RWD - NO_ROLLBACK: 6.09 

NO_ROLLBACK: 6.09 

(Alexandria)

The silence in the aftermath of the battle was a heavy, suffocating thing, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens and the groan of stressed metal.  She stood in the hastily repurposed National Guard base miles from the heart of the battle—now the secondary staging area—flanked by scattered tables, ringing cell phones, coffee pots empty and forgotten, capes and soldiers alike moving in a slow, uncertain dance. Outside, a sky still swollen with Leviathan’s storm pressed down on the city like a hand. Sirens wound their way through streets where the rain had finally slackened to a drizzle.

Rebecca surveyed the organized chaos with a practiced, dispassionate eye. The air, thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the acrid smell of pulverised concrete, was a familiar perfume. She had breathed it in after Behemoth, after the Simurgh, after countless other disasters that blurred into a single, unending war. But this time, something was different. This time, there was a victor.

One death. Exalt. An aerokinetic. Thirty-two years old. He was a key member of the Houston Protectorate team. In any other Endbringer fight, his death would have been one name among dozens, maybe hundreds. Today, he was the anomaly—the only fatality in what should have been a massacre.

The numbers didn't make sense by any conventional metric. Kyushu: forty-seven capes entered, nine survived. Newfoundland: twenty-three dead capes, half a million civilians. Today: one cape death, zero civilian casualties thanks to the evacuation, and Manhattan still standing despite taking a direct hit from Leviathan's opening salvo.

As a result, for several minutes now, the news feeds had been a torrent of grainy footage and breathless commentary, all centred on one impossible fact: Leviathan was dead. Not driven off, but killed. And the credit for that unprecedented victory belonged to one man: Hollowpoint.

Rebecca's gaze found him. Guess it was Omen now—she'd have to get used to the name now that he'd publicly claimed it. The footage was already everywhere. Every news channel, every social media platform, every PHO thread. Omen standing on that rooftop, delivering his speech about false gods and humanity's cowardice, then executing Leviathan with a single shot to the chest. His boot on its face as he casually pushed the limp, nine-ton corpse off the building.

He'd turned an Endbringer fight into theatre. Made himself the protagonist of humanity's greatest victory.

"Ma'am?"

Rebecca turned to find one of her aides—Williams, she thought—holding a tablet. "The President is requesting an immediate conference call. Secretary of Defence, Joint Chiefs, and..." he paused, "several senators are demanding to be included."

"Set it up in Conference Room Three," she said, her voice a tinge exhausted. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

As Williams hurried off, Rebecca allowed herself a moment to simply observe. Legend was talking animatedly with Eidolon near the medical tents. Dragon's damaged suit was being loaded onto a transport. Armsmaster stood alone, staring at his halberd.

And there was Omen, now in conversation with several heroes who'd approached him. Even from here, she could see their body language—grateful, awed, slightly fearful. He'd saved them all, and they knew it, but they also knew what he was. What he'd done to get here.

The Peacekeepers had executed criminals in the streets. Launched missiles at American citizens, even if they were Fallen cultists. Threatened the government with those same missiles. Held a PRT Director's family at gunpoint. By any reasonable measure, they were terrorists.

But they'd also cleaned up Brockton Bay more effectively than a decade of hero work. Destroyed the Empire Eighty-Eight. Neutralised the ABB. And now, killed an Endbringer.

Rebecca made her way to the conference room, switching fully to her Chief Director persona. The screens were already active when she arrived, showing the President's situation room filled with suits and uniforms.

"Director Costa-Brown," the President began without preamble.

"Mr President," Rebecca kept her voice level. Even as she stood there, her mind, a formidable engine of analysis and strategy, processed the flood of information with cold, machinelike efficiency. New York City had suffered extensive damage, but compared to other Endbringer battlegrounds, it was a scratch. The evacuation, aided by the Peacekeepers' advance warning, had been a resounding success. Only one cape had fallen: Exalt, a veteran hero whose loss was felt more for his historical significance than his strategic importance. The political fallout, as a result, was significant. Rebecca fully expected Washington—and by extension the rest of the United States—to experience a seismic shift in the corridors of power. The Peacekeepers held a monopoly on a verified Endbringer-killing technology, a fact that reshaped the global strategic landscape in an instant. The calls for an alliance, for cooperation at any cost, were growing louder. And Rebecca, as Chief Director of the PRT, would be the one to navigate that treacherous new reality.

“The Peacekeepers delivered,” The president said. “They even managed to assist with the preservation of New York City; The economic impact alone makes them too valuable to prosecute. We need them. I believe everyone here agrees?” 

A chorus of assenting voices emerged. Rebecca let them speak for a moment, cataloguing individual positions and alliances. Everyone here knew Omen’s position; he had made that very clear at their last meeting. Full amnesty and recognition of Brockton Bay as a special administrative zone under his and the state’s joint control, or he walks. Given what he's just demonstrated, it wasn’t hard to see other nations bidding for his services and offering more enticing deals if we refuse.

The President was quiet for a long moment. "What else did he ask for?"

Rebecca hesitated. The vials Omen had specified were Cauldron products, their serial numbers corresponding to formulas that shouldn't exist in any database he could access. It was a message, clear as a gunshot - he knew about Cauldron, or at least knew enough to be dangerous.

"Certain classified resources," she said carefully. "Items we’ve detected a few times on parahuman black markets. We already have feelers out to gather the required items."

“Good,” the president nodded. “Give it to him. Whatever it is, so long as it is within a reasonable extent.”

"Sir—" several voices started to protest.

"One cape died today," the President cut them off. "One. Do you understand what that means? The Endbringers have killed more capes than every other threat combined. They've destroyed cities, crippled nations. And today, one man killed one of them with a bullet to the chest. If he wants the moon, we'll build him a fucking ladder to get the damn thing."