The glass doors of the PRT headquarters slid open, and the afternoon sun hit Khora's gilded armor, setting the gold filigree ablaze. The effect was instantaneous.
The crowd gathered behind the police barricades had been waiting. News vans were parked haphazardly along the curb, their satellite dishes pointed skyward. When Khora stepped out, flanked by Trinity and Miss Militia, the low murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar.
Cameras flashed in a blinding staccato. Microphones were thrust over the barricades like lances.
"Is that Trinity? Ten-Zero really is here."
"Who's the one in the face veil?"
"Look at the gold... she must be part of them."
"I've never seen her before! Is she new?"
"Is she with Ten-Zero?"
The confusion was palpable but electrifying. Since Ten-Zero had a habit of rotating members and keeping their roster close to the chest, a new face wasn't questioned so much as met with intense curiosity.
Khora paused at the top of the steps, hands on her hips, basking in the chaos like a queen surveying her domain. Trinity stood slightly behind her, offering a small, polite wave to the cameras, while Miss Militia stood rigid, already dreading what might come out of Khora's mouth.
"Over here! Miss... uh... Gold Lady!" a reporter shouted, waving frantically.
Khora turned her helmet toward him with deliberate slowness. "My name," she projected, her voice smooth and amplified, cutting through the noise, "is Khora. Ms Khora Prime, if you wish to be formal. And yes, I am with Ten-Zero."
A flurry of questions erupted.
"Where did you come from?"
"What are your intentions in Brockton Bay?"
"Is Trinity here to heal?"
"What are your powers?"
"Are you single?"
Khora leaned toward the nearest microphone, her posture confident and sensual. "I go where I am needed. As for my intentions... let's just say I believe in discipline and order. Something many naughty individuals in this fine city lack. I will correct this in due time."
She tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying. "And regarding my powers... Let's just say I have a way with pain. And a fondness for... pets."
She flicked her wrist. In a distortion of air, her Whipclaw manifested in her grasp. She snapped it against the floor, and living metal blossomed at the impact site before receding into nothing. The crowd recoiled slightly, gasps rippling outward.
Trinity took a small step forward, raising a placating hand towards the startled onlookers, her posture radiating a calm aura that subtly diffused the tension.
A reporter from the Brockton Bay Gazette, a man with a receding hairline and a leering smile, pushed his way to the front. He looked Khora up and down, his gaze lingering on the Warframe's stylized, feminine plating.
"Khora, baby," he shouted over the noise. "The armor is... form-fitting. Is the rest of the package as high-tech as the shell? Or is the beauty just skin-deep?"
The crowd went quiet.
Khora stopped moving. She turned her full attention to the reporter. The playful, regal air vanished instantly. She took one step down the stairs, then another, her heels clicking with ominous rhythm as the tail end of her Whipclaw dragged against the concrete.
"If you had simply praised me, I could bear the gaze of even a lecherous pig like yourself." She gripped her whip with both hands, pulling at the chain as her voice dropped into a deeper, dangerous tone. "But to imply my beauty lacks depth is a sin far greater than your lowly self can imagine."
The reporter's smile faltered as she loomed over him. She was tall, imposing, and radiated lethal intent. Trinity shifted, moving to flank the reporter—not threateningly, but effectively cutting off his escape route should Khora decide to pounce.
Miss Militia moved instantly. She stepped between Khora and the reporter, placing a hand firmly on the Warframe's armored forearm.
"Alright, that's enough questions for now," Miss Militia announced loudly to the crowd, her voice tight. "We have a schedule to keep. Please, step back."
Khora looked down at Miss Militia's hand on her arm.
"You're quite bold, Militia," Khora murmured, low enough that only the heroine could hear.
"He's not worth the paperwork," Miss Militia whispered back sharply. "Smile and wave. We're moving."
Khora's posture stiffened. She didn't like being hushed. She didn't like being told to "smile and wave" like a trained dog. However, Miss Militia was right and it wasn't like Khora was actually going to harm the man, just scare him.
"Very well," Khora said as a wonderful idea came to her. "If you wish to move..."
Without warning, she dispersed her Whipclaw and scooped Miss Militia up in her arms—one arm under the heroine's knees, the other behind her back.
"Hey! What are you—"
"Allow me to expedite the journey!" Khora declared.
She crouched and launched.
The crowd gasped as Khora cleared the barricades and the crowd in a single, gravity-defying leap, landing lightly on the roof of a news van with barely a sound. Before the reporters could scramble to follow, she leaped again, scaling the side of a nearby building with effortless, wall-running precision.
"Trinity darling! Don't dally!" Khora called out, laughing as Miss Militia's startled yelp echoed off the block.
Trinity, left behind on the steps, gave a small, apologetic shrug to the stunned cameramen. Then, with a burst of athletic grace, she vaulted the barricades and took off after them, waving casually at the cameras as she ran up the wall.
--------------------------
Minutes later, they landed in a secluded alley off the Boardwalk, away from the prying eyes of the news crews. Miss Militia scrambled out of Khora's grip the second her boots touched the ground, adjusting her bandana and holstering the pistol she had summoned mid-flight. Trinity landed silently beside them, dusting off her pristine armor as if the acrobatic chase had been a mere stroll.
"Don't. Do that. Again," Miss Militia gritted out, though her heart wasn't really in the reprimand.
"My apologies, darling," Khora said, not sorry in the slightest. "But if we walked, we would be taking far too long with the commoners. I have a craving."
"That's why I said we shouldn't have walked through the front door!" Miss Militia shot back.
Khora gracefully ignored her very valid point as she strode out of the alley and onto the Boardwalk.
The atmosphere here was different. It was touristy, expensive, and loud. The scent of salt air mixed with frying dough and seafood. A few people noticed Khora immediately, but thanks to her being relatively unknown and the desensitization of the locals to cape presence, no one tried crowding her.
Khora stopped at a small stall selling fish tacos. The vendor, a heavy-set man with a greasy apron, gaped at her but relaxed when he saw Miss Militia and Trinity coming up behind her.
"Two," Khora demanded, pointing a golden finger at the menu. "And make them pristine. I'm not here to eat pig feed."
A wad of cash was manifested in her hand and thrown onto the counter—far more than the tacos were worth. The vendor stammered out something incoherent, then fumbled to make them, his hands shaking. When he handed them over, Khora inspected the tacos with the critical eye of a gourmet judge.
She held one up to her faceplate, lifted the veil a tiny bit, and leaned forward. There was no visible mouth, no moving jaw. But as the taco neared the helmet, the food simply vanished, bit by bit, as if bitten into by an invisible mouth.
She chewed—somehow—and swallowed.
"It is... acceptable," she pronounced, though her tone suggested it was barely edible. "The fish is overcooked. The salsa lacks zest. And the tortilla is soggy." She sighed dramatically. "Still below my standards."
The vendor looked like he might cry, but still managed a stutter, "Th-thank you, ma'am."
Trinity, standing beside Khora, tilted her head at the vendor. She raised a hand, and for a brief second, a soft, green light washed over the man. He blinked, straightening up as the tremble in his hands ceased, a look of calm replacing his panic. Trinity gave a silent nod of encouragement before following Khora.
Miss Militia sighed, stepping up to order a water. "I'm sorry about her."
She turned to Khora, who was already walking to the next stand.
"I thought your organization wanted good PR?" Militia questioned. "How is insulting him helping that?"
"If one does not demand perfection, one receives mediocrity," Khora replied haughtily, already drifting toward a sushi stand as tourists began pointing and taking pictures. "Besides, I left him a note in the money to give a few of his future customers free food, courtesy of Ten-Zero."
Militia's eyes widened in surprise, not having expected Khora to think about anyone but herself.
"I guess I underestimated you a bit," she admitted.
A dignified, amused giggle escaped Khora.
"Many do. Usually right before they find themselves on the other end of my whip."
The three heroines spent the next hour wandering the Boardwalk. Khora critiqued the crab cakes ("Bland"), the dumplings ("A tragedy of texture"), and the ice cream ("Too sweet, lacking complexity"). In every instance, the food simply vanished as it touched her faceplate, consumed by a mechanism the observers couldn't quite understand. Trinity, meanwhile, acted as the perfect counterbalance—polite, silent, and quick to offer a healing touch or a reassuring gesture to the vendors Khora had verbally dissected.
Finally, they settled at a picnic table near the water, sharing a platter of nigiri. Miss Militia picked at her food, while Khora made a show of elegantly "devouring" piece after piece. Trinity sat with them, watching the seagulls with the quiet stillness of a statue, though her posture was relaxed.
"So," Miss Militia started, trying to sound casual. "Khora. That's a unique name. Did you choose it, or was it assigned to you?"
Khora paused, a piece of salmon hovering near her faceplate. She let it vanish, then turned her helmet toward the heroine.
"Attempting to mine for information, Miss Militia? How gauche." Khora chuckled. "But I will play along. It is the name given to me by my family."
"Family? Wait, is Khora your real name?"
"In a sense," Khora mused. She gestured vaguely. "You see, Ten-Zero is my family. I've been with them basically all of my life."
"As one of the original Wards, I understand completely." Miss Militia replied while nodding. "So Umbra? Is he... family too? Related by blood maybe?"
Khora laughed. "Blood? No. My relationship with the Squad Leader is a professional one, though I admit I view him as a sort of uncle figure. Even so, when he commands, I execute. Occasionally, I'll ignore him, but it works wonders for our dynamic."
"So you're not related to any of the other members?"
Khora leaned back, crossing her legs. "I never said that. I'm related to the priest. How, I won't disclose, but as for 'joining'... you make it sound like a club or a Protectorate team. One cannot simply walk into our base and apply for the position."
Miss Militia leaned forward. "Then how does one join Ten-Zero?"
Khora's gold accents glinted in the sunlight. She tapped the table with a metallic finger.
"You don't," she said smugly. "You're either a founder of the organization, like our secret tinker, or you are born into it, like me. We don't just take random capes off the street and give them armor capable of taking down a nation. We're secretive, darling, not irresponsible."
Miss Militia's expression tightened into a frown. "Is that why you joined? Because you were born into it?"
Khora chuckled as she leaned forward again. "I never said that. Ten-Zero may be the family business, but I chose to become a Tenno of my own will. No one else's." She paused, staring Militia right in the eyes, her tone dropping the playful veneer. "I won't allow you to disrespect me again by insinuating otherwise."
Miss Militia raised her hands in surrender and opened her mouth to apologize, but a group of teenagers approached the table, their eyes wide with recognition.
"Excuse me!?"
Khora turned, her demeanor shifting instantly from cold interrogator to warm celebrity. The tension in her shoulders melted away, replaced by a practiced, regal poise.
"Yes, darlings?"
The kids pulled out notebooks and phones. "We're huge fans of Ten-Zero! Can we get autographs? And... um... can we ask a question?"
"Of course, of course," Khora stood up. She didn't have a pen, but she held out her hand. One of the kids handed her a marker. She signed their hoodies with elegant, looping script that looked more like calligraphy than a signature.
Trinity remained seated but offered a polite wave as the kids clustered around. One brave girl held out her phone for a selfie, and Trinity obliged, leaning in with a silent, perfect posture that seemed to glow in the frame.
"You're really tall," a boy said, looking up at Khora. "And your armor is so cool. Are you, like, super strong? Like, are you the strongest in Ten-Zero?"
Khora paused. She straightened up, puffing out her chest slightly.
"I am one of the best operatives in Ten-Zero," she declared. "My prowess with chains and whips is nearly unrivaled."
"So you're the strongest?" the boy pressed, eyes wide. "Is anyone as strong as you?"
Khora made a noise—a soft, irritated click of the tongue that sounded like a hiss of steam. It was the sound of someone forced to swallow their pride.
"There are... variables," she admitted. "Strength is not a simple ladder. Every weapon has a counter. I have my own... difficulties."
"Like who?" another kid asked. "Is Umbra stronger?"
Khora set the marker down in the kid's hand. "The Squad Leader might give me a little trouble if we were to fight. So could others like the Old Dragon and Limbo."
The kids exchanged confused looks. "Old Dragon? Are you talking about Lung?"
"No. The dragon I refer to is Chroma, a Tenno like me," Khora clarified. "And so is Limbo. They are peers that have yet to take the public stage for their own reasons."
"But would you lose to them?" the girl asked innocently.
Khora went silent for a beat. The wind off the bay blew her metallic veil, and the light of the sun caught the gold on her armor in a way that made her look majestic. She turned her helmet toward the girl.
"No," she said, her voice dripping with absolute confidence. "I'd win."
The kids grinned, awestruck.
Just then, a group of adults—presumably the kids' parents—rushed over.
"Sorry! Sorry!" a mother apologized, grabbing her son by the shoulder. "Don't bother the heroes, let's go."
They dragged the kids away, who waved frantically. "Bye Khora! Bye Trinity! You're the best!"
Khora waved a lazy hand, watching them go. Trinity offered a final, silent wave, her head tilting slightly as if wishing them a good day.
Khora turned back to Miss Militia, who was watching the interaction with a raised eyebrow, the tension from their earlier conversation seemingly forgotten in the wake of the fan encounter.
"Are your powers really that strong?" Miss Militia asked, genuine curiosity bleeding into her tone. "Chroma, to my knowledge, has never come in for power testing, but I've seen the preliminary information Ten-Zero sent regarding his abilities. So, sorry if this comes off as rude, but on paper... you don't really stand a chance."
"I won't deny you're somewhat right," Khora said, her voice clipping slightly. She sat back down, the metal of her armor grinding softly against the picnic bench. "Chroma is a powerhouse even among our rank. Ivara was very wrong when she told you we operatives were equals. Some of us are just... genuinely superior. Chroma is one of them."
She leaned forward, tapping the table. "He lacks my elegance, though. And he is terribly moody. But in terms of raw, destructive output? I would be hard-pressed to put him down without significant effort. He is a dragon in the truest sense. Unlike the rabid mutt calling himself Lung."
"And Limbo?" Miss Militia pressed. "This is the first I've heard of him and I don't recall seeing him in any reports."
Khora let out a long sigh that sounded like a deflating balloon. She waved a hand dismissively.
"Limbo. He's a genius," Khora muttered. "An annoying, pretentious, powerful genius. He controls time and space in a plane of existence he calls the Rift. He can step between it and our plane whenever he pleases and force others through it at will to devastating effect."
She leaned closer to Miss Militia. "Between you and me? I have beaten him in sparring matches. But only because I've cheated in small ways. If he were ever to learn to stop expecting a fair fight out of me, then my chances of beating him or anyone beating him, would be close to zero."
Miss Militia nodded slowly, filing the names away. A dragon and a dimension-hopper. Ten-Zero was showing their hand, piece by piece, and it was a hand full of aces.
"It sounds like you have a very diverse team," Miss Militia observed.
"We are not a team, Miss Militia," Khora corrected, her tone sharpening slightly. "We are a family. Teams break. Families endure. That is why we do not 'recruit.' We grow."
She stood up, the sun catching the gold of her armor once more.
"Now," Khora announced, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her shoulder. "If this interrogation is over? I believe Trinity saw a crepe stand on the way here that I have not yet terrorized."
Miss Militia stood up as well, checking her phone. "We should probably head back soon anyway. The Director will want a debrief."
"Let her wait," Khora said dismissively, already walking away. "I have not yet decided if the Boardwalk is worthy of my patronage."
Trinity followed silently, falling into step behind her. As they walked away, Miss Militia watched them go—the golden queen and the silent healer. Two pieces of a puzzle she was only beginning to understand.
And she had a feeling the full picture was far more terrifying than she realized.
-------------------------
The tour of the Rig had been efficient, thorough, and entirely humorless.
Armsmaster led Umbra through the pristine corridors of the Protectorate ENE Headquarters, his boots striking the deck plates with metronomic precision. He pointed out the key facilities—the command center, the armory, the holding cells—with the brisk efficiency of a man who viewed conversation as an obstacle to productivity.
Umbra followed in silence. He didn't ask questions. He didn't make comments. He simply observed, his helmeted head turning to track details that Armsmaster couldn't begin to guess at.
That was fine by Armsmaster. He had no desire to entertain a guest he hadn't invited. The only reason Umbra was here at all was because Director Piggot had made it abundantly clear—through that particular tone of forced patience she reserved for subtle orders—that he was to play nice. To smooth over any diplomatic friction his rigid adherence to protocol might have caused with Ten-Zero.
Play nice.
The words sat in his gut like bile.
He was supposed to be friendly to the same organization whose operative had left him paralyzed and humiliated on a street while a rookie hero—some girl in a spider-silk costume who thought attacking the people she was supposed to be evacuating was a valid rescue strategy—made him look useless in compsrison.
The only consolation was that the official record credited him with Lung's capture.
It was a bitter prize. His peers knew the truth. They knew he'd been face-down in the dirt before he could land a single meaningful blow. They knew a Ten-Zero operative had done the heavy lifting while he lay helpless.
But Umbra had offered an apology. A formal acknowledgment of an accident that couldn't have been anticipated in the chaos of battle. It was... unexpected. And it allowed Armsmaster to let go of his wounded pride, if only slightly.
"My personal lab," Armsmaster said as the heavy door slid open. "This is where I do my actual work."
He stepped inside, expecting Umbra to linger at the threshold like most visitors—intimidated by the sheer density of technology, the half-disassembled halberds, the banks of monitors displaying scrolling code.
Umbra walked in like he owned the place.
His helmet swept the room, pausing on a workbench where Armsmaster's newest halberd prototype lay in pieces. The Warframe moved closer, studying the weapon's internal components with what might have been interest.
"That's the molecular-edge blade," Armsmaster said, unable to resist the urge to explain. "The cutting surface is maintained by a localized stasis field that prevents molecular degradation. It can slice through steel like paper."
Umbra tilted his head. Then he raised his right palm.
A holographic display flickered to life above his gauntlet. Schematics appeared—detailed, annotated, highlighting the stasis field emitter with precise mathematical notation.
The power consumption curves suggest a 12% efficiency loss during sustained use. A cyclical recharge pattern would compensate.
Armsmaster stared. He certainly didn't appreciate his tech being scanned without permission—but it wasn't as if he hadn't been attempting, unsuccessfully, to do the same thing to Umbra this entire time. So he let it slide.
More importantly, he had expected blank incomprehension, or at best, polite nodding. Not... this.
"You understand the engineering?"
The hologram shifted.
A bit. My organization has over sixty active members. Only two are Tinkers. Field operatives are trained in basic maintenance and system diagnostics. We cannot always wait for a specialist.
"Self-sufficiency," Armsmaster murmured, wishing the Protectorate was just as efficient. "Impressive."
He found himself warming slightly to the silent warrior. There was no posturing, no false admiration—just practical knowledge applied to practical problems.
The monitor on the far wall flickered. A face appeared—a woman with brown hair and exceptionally average features. Attractive in a forgettable way, the kind of face that would blend into any crowd.
Dragon. The best Tinker in the world. Or at least she used to be, before Ten-Zero started flying spaceships around.
"Armsmaster," the woman said, her voice warm. "I heard you had guests. And ones I've been interested in meeting."
"Dragon." Armsmaster nodded. "This is Umbra, of Ten-Zero. Umbra, this is Dragon. She's—"
A shimmer of blue light materialized in the center of the room.
Armsmaster jerked back, his hand dropping to his halberd. A Sentinel drone—Ordis' personal chassis—hovered where the air had been empty a second before. Its blue eyes rotated, focusing instantly on the screen.
"And I have been so eager to meet you too, Miss Dragon!" Ordis chirped, his voice echoing cheerfully in the sterile lab. "It is truly wonderful to finally speak face-to-screen."
Umbra's shoulders dipped in a way that could only be interpreted as a long-suffering sigh.
"I must confess," Ordis continued, his tone playful. "I haven't been ignoring you. Our little chats have been quite enjoyable."
Dragon blinked. "Chats?"
"Your attempts to reach me beyond PHO," Ordis clarified innocently. "Very spirited! You get more and more creative with each attempt."
Dragon's expression froze. She shot a frantic look at Armsmaster, who was watching her with a carefully unreadable expression.
"We... have been exchanging data packets," Dragon said quickly, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual. "Technical data. For analysis. Not... chatting."
Ordis let out a giggle that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. "Oh, of course. Purely professional. I wouldn't dream of exchanging data any other way. You are a bit young for me, after all."
Dragon sputtered. "I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing! Nothing at all." Ordis bobbed in the air, his eyes rotating. "But since we are on the topic of professional exchanges... I must commend you on your recent work with the new drone systems for the Guild. The propulsion arrays are quite clever."
Dragon became visibly grateful for the shift to safer ground. "Thank you. The efficiency gains were significant thanks to viewing your work with NASA. It's far more advanced than standard reverse engineered Tinkertech."
Ordis hummed. "Our engineers are very talented."
"I would love to meet them. Will Ten-Zero be willing to reveal them?"
"That," Ordis said, his tone raising slightly, "is not for me to disclose."
Armsmaster, sensing an opening, stepped forward. "Regardless of the source, the technology is impressive. It has applications for the Endbringer prediction system we've been developing. The sensor suites alone could revolutionize early warning detection."
He paused, looking from Ordis to Umbra as a thought occurred to him.
"During your engagement with the Simurgh months ago. Did you manage to gather any new data? Information the Protectorate doesn't?"
Ordis went quiet. The Cephalon's eyes stopped rotating. The cheerful bobbing ceased entirely for a while ten seconds..
"I have received permission to share the data we have," Ordis replied, the playfulness dropping like a stone. "We have new information, but it is likely not what you are expecting."
Armsmaster leaned forward, and Dragon's digital avatar seemed to do the same. Who could blame them? Any new data on the Endbringers would be good data.
"Umbra," Ordis said softly.
The Warframe raised his palm again. The holographic projector flared, casting a bright blue glow over the workbenches.
Two models materialized in the air between them.
On the left was a standard 3D representation of the Simurgh—alabaster skin, asymmetrical wings, frozen in a serene, floating pose. It was the kind of model the PRT used for briefings: accurate, but mundane.
On the right was the same model.
But it was completely blacked out.
It was a silhouette of impenetrable darkness, fringed with scrolling, chaotic numbers—mathematical calculations that seemed to warp and twist in on themselves. Flecks of red and orange highlighted areas of the body, labeled with terms like Bio-Crystalline Density and Mass Displacement Anomaly.
Armsmaster stared at the black model. "What am I looking at? Is the scan blocked?"
"It isn't blocked," Ordis replied, his voice unusually grave. "Before we begin, we want to establish that the Endbringers are not humans. They are not Case 53s or the result of broken triggers. Our data suggests they are not even 'alive' in the way you would define the term."
He hovered closer to the hologram.
"The Endbringers are, in all likelihood, some form of bio-crystalline super weapons. Their purpose appears to be threefold: to sow destruction, to induce trigger events, and to prevent humanity from reaching a certain level of progress or unity—without completely crippling the species."
"And this applies to all of them?" Dragon asked for clarification. "Not just the Simurgh?"
"Correct," Ordis said. "Behemoth, Leviathan, the Simurgh... they share the same underlying architecture. The Simurgh is simply easier to tell since her intellect is obvious to see."
Armsmaster felt a cold shiver run down his spine. This wasn't just data. It was a paradigm shift. For years, the PRT, the Protectorate, everyone—they had all operated under the assumption that the Endbringers, specifically Behemoth and Leviathan, were mindless killing machines. Forces of nature with hardly any rhyme or reason for attacking a specific place.
If that was wrong...
"Can you confirm this?" he asked, his voice tight.
"I can," Dragon said, before Ordis could answer. Her avatar was staring intently at the data streams. "It's not concrete evidence, but I've tracked Endbringer movements for years. The cascading effects of their attacks... the geopolitical shifts, the economic collapses, the specific triggers generated in the wake of their rampages. It's never been random. It always seemed... directed."
She looked at Armsmaster. "I've suspected for a long time that they were forces of nature directed by an intelligence. I thought it was only the Simurgh directing them. But it makes sense they all have their own plans. It's probably why they're so hard to predict."
Ordis nodded. "Our analysis aligns with yours, Dragon. The pattern of their attacks suggests a strategy of containment rather than extermination. They are shepherds, herding humanity into a pen of chaos. For what purpose, we do not know."
The black model on the right zoomed in, filling the room. The dense, swirling numbers became a blizzard of data.
"Furthermore," Ordis continued, "the scanners we used during the engagement are extremely advanced. They should have penetrated the target's outer layers. But you see this black mass?"
"The void in the data," Armsmaster murmured.
"Yes. Conventional wisdom dictates that Thinker powers and Tinkertech scanners fail against them due to an interference effect. A 'blind spot.' But this is different."
Ordis highlighted a section of the black mass, showing the faint, impossible geometric lines beneath the surface.
"Our systems were not blocked. They were simply overwhelmed. The black you see is not a lack of data—it is the only way our systems could render the physics-defying layering of mass. The Endbringers are impossibly dense. The calculations suggest they are composed of multiple layers, each one exponentially more dense and durable than the last. We have theorized they either have some form of shielding separating their layers or, more likely, are like another type of enemy we've encountered whose body was not fully in the same dimension as the rest of it."
He paused.
"Chances are, there is much more we aren't seeing. Internal structures, organs perhaps... but we have scanned enough to know one thing. They possess no vital points or weak spots in places that would be lethal to a biological organism. You cannot 'kill' them by stabbing them in the heart or severing the spine. Because they likely do not have one."
Silence descended on the lab.
Armsmaster looked at his workbench—at the molecular blade he had been so proud of moments ago. He thought of his nano-thorn project, the one he had hoped would be the edge humanity needed against the monsters. He had poured years of his life into perfecting that technology.
If Ordis was right... if the Endbringers were layers of impossible density...
His nano-thorns might not even scratch the third layer.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't just that his technology was insufficient. It was that his entire approach—humanity's entire approach—had been fundamentally flawed. They had been bringing pebbles to a tank fight, thinking they were bringing guns.
Every battle he had studied. Every "near victory." Every strategy session where they analyzed attack patterns and evacuation routes. They had been playing a game they couldn't win.
And the monsters had been humoring them.
"You're telling us," Armsmaster said slowly, his voice hoarse, "that they've been toying with us. All this time. Every battle... every 'victory' where we drove them back..."
"Was likely them retreating due to structural damage thresholds, not biological necessity," Ordis finished gently. "You have never truly hurt them."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Armsmaster's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. To find a flaw in their logic. To cling to the hope that maybe, maybe, all the sacrifice hadn't been in vain.
But the data was there. Even without it, there was no doubt humanity was never truly winning against the Endbringers. The signs were always there. He just refused to see them until now.
To think all this time they had been calling paper cuts victory. He felt like a fool.
Dragon looked away from the hologram to Armsmaster, then to the Ten-Zero members.. "And you didn't tell anyone until now? Why?"
"Because we do not have all the data," Ordis admitted. "And we did not want to decrease morale further. Hope is a weapon, Miss Dragon. We chose not to dull it until we had a way to sharpen it. If the world knew that the monsters they fought were effectively invincible gods playing with their food... recruitment would plummet. Despair would rise."
"But you're informing us now," Armsmaster said. "And why not take it to the Director or the Triumvirate?"
We planned to later after more data was comprehensively compiled. But the timing of you and Dragon, the strongest and most trusted tinkers in the world, being together was too convenient to pass on, Umbra's holographic text scrolled into view. And you have a right to know the enemy you face.
Dragon took an audible breath, steadying herself. She looked at Ordis, her expression hardening with resolve. "If you're letting us know now, that means there's hope, right? A plan? A way to truly fight them. Maybe even kill."
Ordis looked at Umbra. Umbra looked at Ordis.
The Warframe and the Cephalon turned back to the two Tinkers.
"Us," Ordis said.