
"We will now take questions."
The room erupted.
Voices clashed, rose, tumbled over one another. Cameras flashed anew, chairs scraped violently, the room turned fever-hot. Dean saw the heroes stiffen, the PRT security edge forward, ready to step in if chaos turned physical.
The first microphone found its way to a young reporter. Calm, poised, her composure almost obscene against the backdrop of mass death.
Perhaps it was shock. Dean knew it was just the thrill of being first.
"Director Piggot," she began, her tone polite, professional. "Sasha Gottlieb, Brockton Bay Gazette."
Piggot inclined her head. "Good morning, Miss Gottlieb."
"Good morning. You mentioned that the ABB's intent is irrelevant," Sasha continued. "But the sudden kidnapping and execution of civilians, without ransom or contact, marks a sharp escalation. Lung usually confined his violence to other gangs – short, brutal turf wars with the Empire, nothing like this. This looks less like a bid for profit and more like an ideological statement."
She paused, eyes narrowing just slightly, scenting blood in the water.
"Is there any link between this attack and the recent killings of Asian youths in the Docks, many confirmed ABB members?" she pressed. "Could this 'message written in blood' be retaliation? A show of strength against a new enemy cutting into their ranks? And—" Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "—should the city be worried about a new, unpredictable cape taking justice into their own hands?"
Piggot let the question hang for a heartbeat before answering.
"The intent behind this tragedy is irrelevant," she responded, voice crisp. "It won't affect the PRT's response. The ABB will be treated as a terrorist entity, and dealt with accordingly. There will be no leniency, no soft approach. If necessary, lethal action will be taken. They have already shown they're willing to respond in kind."
She paused, just long enough for the room to notice.
"As for the nature of the message…"
Her eyes closed briefly. The silence stretched. Dean felt it hit as a pulse – irritation first, then the tremor of exhaustion, and underneath it all, the acrid taste of… panic.
"…The PRT is still investigating the individuals responsible for provoking this event," Piggot continued, her tone smooth again, mechanical. "We have confirmed only what's been reported – the slain youths were affiliated with the ABB. Several survivors are in custody and will be questioned once they stabilize. At this time, it would be premature to label this a gang dispute or the emergence of new parahumans."
Calm. Official. Her voice still sounded like safety when piped through evening news.
But to Dean, it rang like static. Every syllable carried the hollow hum of fear dressed as order.
Terrorism. The word itself felt antiseptic. Something to scrub the blood off the floor with. As if naming the monster could make it vanish.
The crowd rippled with half-whispered approval and anger. Cameras clicked again. A few of Dean's teammates nodded along, reassured.
Dean couldn't. He still felt the weight of fourteen extinguished lives pressing down, soft and insistent.
"We are in control of the situation," Piggot said at last.
The words came sharp, practiced… but to him, they sounded closer to a prayer. A quiet, desperate hope in a city holding its breath.
When the room exhaled, the relief felt almost real. Almost.
"This is bullshit."
The word cracked through the training room like a gunshot.
Aegis, Kid Win, and Clockblocker all flinched – the kind of reflex you get when something heavy drops close to your feet. Dean didn't. He'd felt the pressure building inside Vista long before she opened her mouth. Still, seeing the polite, composed girl swear like that hit harder than he'd expected.
"I mean… yeah." Clockblocker rubbed the back of his neck, helmet off, red hair sticking out at every angle. His usual smirk faltered. "Not gonna argue with you there. Didn't even get a full night's sleep before the news broke."
Vista folded her arms tight, boot tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor. "We could've stopped it," she said, voice low but shaking. "We knew something was coming. Lung doesn't take hits lying down. If the Director had sent us in sooner—"
She broke off, kicked the metal wall. The clang echoed sharp and hollow. She hissed and pulled back, clutching her toe.
"Damn it!"
The boys traded glances. An angry Vista was unfamiliar territory. After a beat, they all looked at Dean. He sighed, brushing his hair back.
"Nobody could've predicted this, Missy," he said gently. "You heard Piggot. This wasn't a fight we could've won cleanly. If we'd gone in sooner, more people would've died. Now the PRT can evacuate before they hit back."
Vista spun towards him, eyes half-lidded, bangs slicing across her face. Dean braced himself, not for the glare, but for the hurt beneath it.
She knew he was right. That didn't make it easier to swallow.
"Right," she snapped. "So we sit around while Lung proves what we already know, that he's human garbage. Maybe you should be director, Dean. You've got it all figured out, huh, pretty boy?"
She kicked the wall again, harder this time. The impact rattled through the training room.
"And where the hell is Sophia?!" Another kick. "She should be here with us!"
The echo faded. Silence followed.
Dean gave the others a helpless look. Aegis sighed, weary. Clockblocker's mouth twitched toward a grin that didn't survive long enough to reach his eyes. Kid Win looked ready to melt through the floor.
Vista froze. Then she folded her arms tight, exhaled, and dragged a hand through her hair. When she looked back at Dean, her voice had softened.
"Dean, I'm so, so sorry—"
He started to smile. "It's okay—"
"—No, don't," she cut in quickly, shaking her head. "That was rude. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It was childish and—" she let out a short, self-conscious laugh, "—just stupid."
Her shoulders slumped. Arms crossed again, this time like she was trying to hold herself together.
"I'm sorry," she said, quieter now. "Everyone's on edge, but that's not an excuse. I shouldn't take it out on you. I was dumb."
Dean let the apology carry a beat before glancing toward Aegis. The team leader gave him a small, permissive wave – his way of saying your call. Dean nodded and turned back to Vista.
"You're not dumb or childish," he said gently. "You're human. It's a lot to take in, and you reacted like anyone would. Honestly, you're handling it better than most adults in the building. You know I can tell."
He felt the flicker of shame in her chest waver, struggling against the comfort his words brought. He decided to push her toward the lighter side.
"…You're allowed to be normal," he said, flashing a grin. "We already have enough weirdos on the team. Sophia, for one. And Dennis."
Vista snorted before she could stop herself. Clockblocker choked on his own breath and started coughing between protests. Kid Win grinned; Aegis shook his head, smiling faintly.
"H-Hey! I'm not weird!" Clockblocker sputtered, sitting upright. "I'm the funny one! Okay, maybe I'm a little weird, but in a good way! Like, charmingly weird! Heroically weird! You know… manly!"
Vista's shoulders shook with barely-contained laughter. "Just weird, Dennis," she said, voice trembling with a smile. "Period."
"Missy?! Why?!" Clockblocker cried, betrayed.
That finally broke them. The laughter came hesitant at first, then freer, the kind that leaves something warm behind in its wake. For a moment, the weight in the room lifted.
A sharp hiss broke the quiet — the pneumatic sigh of a door decompressing. Dean turned toward it before anyone else did; he'd already felt the familiar warmth of her presence brushing against the edge of his senses.
"Well, isn't that music to my goddamn ears," came a confident drawl. "It's been all gloom and doom all day."
Glory Girl stepped into the training room like she owned the light. Her hair fell in a golden curtain down her back, her white boots clicked cleanly against the floor, and her grin could've powered the city if you bottled it. Whatever had broken the world outside, it clearly hadn't reached her.
Dean's chest tightened instinctively. A flicker of warmth, pride… then, faintly, the sharp taste of jealousy blooming behind him. Vista. He caught himself before the impulse to go to Glory Girl overtook him. The room had just settled; no need to stir it up again.
"Good day, Prince Charming," Glory Girl said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He returned it lightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Vista's emotions rippled, green and bright, but steady.
Then Glory Girl turned toward the rest of the team.
"Bozos," she greeted with a lazy two-fingered salute. Then, to Vista, "Queen."
Vista hesitated only a second before bumping her fist against Glory Girl's raised one. "Princess," she said, trying to sound unimpressed. It earned a laugh.
"She's learning!" Glory Girl announced with mock pride. "Anyway, how's everyone holding up? Not too bad? Dennis not dragging down the collective mood?"
Clockblocker threw up his hands. "I'm the funny one!"
Glory Girl's smile sharpened. "You're weird, Dennis. That's what you are."
The team broke into laughter again, easy, genuine this time. Even Aegis cracked a full grin. Clockblocker slumped dramatically, muttering something that sounded like whatever.
For a fleeting moment, it felt like a normal afternoon.
Dean started to answer but Aegis was a beat quicker, voice easy but businesslike.
"We're as well as anyone can be," he said, rolling one shoulder. "It was sudden. Piggot's briefed us already, though. We're on standby until the Docks evacuation finishes. How's the city?"
Glory Girl snorted. "A total mess." She rolled her eyes. "Protests, a couple crimes I had to nip in the bud. Empire's laying low for now."
"They'd be fools to poke at us while we choke out the ABB," Vista said. Her tone was calmer, the analyst in her taking the long view. "Let the enemy spiral."
Glory Girl twirled a lock of golden hair, a smile more threat than charm. "Maybe. I wanted to break me a Nazi over my knee on the way over, though," she said, blunt and bright. "Fucking Lung. If I get near him I'll make him regret existing."
A quiet agreement moved through the room. Dean waited, then grinned. "So why are you visiting, New Wave's golden girl? You weren't drafted."
She arched an eyebrow, the grin widening. "What, blondie? you disappointed?"
"Nope." Dean shrugged, easy.
Glory Girl's smirk softened to something warmer; Vista's shoulders loosened a fraction. It was a small, honest gain, and Dean let it settle in.
"The PRT rang Amy. Wanted her to talk with the forensics department about the victims or something," Glory Girl said, tapping a finger against her forearm. "I came with her. With what's going down, I'm not letting her walk out alone for a few days."
"Panacea could probably stop someone's heart with a touch," Kid Win muttered, his tone a notch too small. "Wouldn't need backup."
Silence snapped like a wire. Glory Girl fixed him with a look; Kid Win's apology caught in his throat. She snapped her fingers and he jumped a bit.
"Damn right she could," Glory Girl said, the thought arriving, the joke suddenly turning serious. "Kind of like… what's that movie with the blonde assassin?"
"…Kill Bill?" Kid Win offered.
"Kill Bill!" she repeated, delighted, and made a ridiculous stabbing gesture with her hand. "You take five steps, you're done. Why didn't Amy think of that? She could honestly be a little Nazi-assassin. Tap 'em on the chest, send 'em to their fuhrer in five. Would save me a ton of PR headaches."
Dean fought a laugh. "Maybe because Amy's a doctor," he said. "Doctors don't usually kill people. Unless she's into selective malpractice."
Vista frowned. "What's with you and Nazis, anyway?" she asked. "I hate them too, but you're a headline magnet if you make it your thing."
Glory Girl shrugged, smug. "I'm a philanthropist. I improve quality of life by taking down bullies. Color doesn't matter. If you're a bully, I'll put you down. Brockton's just got an oversupply of wannabe fascist fucks. Someone's got to clean up."
"I think it's a Freudian thing…" Dennis slurred from the corner. "She's blonde, and she's got those baby blues too. Nazis are everything she needs to erase."
Glory Girl whipped her head around, mock-offended.
"Funny, coming from the redhead," she shot back, jabbed a finger at him. "You're biologically soulless, Dennis. It's a redhead thing."
Dennis groaned. "Soulless and weird! What else? Maybe I'm gay too?!"
Dean's grin did the rest. "With how you act around me…" he teased.
Laughter broke loose. Clockblocker started inventing excuses mid-snort; Glory Girl pretended to nod solemnly about 'strong competition.' For sixty delicious seconds they were exactly what they pretended to be: kids with absurd outfits trading trash talk to keep from thinking about grim stuff.
…Then the grim stuff arrived. Dean felt its coming – an almost tangible wave of exhaustion, fear, and anxiety made flesh. He was already turning toward the entrance before it even crossed the threshold.
The door hissed open. The air folded. Ward Supervisor Shane's head appeared, suit immaculate, hair tousled, dark crescents under his eyes.
"Aegis, Gallant. A word."
Aegis and Dean exchanged the look they always did—the silent, practiced shrug—and fell in step behind Shane as he walked off, giving the Wards and Glory Girl a last wave. They didn't ask; there was nothing to ask yet. Shane moved with that tired, efficient pace of someone carrying a problem too big for one man.
"Uh, sir?" Aegis called after him, voice steady but thin. "Is this about the ABB?"
"Yes." Shane didn't slow. That was all.
They fell into a quiet that felt sharper than the laughter had. The corridors gleamed white and empty; the building smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee, similar to a hospital ward waiting for the next crisis. Kids in costumes, Dean thought, waiting for the playground to be safe again.
Shane stopped at a closed conference door, turned on them, and for the first time his composure cracked into something almost pleading.
"You two have the best records. You're the ones I trust," he said, voice rough. "This is big. If you think you'll screw it up, tell me now. I'd rather send you back than…" He shook his head and swallowed.
Aegis and Dean looked at each other. Aegis answered for both. "Sir, it'd be easier if you just told us."
Shane regarded them with tired appraisal, then explained in the bluntest terms he could. "I picked you because at least two Wards have to be briefed. Can you keep this to yourselves? For the team? Carry extra weight?"
Neither hesitated. They said together, "Yes, sir."
Shane gave them a long, flat look, set his hand on the knob, and nodded. "Then go in."
They stepped into the dark and the dark swallowed them. The only light was a pale rectangle from a projector, painting chairs and bodies in hard white. Shadows pooled in the corners; the room smelled faintly of stale coffee and disinfectant.
Dean picked up the signatures before his eyes could make sense of the shapes. Armsmaster leaned in a shadowed corner, metal glinting, halberd slotted against his shoulder, an impatience wrapped in restraint. Miss Militia sat forward in the front row, small in the light but loud in the quiet. Others clustered where the projector left them half-visible: capes, suits, the soft electric hum of people on edge.
Aegis and Dean slid into two chairs together. Silence settled. Why only two Wards? Why the secrecy? The questions hung until a soft click answered them, the door locking itself with a finality that made the skin along Dean's arms prickle.
Vice-director Thorburn then stepped from the shadows, all sharp angles in the projector glow.
"Good afternoon," he said, voice low and formal. He didn't smile. "Apologies for the abrupt call. This meeting concerns the city."
His words filled the room; Dean felt them like a band across his throat.
He smoothed his tie, eyes sweeping the dark before he spoke.
"From this moment on, nothing said here leaves these walls." His voice carried the weight of something rehearsed too many times, too carefully. "Any leak—any whisper—will be treated as treason against the PRT and the state. The penalties will match."
He paused, letting the silence press on the gathered officers. The hum of the air conditioner filled the gap.
"If you can't keep this sealed," he said quietly, glancing toward the door, "you may leave now. It will be unlocked for you."
No one moved. Aegis crossed his arms. Dean leaned back and listened to his own pulse. The capes stayed rooted like statues.
Thorburn glanced toward the darker side of the room and gave the smallest nod. A man slid forward from the gloom. He was tall, spare, suit not PRT-issue, skin dark, hair cropped close, a cleft chin and serpentine eyes that looked as if they didn't sleep. He stood with his hands behind his back, calm as a column.
"This is Mister Calvert," Thorburn announced. "He will walk us through the presentation. Listen carefully. Information will not be repeated. Ask no questions."
The projector hummed louder, and the rectangle of light swallowed the first slide.
A shape flickered, took form: a hooded figure drawn in stark lines. Black hoodie, black pants, a knife glinting in one hand. No face, only two cold blue eyes burning from under the hood.
Dean's breath caught.
Those eyes didn't look drawn. They looked back.
Calvert's hand rose, cutting the light between him and the image.
"This," he said evenly, "is an artist's composite, based on survivor reports. The individual responsible for the recent killings within the ABB. For the purpose of this briefing, we'll refer to him as the Slasher."
Click.
A new slide, bars climbing day by day, a red header reading DEATH TOLL.
"The Slasher is suspected to be a sleeper parahuman," Calvert went on. "No records of anyone fitting his description exist prior to this week. No sightings, no incidents, no trigger events tied to these methods. That leaves us with two possibilities: either he emerged under extremely concealed circumstances…" His gaze lifted, razor-sharp in the half-dark. "…or he's been active far longer than we realize, and only chose to reveal himself now."
He turned to the smallest bar on the chart.
"The first victim was James Kanō, nineteen, only son of a dockworker. Low-ranking ABB. Killed four nights ago. The witness, May Lee Johnson, survived the encounter and provided our earliest description. Subsequent reports confirmed the same profile: dark attire, knife, blue eyes."
Calvert let the silence linger before his finger hovered at the taller bars.
"The rising body count and the speed of it suggests experimentation," Calvert continued. "Early kills were measured. Controlled. Then the tempo rose. One victim became two, two became four. By the time the ABB realized what was happening, a third of their numbers were dead or maimed. That kind of escalation isn't random. It's either refinement… or collapse."
He gestured toward the graph, bars spiking upward like jagged teeth.
"It's possible the Slasher was testing the limits of his power. It's also possible he lost control of it entirely. Either way, he left nothing behind; there were no statements, no symbols, no patterns beyond the bodies themselves. There was no theater nor signature."
Dean swallowed.
He pictured a fire that didn't burn to be seen. Just burned until there was nothing left. Not a man, not even a monster. A force.
Calvert went on, steadily, as if reading the newspaper.
"Preliminary profiling suggests a subject with obsessive tendencies. He seems to be a methodical, ritualistic, and rigid individual. The absence of any emotional or symbolic residue points to the act itself being both means and end. The kill is the ritual."
He paused.
"Fourteen dead," he said quietly. "Four survivors, each permanently crippled. He took no trophies, established no communication whatsoever, claimed no responsibility for these killings. The only constant is the progression."
Dean's stomach knotted. Fourteen. Fourteen names he didn't know, but could feel… echoes in a church that had already burned down. Not a coincidence.
Lung had not killed at random. He took as much as was taken from him.
"The increase in frequency," Calvert resumed, "may indicate deterioration. A loss of ritual control. The compulsion to complete the pattern—whatever it is—now outweighs the capacity to plan. It's become a feedback loop. The intellect and the addiction have merged, each kill feeding the next."
He folded his hands neatly, eyes cold in the projector light.
"In short: the Slasher doesn't kill for attention, revenge, or power."
A beat.
"He kills because he must."
Calvert let the silence breathe.
A low hum from the projector filled the void as his gaze swept the room, slow, pointed, a man measuring pulse by stillness. Dean could read the faces even in the half-light: drawn eyes, clenched jaws, the brittle stillness of people seeing too much. Fear lingered at the edges; fascination glimmered just beneath.
And in Calvert… nothing. Just poise, precision. The calm of someone dissecting a corpse rather than mourning it.
"This profile already makes the Slasher an extremely dangerous individual. An unpredictable, unstable murderer," Calvert said, his tone steady as the mechanical whir of the projector. "But that's only half the picture. What truly sets him apart is how he kills. And that," his gaze flicked toward the wall, "is why you're here."
The next slide clicked in.
Rows of high-resolution photographs appeared. Limbs, torsos, faces frozen mid-horror. Each body annotated with fine, colored lines tracing cuts too precise to be human, too numerous to be mercy. Numbers above every photo.
"The Slasher earned his title for this," Calvert went on, gesturing with a hand that didn't shake. "Each number corresponds to the cuts found on the body, ranging from one… to thirty. Note the pattern. Every incision is straight. No deviation. No tremor."
He drew a finger through the air, miming the lines with unnerving steadiness.
"There's no rage. There's no indication of flailing. We only see deliberate, perfect motion and an equally perfect consistency maintained across all victims and slashes. The restraint tells us as much as the violence does. Whoever this is, they aren't guessing. They know where to cut. They follow some internal map."
He paused on the final slide, where red lines crosshatched a corpse like an anatomy diagram.
"This is not improvisation," he concluded softly. "It's a system. A design. Which means we're not just looking at a killer."
A faint click echoed as the slide advanced again.
"We're looking at a Thinker."
The next slide came with another muted click.
The images weren't any kinder.
This time, the corpses had been pieced back together: pale limbs aligned like puzzle fragments, torsos arranged on metal tables, the outlines traced in faint blue marker. Some bodies bore clean, surgical bisects. Others were latticed with crisscrossing incisions. A few formed impossibly intricate geometries on the dead flesh. Patterns that seemed almost designed.
"Please note the geometry when the remains are reassembled," Calvert said. "It builds on the previous observation and adds another concern. The Slasher isn't merely cutting. He's drawing."
He let the word settle, then pointed with a pen to a photo where a ribcage had been divided into a perfect triangle.
"His power doesn't obey anatomy. It's not biology he's working with, but structure. These patterns suggest he's perceiving something abstract. Symmetry, vectors, fractals… perhaps even fault lines, if you look closely at the angles here…"
He stopped mid-sentence, studying the image like it might answer back. For a moment, the pause pressed down on everyone.
"There's… an aesthetic to this," he said finally, almost under his breath. "A logic we don't yet grasp. The cuts form a kind of language or ritual. If this were a Brute or a Blaster, the damage would be chaotic."
He gestured toward the slide.
"These wounds are… elegant. Too elegant. And also—"
The next image snapped on.
A car, bisected cleanly down the middle, two halves resting meters apart on a broken street.
"—The Slasher doesn't discriminate between living and non-living targets."
The silence that followed wasn't just shock. It was the weight of understanding.
Something seemed to drop. Temperature, perhaps. Dean felt it settle in his bones, the echo of shared dread passing between the suits, between Aegis and himself. Everyone had glimpsed the same shape beneath the surface and wished they hadn't.
Calvert didn't give them time to breathe before the next slide appeared.
Close-ups filled the wall. Raw, clinical photographs of the wounds themselves. The cuts weren't ragged, or charred, or even bruised. They were flat. As if the world had been folded and the crease had stayed.
"This," said Calvert, "is the most vital point regarding the Slasher."
His tone was measured… but something faintly uneasy sat behind it.
"The wounds are perfectly smooth. There's no tearing, no cellular trauma. Just… these flat planes. It makes no difference whether it's flesh, clothing, steel, even asphalt. Every surface? Zero friction."
Another slide. The image zoomed closer, down to the textureless divide between muscle and air.
"I could summarize the implications," Calvert offered, before stepping aside. "But I think you'll grasp them better hearing from an expert. Would you come forward, please?"
Footsteps.
From the darkness at the edge of the room, a slight figure emerged. White coat, hood drawn up, moving like someone who didn't want to be seen. The projector light caught her face halfway, and Dean felt his stomach dip.
Amy.
She looked pale, even for her. Her eyes flicked across the room—at the screens, the suits, the heroes—, almost like a cornered animal searching for an exit.
"This is Panacea," Calvert said, turning to her with professional courtesy. "I believe most of you are familiar with her work. She's agreed to share her observations on the victims. Miss Dallon, from a biological standpoint, how do these wounds compare to others you've encountered?"
For a moment, Amy said nothing. Just stared at the pictures. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and brittle.
"They're… wrong," she said. "All of them. Wrong in a way I can't even describe. These aren't injuries, not really. There's no cauterization, no tearing, no disruption. It's not something a blade, beam, or field could do. It's nothing I've ever seen."
Calvert inclined his head. "And the medical prognosis?"
Amy hesitated. Dean could see her hands tightening inside her sleeves.
"There isn't one," she said quietly. "This is past medicine. Beyond it. I tried to heal the survivors. To reconnect their limbs. I've done it before, even with worse damage." She swallowed, hard. "It should've been easy. The cuts are so... clean."
Her voice faltered.
"But it wasn't. It was like trying to.. to attach a the tail of a lizard to a person. No, worse. The body rejected it. Every signal said the severed arm, the leg was… foreign. The muscles wouldn't rebind. The nerves wouldn't align. Even the bones… twisted away from the join."
She looked down, eyes shadowed by her hood.
"I managed to force reconnection after a few hours."
"But not recovery," Calvert prompted.
Amy shook her head. "There was no circulation. No electrical activity. The tissue looked healed, but it wasn't alive. Within minutes, it started to decay. I could delay it, but I couldn't make it function. It was dead and it insisted on staying dead."
The words hung heavy. Dean could feel the silence expanding, filling every breath in the room.
Amy exhaled, almost trembling. When she spoke again, it came out like a confession.
"I can't heal these cuts," she whispered. "It's impossible."
Calvert gave a short nod. "Thank you, Miss Dallon."
Amy didn't answer. She just stepped backward until the light no longer touched her, vanishing into the dark with one last, uneasy glance at the screen.
The projector clicked again. The hooded figure returned. Same rough sketch, same knife, same blue eyes that burned brighter now, almost aware. Dean found himself staring back, unable to shake the feeling that it was staring at him.
Calvert's voice cut through the silence.
"From what we've gathered," he began, hands clasped behind his back, "we can draw several conclusions."
He raised one finger.
"First. The Slasher doesn't see reality as we do. He perceives structure, not life. To him, the world is made of lines to be divided. He cuts symbols, not flesh. It aligns with the psychological profile we've built, an obsessive, ritualistic compulsion driven by the act itself. He kills because cutting is the only thing that may feel real to him."
A second finger.
"Second. The Slasher's power entirely bypasses the Manton Limit. More precisely, it lacks it. There have been outliers in the past, yes… but never something like this. His ability ignores every natural limitation between living and nonliving matter. He can cut through a person, a car, a building, with the same precision. There is no safety net, no restraint. Whatever triggered this power… stripped that away."
He raised a third.
"Third. We've seen destructive powers, even catastrophic ones. But this is different. The Slasher doesn't simply destroy. He erases the possibility of repair. One of the world's strongest biokinetics cannot reverse the damage. That makes him more than lethal."
The fingers lowered slowly.
"This," Calvert said, looking up at the projected eyes, "is the definition of dangerous. No, not just dangerous. Final."
Calvert lifted a hand. Another click. The projector shifted – words and numbers appeared beneath the sketch of the hooded figure, white text bleeding into the darkness.
He waited a beat, his gaze passing over the room, then spoke.
"With the Vice-Director's permission," he said, "I'll provide my personal classifications and their strategic implications. The PRT may revise them as needed."
A low murmur of assent came from the dark. Calvert inclined his head and turned back to the screen.
"Primary classification – Stranger 7."
The words dropped like a verdict.
"The Slasher consistently avoids detection and confrontation. His power leaves no trace before activation. There have been no sounds or lights or triggers reported. Every attack is seemingly over before it begins. Victims also report nothing until the instant they're cut. Please note that the rating reflects not the specific mechanics of the power, but the sheer lethality of surprise. When he strikes unseen, there is no defense, so extra precautions should be taken to establish contact before he does, thus making Stranger as the primary classification tactically necessary."
A flick of his hand. The next line lit up.
"Secondary – Striker 9. Physical contact is required. A single touch, and the result is total severance. There is no resistance. No matter the material or density, organic, metallic, or otherwise, the effect is absolute. Distance, therefore, is the only tactical countermeasure."
The next word appeared.
"Thinker 7."
Calvert's tone didn't waver.
"The geometric precision of his attacks, the patterns, the numbers, the deliberate spacing, they all indicate advanced perception or computation. Whether this stems from enhanced pattern recognition, predictive insight, or a wholly non-human way of seeing, we don't yet know. The Slasher's confirmed one-hit kill retroactively intensifies the Thinker element and suggests a deeper connection between perception and lethality."
And then the final word blinked into view.
"Trump?"
A small question mark hovered beside the classification. Calvert pointed to it.
"This remains provisional. The Slasher's cuts defy even Panacea's intervention. It's possible his ability interferes directly with other powers, disrupting their interaction with reality. Until we know whether the effect targets matter or the powers themselves, this classification remains under review."
He let the last slide linger. The numbers glowed faintly against the dark.
"The Slasher," he concluded, "cannot be approached as a normal parahuman threat. Every classification here carries its own death sentence if mishandled."
The projector clicked again. The white rectangle snapped to a glowing blank, and the room exhaled into a stunned hush. Calvert then dipped his head, hands folding behind him, and melted back into the shadows.
For a long beat no one spoke. What could you say? They had spoken of gang warfare a half hour ago. Tactics, cordons, arrests.
This was not another enemy to be catalogued. This felt like a storm.
For about a minute, it was a storm – white noise, unspoken orders, the hum of tension sharp enough to taste. Then Dean caught it: the pulse of the room, the surge beneath the silence. His power tugged him back into focus.
Armsmaster in particular burned in his perception like a signal flare, frustration thrumming at the edges, curiosity glinting just beneath that surgical focus. Dean could almost feel the man dissecting the scene in real time. Was it the ridiculous numbers tossed around like weather data, usually reserved for international threats, city-ending entities? Or that someone in a hoodie and wielding a pocket knife had made them all look slow, tiny, for even one second?
Dean exhaled. The air tasted steadier now. Of course it was overblown. The Slasher wasn't some apocalypse made flesh – just a parahuman with a twist. They had numbers, coordination, protocol. He was one man. One storm already breaking apart.
Vice-Director Thorburn reappeared at the edge of the light, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to smooth the tension out of his shoulders. "Thank you, Thomas," he said, voice frayed at the edges.
Thorburn turned to the room and let the quiet settle into him before he spoke again.
"The reason you were called," he said, low and steady, "is not only to talk about Lung. Lung is a gangster who understands rules. He's brutal, but legible. Containment foam and force will blunt him. The ABB, as an organization, is effectively neutralized."
He touched the space behind him, as if indicating a line in the sand.
"But this—" He shook his head like someone removing grit from his eye. "—This is different."
He let the words hang, then pushed them forward. "We're not dealing with a criminal enterprise here. We're looking at a potential mass murderer with a capability that defies standard countermeasures. He cannot be negotiated with. He cannot be deterred in a conventional sense. In the worst case, containment may be impossible without lethal measures. In mere nights he has shredded a major gang's ranks. Left unchecked, he would do the same to anyone."
Thorburn struck the table once. Sharp, final.
"What Lung did was monstrous and criminal; we will pursue him. But the Slasher would make Lung's massacre look infantile. We will not wait until he turns his attention to civilians indiscriminately."
He straightened, folding his arms into a silhouette of authority.
"Director Piggot has authorized an emergency elevation: the Slasher is to be temporarily treated as an A-Class threat, until we gain further information on his abilities and motives. We are awaiting formal ratification from higher command, but operationally, we shall act like it's decided."
The words landed as orders. The room did not move, not because they disagreed but because everyone was recalculating, the city no longer a battleground between gangs, but a place under an incomprehensible threat.
Thorburn's gaze swept the dark room, and for a moment, the man in plain clothes felt more imposing than the costumed figures around him. Dean felt another pressure against his ribs.
"I'll say it again," Thorburn said, low and precise. "Everything said in this room stays in this room. An official statement will come when we're ready. Director Piggot wants you all to understand the cost of sloppy coordination: don't put your teammates in needless danger. Keep your eyes open."
He leaned forward, voice tightening. "If you see someone with blue eyes and a knife, run. Regroup. Call for reinforcements. Don't engage until you have at least five capes and sufficient manpower."
It wasn't just Armsmaster flaring in Dean's perception now. Every adult cape in the room burned bright with outrage, disbelief, defiance. Even the suits, usually dull, glimmered like struck metal.
From the shadows, he felt it in Amy too. Bitterness curled in her chest, sharp and familiar. She wasn't a fighter, not really… but he could still taste her humiliation in the air.
Heroes told to run.
Dean's hands had curled into fists without his noticing, nails biting his palms. He'd spent time and effort learning to keep his composure, to be the calm one. But this? This felt like someone spitting on everything they stood for.
What was the point of powers, of ideals, if the right thing meant retreating? Not even trying to fight back?
A chair scraped. Even before his power reached her, Dean recognized Miss Militia's silhouette. Rigid, measured, but trembling with control.
"Sir," she began, voice level but tight, "with all due respect, this seems like a disproportionate response to a singular, street-level threat. And it's an insult, to every one of us whose duty is to protect this city. We can coordinate, investigate, contain—"
Vice-Director Thorburn didn't interrupt. He listened, unmoving, his emotions spiking so suddenly Dean almost staggered. Rage. Cold, towering, leashed only by habit.
When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth again, but every word hit like a slap.
"Your strategic opinion is duly noted, Miss Militia. Your feelings, however, are irrelevant."
The silence that followed was worse than shouting. The air turned brittle. Even without using his power, Dean could feel her restraint – the muscle in her jaw trembling, the effort not to respond.
Thorburn crossed his arms, eyes sweeping the room like a disappointed schoolmaster.
"This isn't the time for ideals or speeches about justice," he said, almost gently. "We're putting out fires. Some lunatic with a knife played vigilante under our noses, and now Lung's flaring up again when he should've stayed buried. We can't afford losses because someone wanted to be noble."
He inhaled slowly, as if centering himself.
"The Protectorate heroes are assets," he said. "And we won't lose even one asset to pride. Not like this. Not when we don't even know what we're fighting against."
Thorburn lifted a finger and drew a hard line in the air.
"That is an order. Solo engagement with the Slasher is forbidden. Flee on sight."
The Vice-Director gave one last nod, and for a breath it felt like he was looking straight at Dean. Dean wasn't looking back. His eyes were still on those blue, painted eyes, no longer on the wall but branded behind his own lids. The knife in the sketch felt less like a prop and more like a promise.
An effortless, irreversible end.
"We will dismantle Lung and his network," Thorburn said, voice hard. "We will make them pay. And we will find this… thing, before it kills again."
Dean swallowed. The words were meant to reassure.
They landed like stones.
He didn't feel comforted. And neither did anyone else in that room.
He just felt the same heavy sensation as when he woke up. But now… it had a face and a name. And he felt it staring straight at him with a killer's eyes.
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