CHAPTER FIVE: FALSE MASKS

Armsmaster was efficient. That was what made him one of the best.

A new vigilante appearing in Brockton Bay—one who seemingly couldn’t be touched—wasn’t something he could ignore. The PRT had been tracking the rumors, but it didn’t take long for them to connect the dots. A teenage girl, manifesting an unknown power immediately after a public trigger event in Winslow High School? The timeline fit. And thanks to Shadow Stalker’s report, they already had a name.

Taylor Hebert.

That was why he was here now, standing atop the roof of a condemned apartment building in the Docks, watching as she moved through the empty streets below.

She was careful. Not sloppy, but inexperienced. She didn’t stick to the main roads, didn’t linger under streetlights. A part of her, maybe, still thought she could go unseen. That assumption ended the moment his halberd’s speaker crackled to life.

“Taylor Hebert.”

She froze.

Armsmaster stepped forward, the servos in his armor humming softly as he descended from the rooftop, landing smoothly in the alley behind her. He didn’t reach for his weapon. She wasn’t a villain, not yet.

She turned slowly, eyes sharp beneath her hood. “Figures,” she muttered.

He studied her in turn. Thin, underfed, dressed in worn clothes that barely hid the exhaustion in her stance. But her gaze was steady and her back was straight.

“I assume you know why I’m here.”

“I have a guess.” Her voice was level.

Armsmaster tilted his head. “You’ve been active for three nights. Stopping muggings, disrupting gang activities. Normally, we’d take longer to identify an unregistered cape, but your situation made it easy.” His visor gleamed. “You identity was already compromised.”

Her shoulders tensed.

“You triggered publicly,” he continued. “Everyone at Winslow knows. Word spreads.”

Taylor exhaled sharply, but if she was rattled, she didn’t show it. “Then you know I’m not stopping.”

Armsmaster narrowed his eyes. “You’re a civilian operating outside the law. A rogue vigilante. If you continue this, you will become a criminal.”

She folded her arms. “You say that like the PRT really stops crime in this city.”

Armsmaster stiffened.

“I’ve been watching,” she continued. “I see how your patrols work. How you keep the Wards in the safe zones, where they won’t have to deal with real threats. How your troopers only step in when it’s convenient.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t have the full picture.”

“I have enough of it,” she said.

Silence stretched between them.

Armsmaster didn’t react, but she could see the slight shift in his stance, the careful way he measured her words.

Armsmaster didn’t react outwardly, maintaining the stillness that came with practiced discipline. But internally, he recalibrated. The girl was watching him closely. Too closely. His stance. His positioning. The slight shifts in his weight that he used to prepare for movement. They were subtle, minute adjustments, the kind most people wouldn’t even notice.

But she did.

He filed that away, adjusting his internal notes. Possible Thinker classification. Her power was already a problem—untouchable defenses, something that slowed projectiles midair—but if she was also reading his movements on an instinctive level, that changed things.

Further observation required.

“I won’t tell you to join the Wards,” he said after a pause. “I doubt you’d listen.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I wouldn’t.”

His grip tightened on his halberd. “Then this is your only warning. Stay out of our way. If you interfere with PRT operations, we will bring you in.”

Taylor’s gaze didn't waver.

“And if I see people getting hurt?” she asked.

Armsmaster didn’t answer immediately. For a long moment, there was only the distant hum of the city, the rustling of wind between buildings.

Finally, he exhaled. “Then I hope you understand what you’re getting into.”

She turned without another word, slipping into the shadows of the alley. He didn’t stop her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

. . . . .

Taylor sat in the corner of the cheap motel room, the dim light casting shadows across the threadbare carpet. She’d barely scraped together enough for the night—just a temporary fix, nothing more—but it would have to do.

In her lap, a fabric pooled between her fingers. 

She had expected Armsmaster to find her eventually. That part hadn’t been a surprise. But hearing it from his own mouth, the confirmation that the PRT—that everybody—knew who she was… reaffirmed certain things.

She couldn’t just walk around like this anymore.

If they already knew her name, she had to make sure that was all they knew.

Taylor lifted the cloth, running her fingers over it. Cheap, pulled from a thrift store bin, but it would serve its purpose.

She pulled it on, adjusting the fit, letting the fabric settle against her skin.

It wasn’t perfect.

But for now, it was enough.