RWD: 7.x (Prelude)(Parian)

7.x (Prelude)(Parian)

Hope was a strange, unfamiliar taste.

For the first time in what felt like years, Sabah woke up not to the distant sound of sirens, but to the gentle chirping of birds outside her dorm room window and the far-off sound of construction. The morning light that filtered through the blinds seemed softer, less accusatory. It had been a week since the world changed. A week since a monster that had haunted humanity for years was put down like a rabid dog on live television.

She stretched, the small aches in her back a familiar comfort. Her roommate was already gone for the weekend, leaving a sticky note on the mini-fridge with a smiley face and a reminder to water the fern. Sabah did so dutifully before padding over to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, after a quick breakfast of toast and tea, she packed the essentials into a nondescript backpack: Her costume, the golden curls of her wig, a porcelain mask wrapped in velvet, her sketchpad, a small sewing kit, and snacks. Her phone.

Outside, the streets of Brockton Bay were alive. Not with the skittish, hurried energy of before, but with a lazy weekend confidence. People were actually strolling. A couple pushed a stroller down a sidewalk that, two weeks ago, had been the undisputed territory of the Empire Eighty-Eight. The change was staggering.

Sabah ducked her head as she passed, pretending not to notice the attention people paid her. It was hard not to stand out: dark skin, oversized hoodie, an anxious hunch to her shoulders that said don’t see me in a city that had spent too long with too many eyes watching for threats.

She found her usual spot behind the hardware store, where the dumpsters blocked the view from the street. She changed quickly, folding her clothes into the backpack, pulling on the costume. Closing her eyes, she drew her power in, testing the threads in her bag, the feel of cloth sliding between her fingers. Familiar. Comfortable. Safe. She let herself breathe, Parian now.

Before stepping out, she checked her phone. PHO. No messages. The forum, however, was a torrent. The top trending meme was a twenty-second video of Omen’s rooftop speech set to a thumping techno beat, ending with the gunshot that killed Leviathan. It was tasteless, but Sabah couldn't help a small, conflicted smile. Beneath the gallows humour, there was a current of genuine celebration. Many people, for the first time in a long while, felt safe again.

Stepping out, she took a cab in the direction of her destination. 

Further down on the forum was a heated debate about the Peacekeepers' new office opening right across from the PRT’s fortress. More memes about Omen giving that speech. Everywhere, Omen. Omen smiling, Omen shaking hands, Omen in fan art as he made out with Bad Canary. Another with Alexandria. A third with Armsmaster. A photo of the Peacekeepers presenting a giant novelty check to the mayor of New York.

It was too much. She put the phone away as her destination came into view. The old St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital had been a relic, a crumbling brick mammoth that the city had never had the funds to properly maintain. Now, it was gleaming. A fresh coat of paint. New wings of glass and steel branched out from the original structure, the grounds were freshly landscaped, and a vibrant, sprawling mural of cartoon heroes decorated a new E.R. entrance. There were balloons everywhere, and a large banner was strung out above the entrance, reading: “Grand Re-Opening! Thank You, Peacekeepers!” 

A few days ago, a private message had appeared in her PHO inbox from the new, officially verified ‘Peacekeepers_Official’ account. Her heart had hammered against her ribs, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios. A demand for tribute? Force recruitment? An order to leave their city? Instead, the message had been polite, almost corporate. They had seen her work, they said. They were impressed. They wanted to offer her a contract to serve as a fashion designer for several of their upcoming civilian initiatives—uniforms for youth centre staff, costumes for community mascots. It was a lucrative, career-making offer.

She was still mulling it over, wary of tying her name so closely to a group with such a bloody history, no matter how much good they seemed to be doing now. But then, two days ago, a follow-up message had arrived. They were hosting an event to celebrate the hospital's reopening. A day for the kids. They wondered if she, Parian, would be willing to make an appearance. That was an easier yes. It was for the children, after all.

As she approached the main entrance, she saw the press. A small swarm of reporters and camera crews were held back by a line of temporary fencing, watched over by two uniformed BBPD officers. They were here for the bigger names, surely, but as she drew closer, a few heads turned. A camera flashed.

“Parian! Is it true you’re joining the Peacekeepers?”

“Are you here on Omen’s invitation?”

“What do you have to say about the group’s violent past?”

The questions came like bullets, and Sabah froze, a deer in the headlights. Her doll-like mask felt less like a shield and more like a target. She had no idea how to respond, how to navigate this.

Just as the panic began to set in, a warm, firm hand landed on her shoulder. “Easy there. Let’s get you through this.”

Sabah turned to see a dazzling, reassuring smile. Glory Girl. In her iconic white and gold, she seemed to radiate confidence. Standing just behind her was Panacea, looking uncomfortable but resolute in her simple white-and-red hospital scrubs.

“Just stick with me,” Glory Girl said, her voice a perfect blend of authority and friendliness. She put an arm around Parian’s shoulders and began to move forward, a ship parting the waves. “No questions right now, folks! We’re all here for the kids today. We’ll have a statement later!”

She guided Parian through the throng with a practised ease, deflecting shouted questions and ignoring flashing cameras. They emerged into the calm on the other side of the entrance, and the pressure in Sabah’s chest finally eased.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “I’m Parian.”

“Glory Girl,” the heroine said with another brilliant smile. “No problem. You get used to them after a while. Mostly.”

They walked through the automatic doors and into the hospital’s new Central Atrium. The space was immense, a three-story marvel of light and air, with a massive mobile of colourful planets and stars hanging from the ceiling. It was filled with people—doctors, nurses, beaming children in wheelchairs and hospital gowns, and a surprising number of suits. Sabah recognised Mayor Christner immediately, deep in conversation near a large, potted ficus.

And there were capes. A lot of them. Velocity and Dauntless were showing off for a group of toddlers, the former zipping around in blurs of blue light. Vista and Clockblocker were signing autographs on a little boy’s arm cast. Even Battery was there, talking with the Mayor.

Then she saw them. Standing on a low, brightly decorated stage was Omen. But it wasn't the solemn, armour-clad figure from the news. He wore a stunning, bespoke white suit, tailored to perfection. And over his head, instead of a menacing black mask, was a simple balaclava. It was a bright, cheerful, bubblegum pink.

Of the present Peacekeepers were two women. One had brilliant blonde hair, the other a cascade of yellow peppered with bright yellow feathers. They wore matching white sundresses and, like their leader, pink domino masks. Standing off to one side, arms crossed, was a fourth figure—a muscular man in a severe black suit, his face hidden by a black balaclava that mirrored Omen’s, a silent, imposing guardian.

Sabah felt a little star-struck and more than a little intimidated. Unsure of what else to do, she followed Glory Girl and Panacea as they made their way over to the Wards.

“Vicky! Amy!” Vista waved, her smile wide. “And Parian! Glad you could make it!”

Sabah managed a hesitant wave back. On stage, Omen was in the middle of a magic trick, pulling a string of silk handkerchiefs from a little girl’s ear, earning a chorus of giggles. The scene was so profoundly normal, so utterly at odds with the man’s reputation, that it caused a strange sort of cognitive dissonance.

The Peacekeeper with the feathered hair was moving through the crowd, helping staff hand out little gift bags to the children. Parian recognised her from the PHO posts. Canary. It was surreal seeing her in person, free and smiling. The media campaign to clear her name had been shockingly effective, painting a picture of a tragic misuse of justice rather than a malicious crime. Seeing her here, interacting so gently with the kids, it was hard not to believe it.

Canary stopped by their group, offering bags to the two Wards. Vista politely declined, but Clockblocker happily took one, pulling out a bobblehead of himself with an amused chuckle.

Glory Girl, ever curious, waved at the ex-singer. “Hey! Love the look. But I have to ask… what’s with the pink?” She gestured towards Omen, who was now making balloon animals.

Canary giggled, a light, musical sound. “Oh, that was my idea. He let me pick a more child-friendly colour scheme for the event. I thought pink would be a funny choice.”

The idea of anyone telling the man who killed an Endbringer what to wear—let alone for it to be funny—was so unexpected that everyone, even Panacea, cracked a smile.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Canary moved on. A nurse approached Parian with a trio of enormous, plush teddy bears. “Would you mind?” she asked kindly.

Sabah nodded, grateful for something to do. She reached out with her power, feeling it soak into the porous fabric of the bears. They stirred, sat up, and began to wave at a group of delighted children, who immediately swarmed them for hugs.

Soon, Omen finished his performance, stepping off the stage to let a hospital administrator take over. He made his way through the crowd, and for a terrifying moment, Sabah thought he was heading straight for her. But he merely stopped by their little group, offering a handshake to each of them in turn. His grip was firm, his nod polite. He exchanged a few quiet, friendly words with Glory Girl and Vista before moving on to rejoin his blonde colleague, who was still talking with Mayor Christner.

The event continued, a picture of perfect, peaceful civility. But then, Sabah noticed a shift. Omen spoke quietly into his wrist, his posture suddenly sombre. The blonde woman’s smile became fixed. The man in the black suit straightened, scanning the room. A moment later, Mayor Christner checked his phone, his face paling. Battery did the same, her expression grim. Without a word, the Peacekeepers, the Mayor, and the Protectorate hero began to quietly, quickly make their way towards a side exit.

“What’s going on?” Parian asked, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach.

Before anyone could answer, Clockblocker held up his phone, his voice uneasy. “Guys… you need to see this.”

He turned the screen towards them. It showed a live news feed, the camera shaking violently. The location tag read: New Delhi, India. The image was of chaos—buildings collapsing, people screaming. In the centre of it all was a monster.

It was twenty feet tall, humanoid but unnervingly slender, its body seeming to be carved from a milky, opalescent crystal. The space around it was wrong. It shimmered and warped, bending light like a heat haze on overdrive, making the creature impossible to focus on. It flickered across the screen, teleporting in bursts of distorted space, and with every appearance, the world around it twisted. A skyscraper stretched like taffy before snapping in half. A bus compressed into a ball of scrap metal. Projectiles fired by distant capes veered wildly off course, disappearing into the creature’s blurry aura.

A new Endbringer.

A chyron appeared at the bottom of the screen, a name the world was seemingly already giving this new terror.

HECATE.