Superboy was on his knees.
His breathing came low and steady, the dust rising from his skin with every exhale. The crater around him stretched out like a wound in the earth, fractured concrete glinting faintly under the moonlight. Beside him, Blockbuster lay still, half-buried in rubble, his enormous frame motionless, his chest barely rising.
Superboy didn't look at him. His eyes were turned upward, fixed on the moon. There was no triumph there. Only silence. The kind that comes after everything breaks.
On the rim of the crater, the heroes watched.
Miss Militia stood with her rifle lowered but not slung, her stance still defensive. The light of the burning warehouses flickered across her scarf, turning the dark green fabric into shifting shades of copper and red. She said nothing, just watched the boy kneeling in the dust below.
Beside her, Armsmaster scanned the scene through the cracked lens of his visor. His armour was dented, right shoulder joint sparking occasionally. His fingers twitched on the haft of his halberd. Every movement radiated a brittle, angry composure.
Glory Girl hovered a few feet above. She didn't speak either, her expression uneasy. The boy down there, the one who had fallen from the sky, the one who had torn through the docks and dropped a monster into the ground, didn't look like a villain or a hero. Just someone lost.
The comms crackled to life, cutting through the silence.
"Report."
Piggot's voice. Sharp, uninflected, utterly in control.
Miss Militia raised a hand to her earpiece. "Director, this is Miss Militia. D-2 is down. Repeat, D-2 down. Target is unconscious but alive."
"And D-1?"
Miss Militia glanced at the crater again. "Stationary. Kneeling beside D-2. Not moving."
Static filled the brief pause before Piggot's voice returned. "Copy. I have Birdcage retrieval units en route. Estimated arrival twelve minutes. D-2 is to be secured immediately. Restrain him before the transport arrives. Armsmaster, that task is yours."
"Understood," Armsmaster replied automatically, though his tone carried no warmth. His eyes were still fixed on the boy.
Piggot continued. "See to it that the restraints are reinforced. I want him immobilised before the Birdcage personnel touch down. We will not risk another containment breach."
"Yes, ma'am," he said tightly.
Piggot's voice shifted, not softer, but lower, a bureaucrat's attempt at emphasis. "As for D-1…"
Miss Militia straightened slightly. "Yes, Director?"
There was no hesitation in Piggot's reply. "He is to be brought in for evaluation. A new trigger event of that scale cannot be ignored. His power output and conduct classify him as a high-risk, unregistered parahuman. Handle him accordingly."
Armsmaster's jaw flexed beneath the helmet. "I can—"
"No," Piggot interrupted, her tone cutting. "You will focus on D-2. You have already been physically compromised by D-1's earlier aggression. Your judgment regarding that subject is in question."
The silence that followed carried weight. Armsmaster's fingers tightened around the halberd's grip, the servos in his gauntlet whining under the pressure.
"Director," he said, his voice clipped and strained. "I am fully capable of—"
"That's an order, Armsmaster."
The line went quiet for a moment before she continued. "Miss Militia, you are to approach D-1 and attempt peaceful containment. If he refuses, you are authorised to treat him as a hostile parahuman. Understood?"
Miss Militia didn't answer immediately. She was still watching Superboy, the way his shoulders shifted as he breathed, the faint tremor in his arms as if he wasn't sure whether to stand or stay kneeling. He didn't look dangerous anymore. He just looked… tired.
"Miss Militia," Piggot repeated, colder now. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Director," she said quietly.
"Good. You will have PRT backup within ten minutes. Until then, maintain control of the scene. Armsmaster, I expect the situation to be secured before then."
"Understood," Armsmaster said through his teeth.
"Director out."
The comms cut off.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the one before.
-X-
The moon sat high and sharp above Brockton Bay, pale light bleeding across the smoke. The wind had calmed, the fires had shrunk to flickers, and the docks, once roaring with chaos, were quiet again.
Down in the crater, Superboy hadn't moved.
He was still on his knees, one hand braced against the fractured ground, the other limp at his side. His head tilted just slightly upward, gaze fixed on the moon. Dust clung to his hair and skin, coating him in a faint grey shimmer that caught the light like frost.
Miss Militia had been watching him since the moment Blockbuster had been lifted away. Fifteen minutes, maybe more. Armsmaster had seen to the transfer himself, overseeing the Birdcage crew as they secured the unconscious brute in reinforced chains and clamps. The sound of metal scraping concrete had echoed across the dockyard, harsh, industrial, final.
Through it all, D-1 had remained still.
Even when the restraints clamped shut around Blockbuster's wrists with a dull, mechanical sound.
Even when the engines of the transport roared to life and the heavy treads began to roll.
Even when the smoke thickened, curling low over the crater's rim.
Nothing moved him.
Miss Militia stood at the edge of the crater, rifle slung but ready. Her eyes followed the distant silhouettes of Birdcage personnel as they cleared the field. Their searchlights swept over rubble, over broken machinery, over the bodies of abandoned drones, but always avoided the centre of the crater, as if instinct warned them away.
She couldn't blame them.
There was something unnatural about his stillness. Not the stillness of exhaustion, or even shock, it was the kind of silence that made the air feel thinner.
She glanced toward Armsmaster. He was standing by the transports, his armour dented and scarred, visor reflecting the departing lights. His posture was rigid, hands locked behind his back. The quiet between them said enough; he didn't want to look at the boy again.
Miss Militia turned back to the crater.
The moonlight reflected off the cracks in the ground, thin lines of silver spreading out beneath her feet. The craters looked shallow from above, but up close, the drop was deep, the edges uneven.
She started down carefully.
Each step sent pebbles rolling down the slope, the sound harsh in the silence. She moved slowly, steadily, boots sinking slightly into dust. Superboy didn't react to her approach. He didn't shift, didn't turn his head, didn't even blink. His breathing stayed even.
When she reached the bottom, she stopped a few meters away.
He looked older up close. Not by much, just enough that the edges of his face had lost their boyish softness. His expression was blank, but not empty. The kind of quiet that said he was somewhere else entirely.
Miss Militia lowered her voice. "You've been staring at that thing a long time."
No response.
She followed his gaze upward. The moon looked clean from here, perfect, unscarred, a light untouched by the ruin below. She hadn't really noticed it before, not during the fighting, not during the chaos. Now it felt strange, almost intrusive, hanging there above all this destruction as though it was watching.
"It's a nice view," she said softly. "Clearer than we usually get in this city."
The words came out without intention.
He still didn't look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the moon, pale light reflected in them like twin shards of glass.
Miss Militia studied him for a moment longer. His face was scraped, bruised, and lined with dust, but his expression hadn't changed. Not calm, not tense, just… far away.
She thought about Piggot's order, the cold precision of that voice in her ear.
If he resists, treat him as hostile.
It had sounded simple when Piggot said it. Everything did when you weren't the one standing in the crater. Now, looking at him, the order felt absurd. This wasn't a villain. This wasn't even a cape gone rogue. He looked like a kid who'd lost everything and was still trying to understand the sky.
Behind her, the last of the transports rumbled away. The sound faded into the distance, swallowed by the ocean wind.
She took another step closer. The distance between them shrank to barely three meters. Close enough that she could hear the faint rasp of his breath. Close enough to see the dust lift from his shoulders with every exhale.
Her own breath came shallow now, though she didn't know why. She wasn't afraid, not really, but something about the moment demanded quiet. She followed his gaze again, to the pale disk above them. It hung there, massive and distant, framed by thin clouds drifting across its face.
The moon hung high, stark and white, over the ruined docks. Its light stretched long shadows over twisted metal, shattered cranes, and broken concrete, touching everything with a cold, indifferent glow.
She finally spoke, her voice low but steady. "Beautiful, isn't it? You can see it so clearly tonight."
For a long moment, he didn't react. Then his voice broke the silence, flat, raw, unpracticed.
"Never seen it before."
The simplicity of it hit her harder than she expected. Miss Militia blinked, shifting her stance slightly on the uneven rim. "You mean—what? The moon?"
He didn't answer.
She frowned faintly. "That's hard to imagine. It's always there. Even when you forget to look for it, it's still hanging over you. Something constant in all this mess."
Still, nothing.
She sighed softly, more to herself than to him. "I used to look at it when I was younger," she went on, voice gentler now. "My parents would take me camping outside the city. It was quiet back then. Clean air, no sirens, no smoke. Just stars and the moon."
No flicker of reaction. No glance. He sat unmoving, as if the words were sliding past him.
Miss Militia's voice softened further, almost sympathetic. "It's a shame, though," she said quietly. "You never got to see it before now."
His response came sharp, sudden.
"They implanted images."
She froze.
For a heartbeat, the world felt smaller, quieter. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"What?" She asked carefully, her tone even, but her pulse had quickened.
No response.
He didn't look at her. Didn't move. Just kept staring at the moon, shoulders still, face unreadable.
Miss Militia tried again. "Implanted?" She repeated, slower this time, searching for meaning in the word. "What do you mean by that?"
Silence.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to ask again, but something about the stillness around him made it feel wrong, like pressing would shatter the fragile calm of the moment.
She took a slow breath, letting her eyes drift up to the same pale moon that had captured his attention. "The real thing's better," she said softly. "Pictures don't do it justice."
He didn't respond, didn't blink.
She watched him for another few seconds, studying his expression or rather, the lack of one. The boy's face looked human, perfectly so, but his stillness wasn't. No tremor, no shifting weight, no sign of strain after everything that had happened.
Her mind began to turn despite herself. 'Implanted.'Not shown, not taught; implanted.That wasn't the word of someone recalling a memory. That was the word of someone describing a process.
Piggot's voice from earlier whispered at the back of her thoughts: New trigger cape. D-1.
But that didn't fit.
Triggers were chaotic, emotional, unstable. This boy wasn't any of those things. He wasn't disoriented. He wasn't frightened. He wasn't even confused.
He was just… quiet.
Her eyes flicked over him again, tracing the way his suit clung to broad shoulders, the subtle, unnatural definition beneath his skin. There wasn't a scratch that hadn't already begun to heal. No bruising. No exhaustion.
Miss Militia swallowed.
'D-2 was a Case 53,'she thought. The grotesque, musclebound thing that had nearly flattened the docks. The physical deformity had made the classification easy, inhuman appearance, inhuman behaviour. But D-1…
D-1 looked too human.
Her stomach turned with the realisation. 'What if he isn't a trigger at all? What if he's another Case 53?'
-X-
The conference room was too bright. Rows of lights burned down from the ceiling, bleaching the walls in sterile white. The air smelled faintly of ozone and old coffee, the scent of bureaucracy trying to hide fatigue.
Director Emily Piggot stood behind the podium, shoulders square, hands resting on either side. The PRT Brockton Bay Division insignia gleamed on the banner behind her, its colours too vivid beneath the camera lights.
The murmur of reporters filled the room. Dozens of them. Pens ready. Recorders blinking red. Cameras flashing like lightning.
Piggot adjusted the microphone. The low screech of feedback died as quickly as it came. When she spoke, her voice was steady, deliberate, and practised enough to sound almost calm. "At approximately eighteen forty-seven hours last night, a high-intensity parahuman event occurred in the Docklands Industrial Sector. Two unidentified capes, designated D-1 and D-2, engaged in open combat. The Protectorate, New Wave, and PRT emergency response teams were deployed within minutes."
The clicking of keys filled the air. Piggot didn't pause.
"Containment was achieved at nineteen twenty-one. Collateral damage is extensive. Preliminary assessments estimate property loss at between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and eighty million dollars.Infrastructure damage includes total collapse of Pier 4 and Pier 7, partial destruction of adjacent warehouses, and critical damage to the nearby power substation."
A few gasps moved through the crowd, soft but audible.
"Casualty reports remain incomplete," Piggot continued, her tone unflinching. "As of zero six hundred this morning, twenty-seven confirmed deceased, forty-eight missing, and over two hundred injured. Rescue operations are ongoing."
The room fell quiet. Only the faint hum of camera lenses adjusting filled the air.
Piggot glanced up once, scanning the crowd. "We recognise the severity of this incident. I want to assure the public that the response was immediate and coordinated. Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and New Wave's Glory Girl engaged both unidentified capes. Without their intervention, the damage and loss of life would have been exponentially worse."
A hand shot up from the front row, a woman with a press badge from The Boston Globe.
"Director Piggot," she said, her tone sharp but controlled, "can you confirm if either of these parahumans were known to the PRT prior to the incident?"
Piggot's eyes flicked to her, calm, precise. "They were not."
Another voice chimed in before she could move on. "Then how were they classified so quickly? You've already labelled them D-1 and D-2, why?"
"Designation protocols exist for unidentified capes during emergency response," Piggot replied. "D-1 and D-2 are provisional identifiers pending further evaluation."
"Can you tell us who they are?" Domeone else called out from the back. "Civilian names? Affiliations?"
Piggot shook her head once. "No identities confirmed. Both individuals appeared without prior record, without PRT registry, and without known associates in this city."
The flash of cameras intensified.
"Director," a young man from Channel 8 News began, "witnesses describe D-1 as wearing a white suit with a red insignia. Many claim he was fighting to protect civilians. Is it fair to say D-1 was acting heroically?"
Piggot didn't answer immediately. Her expression didn't change, but the silence stretched just long enough for tension to crawl up the walls. "... We are still evaluating his intent," she said finally. "D-1's intervention contributed to neutralising D-2, yes. But intent and allegiance remain unconfirmed."
"Are you saying he could be a villain?"
"I'm saying we don't know what he is yet."
That shut the room up for a moment.
Piggot used it. She turned slightly toward the teleprompter and continued, her tone flat again.
"D-2 was initially classified as a High-Tiger-Class Disaster, based on structural damage potential and level of aggression. Subsequent analysis confirmed Demon-Class status. Ongoing suspicions maintain the belief of him being a Case 53, though it is as of yet unconfirmed."
Her words rolled out with the cold rhythm of a report. "We are coordinating with federal agencies to verify whether D-2 originated domestically or elsewhere."
"Director Piggot," another reporter pressed, "do you mean D-2 could be a foreign bio-weapon?"
Piggot's jaw tightened. "At this time, we have no evidence suggesting foreign involvement."
"But you can't rule it out," the reporter insisted.
Her tone cooled another degree. "I said there's no evidence. Next question."
Someone near the middle raised their hand—a woman with the Brockton Bay Times."Director, what about D-1? You mentioned D-2's Case 53 classification. What's D-1's? A new trigger?"
"Preliminary assessment categorises D-1 as a new trigger cape, likely spontaneous, unaffiliated, and untrained."
"Are you certain?"
"No," Piggot said bluntly. "But that is the working assumption."
Another voice from the crowd: "Then why the same designation pattern? D-1, D-2. That implies a link."
Piggot's eyes flicked briefly to the man who'd asked. "Because both appeared simultaneously in the same sector. Until we know more, operational classification is standard."
The questions started stacking faster now, one on top of another.
"Were they working together before the fight?"
"Is there a possibility D-2 caused D-1 to appear?"
"Did the PRT authorise lethal force?"
"Were the Wards deployed in active combat?"
Piggot raised a hand. The noise dimmed instantly.
"All Protectorate and PRT personnel acted within established parameters," she said. "The situation was contained. D-2 is in secure custody. D-1's current status is under review."
"Under review," one reporter echoed, voice sharp. "Does that mean he's been detained?"
Piggot hesitated just long enough for people to notice. "He's being evaluated."
Cameras flashed again, like a stutter of lightning.
"Director," another voice cut in, "rumours suggest D-1 fought off PRT personnel during the response. Footage even showcases Armsmaster being attacked by D-1. Is that true?"
Piggot's gaze hardened. "An operational miscommunication occurred in the field. It was resolved."
"Resolved how?"
"By containment of the primary threat," she said curtly.
A murmur swept through the room.
Piggot took a slow breath and leaned forward slightly, her hands resting firm against the podium. "We are dealing with an unprecedented situation. Two unregistered parahumans manifesting in the same place, engaging in catastrophic combat, without prior contact or cause. The investigation is ongoing. My office will provide updates as information is verified."
She paused, glancing over the crowd once more. "What I will emphasise is this: Brockton Bay remains secure. The city's emergency systems functioned as intended. Civilian evacuation protocols saved hundreds of lives. That is what matters tonight."
A final question slipped through the noise. "Director—if D-1 really is a new trigger, do you plan to recruit him into the Protectorate?"
Piggot didn't blink. "That depends on whether he wants to be recruited."
"And if he doesn't?"
Her lips thinned into the faintest suggestion of a frown. "Then we'll find another way to ensure he doesn't become a problem."
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The room buzzed with fresh whispers.
Piggot stepped back from the podium. "That'll be all," she said, her tone clipped and final.
Reporters shouted questions after her, but she was already walking offstage, her escort falling into step behind her.
Behind the curtain, the light dimmed, the noise muffled. The hum of electronics and murmurs faded into the background.
Piggot exhaled once, long and controlled. The mask didn't slip, not entirely, but the exhaustion showed in the way she rolled her shoulders.
When her aide caught up, she didn't turn to look. "Get me the latest debrief from Miss Militia. And I want confirmation on D-1's vitals. If he's not detained by sundown, I want to know why."
"Yes, ma'am."