RWD - NO_ROLLBACK: 6.08 

NO_ROLLBACK: 6.08 

(Martha Veder)

The rhythmic clatter of the pill dispenser was the metronome of Martha’s afternoon. It was a soothing, familiar sound. The sound of order, of precision, of problems being neatly solved and placed into small plastic bottles. In this sterile world of clean white counters, amber vials, and the faint, antiseptic scent of isopropyl alcohol, the chaos of the outside world felt distant, manageable. She spent most of her days on her feet, consulting with doctors and nurses, and ensuring the right medications reached the right patients. One pill, then the next. Follow the script. Check for interactions. Sign the form. It was a demanding job, one that required meticulous attention to detail, but Martha found a quiet satisfaction in it.

Her thoughts, as they often did during the lulls in her work, drifted to her youngest son, Greg. He’d changed so much since his trigger. Quieter, more intense. A new confidence in his eyes, a subtle shift in his posture that spoke of a strength she hadn’t seen before. The calm, almost unnerving, assurance he projected—it was so unlike the Greg she knew. As a result, her thoughts went to him even at the oddest of times. Once she had been listening to the radio and the anchors were speculating about the new capes in town, ‘The Peacekeepers’. They had gone active around the same time Greggy triggered…  A ridiculous thought, she’d told herself, quickly dismissing it. Greg was a good boy, a smart boy. He wouldn’t get himself involved with such a group. He wouldn’t.

The quiet shattered when Brenda from accounting burst through the staff door, her face pale and her hand clutching her phone like a lifeline.

“What is it?” Martha asked, her own heart beginning to beat a little faster.

“Turn it on,” Brenda said, her voice tight with panic. She fumbled with the remote for the small television mounted in the corner of the break room, a device usually reserved for daytime talk shows and muted news reports.

The screen flickered to life, showing the grim face of a news anchor. Beneath him, the chyron at the bottom of the screen screamed in bold, red letters: ENDBRINGER LEVIATHAN ATTACKS NEW YORK CITY.

Martha’s breath caught in her throat. New York. So close. The world of capes and monsters, a thing usually confined to grainy videos and heated debates on PHO, had just slammed into her reality. The dispenser fell silent. The pills sat forgotten in their tray.

“...unprecedented early warning, credited to the controversial parahuman group known as the Peacekeepers, allowed for a near-total evacuation of Manhattan island,” the anchor was saying, his professional calm frayed at the edges. “But sources on the ground confirm the battle is still raging. We’re being advised that residents in neighbouring states, including Connecticut and New Jersey, should remain vigilant…”

The rest of his words blurred into a wash of static in her ears. She was already moving, her heart a frantic hammer against her ribs. She fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking so badly she could barely unlock it. John. She had to call John.

He answered on the second ring. “Martha? Are you seeing this?”

“I’m seeing it,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “John, we need to…”

“The shelter,” he finished for her. “The one down on Gallows Street. I’ll call Tom. You call Greg. We’ll meet there.”

“Okay. I love you. Be safe.”

“You too.”

The call ended. Her fingers, slick with a sudden cold sweat, fumbled as she tapped Greg’s name. It rang. Once. Twice. Then, a voice that was not her son’s answered.

“Hello?” It was a young woman, her tone polite but cautious.

“Hello?” Martha repeated, confused. “I’m trying to reach Greg Veder. Is he there?”

“Oh, Mrs Veder! This is Lisa. I’m a friend of Greg and Taylor’s. They, uh, went down to the Boardwalk to do some shopping a little while ago, and Taylor left her bag here. Both their phones are in it.”

The explanation was so mundane, so normal, that it felt jarring against the backdrop of the unfolding apocalypse on the television.

“I just spoke with Mr Hebert, actually,” Lisa continued. “Told him the same thing. They should be back soon.”

Martha’s mind raced, trying to reconcile the image of her son shopping with the images of chaos on the screen. “Lisa, listen to me. There’s an Endbringer in New York. We’re all going to the shelter on Gallows Street. You tell Greg, you tell him the moment he gets back, he is to go straight there. And have him call me.”

“Of course, Mrs Veder. I’ll tell him.”

Martha ended the call, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She began to pack her purse, her movements jerky and inefficient. On the screen, the news had cut to a new feed. A live feed of the rooftop of some skyscraper. A lone figure stood there, clad in dark tactical armour, a massive rifle in his hands. On a split-screen, Leviathan was visible—a monstrous green statue, its right arm missing, its body covered in wounds, frozen in a shimmering field of energy..

The silhouette of the man was tall, lean. There was something in the way he stood, a kind of coiled stillness, that felt… familiar. She pushed the thought away as soon as it formed. Don’t be ridiculous, Martha.

A murmur went through the small crowd that had gathered in the pharmacy, a mix of staff and patients, all of them captivated by the image on the screen. Then, the man spoke, his voice amplified, clear and steady, cutting through the background noise of the wind and heavy downpour.

“Humanity!” he declared, gesturing with one hand toward the frozen Endbringer. “Look at that colossus—look at the idol you were taught to fear! For generations, you have lived on your knees. Cowered before these abominations. Why? What stands before me isn't a god. Nor is it fate, or some unstoppable force of nature. It is merely a beast. Nothing more. A creature that has gorged itself on your terror. A rabid thing that has lived too long without challenge.” 

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“This false god has never known fear. It has never faced an equal. It has never imagined its own end.” He raised the rifle, settling the stock against his shoulder and taking aim as the shimmering field around Leviathan began to flicker and die. 

“Witness me,” he ordered. “I am Omen—and I am all three.”

BANG!

The rifle went off like a cannon, the sound distorted through the television’s small speakers. Martha flinched, her hand flying to her mouth. On the screen, she watched the tracer round arc through the air, a streak of light against storm-dark sky, before slamming into Leviathan’s chest and detonating. For a moment, there was silence. The video feed zoomed in, and as the smoke cleared, a tiny prick of light was visible in the Endbringer’s chest. It was then she realised she was seeing straight through the monster. The ice field on the other side was visible through a perfectly bored hole in its torso.

Silence reigned for a split second, broken only by the audible clack of the cape rechambering his weapon. He fired again, but Leviathan was already a blur of motion, beelining for the skyscraper. The second shot hit the ice where the creature had been an instant before. It ignored Alexandria and Eidolon as they tried to intercept it, shrugging off their blows. It ignored Armsmaster, who managed to carve a long, deep gash in its side, spilling a thick, dark ichor onto the ice. It ignored a massive laser beam that lanced out from the horizon to slam into its side. It ignored everything, its entire being focused on one target, zigzagging between buildings to close the distance.

The cape—Omen—remained calm. He tracked the approaching monster with his rifle, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Leviathan was suddenly there, perched on the side of an adjacent skyscraper, its asymmetrical face fixed on him. Then, in a blur, it launched itself across the gap, its remaining arm outstretched to crush the cape who had dared to challenge it.

BANG!

The Endbringer smashed into the rooftop, its claw gouging a trench in the concrete where Omen had been standing just moments ago. The cape had sidestepped at the very last possible second, firing as he moved. The tip of his rifle was still smoking.

Leviathan had gone completely still. Omen straightened, took a step forward, and placed his boot on the Endbringer’s face. Then, with a seemingly effortless push, he dislodged the creature, sending it tumbling down into the flooded streets below.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind. Then Omen turned to face the camera, his face obscured by a balaclava, familiar blue eyes peeking through. Let this be a warning,” he said, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. “To every monster that preys on the innocent. The Peacekeepers are here. And we will have order.”

The feed cut. The screen snapped back to the news studio, where the two anchors sat in stunned silence. A moment later, one of them, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and awe, confirmed what they had all just witnessed. 

“We… we have confirmation. I repeat, we are receiving confirmation from PRT command. The Endbringer Leviathan… has been killed. Hollowpoint, the leader of the Brockton Bay Peacekeepers, has killed an Endbringer.”

A cheer erupted in the pharmacy, a wave of joyous, disbelieving celebration. People were shouting, cheering. Brenda was hugging a patient. Martha, however, could only sink into a nearby chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her. She called John again, her voice weak with relief, and they spoke for a few minutes, their conversation a jumble of fragmented sentences and shared disbelief.

As she hung up, her phone rang again. An unknown number. She answered it, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mom?”

It was Greg’s voice.

“Greg! Oh, thank God. Where are you? Are you alright?”

“We’re fine, Mom,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Taylor and I saw the news. We’re at a payphone. We’ll be home soon.”

“Is Taylor okay? Put her on.”

A moment later, Taylor’s voice, small and a little shaky, came on the line. “We’re okay, Mrs Veder. We’re safe.”

They spoke for another moment before she handed the phone back to Greg. He promised again that they’d be back soon. As she hung up, she thought she heard something in the background of the call, just before he disconnected. The faint sound of distant rainfall. But that was impossible. It was sunny today. 

It must have just been her imagination.