There are more people in Central Park than I expected, on a frigid winter afternoon. Most of my body may be insulated by the uniform I’m wearing under my clothes, but without the mask, the tips of my ears are pink and numb. I rub them absentmindedly, trying to generate some heat, as I wait for the Vitruvian to arrive. We agreed to meet here at a quarter to noon, and he has five minutes before I can call him late.

Not more than a minute later, I spot him approaching a short distance away. He’s easy enough to recognize, as he hasn’t shaven or cut his hair since the last time I saw him. Despite myself, I can’t help resent the fact that he pulls the look off so well. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he looks entirely dignified, but it’s certainly not as ridiculous as it would look on me. There’s something to be said about the fact that pretty people tend to become heroes more often than those who don’t match conventional beauty standards. Perhaps they simply have a more positive disposition because the world has been kinder to them, as it so often is to people with aesthetically pleasing faces. On the other hand, someone who’s been treated badly their whole life because of how they look would understandably feel less of an inclination to use their gifts in service of their fellow man.

Whatever the motivations of most self-professed heroes, the Vitruvian certainly doesn’t do what he does just because people were nice to him when he was young. He’s got a genuine ideological drive, which makes him more dangerous than almost anyone. If all he cared about was wealth or fame, this wouldn’t be nearly so complicated. Not because we could just buy him off, but because he’d give up more easily if he didn’t have something to fight for.

“Winters.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to say his tone is friendly, but he doesn’t give any indication that he’s actively looking to kill me right now. That’s a start, at least. I don’t have the highest of hopes for these negotiations, but even a small chance to resolve this without further bloodshed is worth taking.

“Vitruvian.”

One thing that’s perplexed me about my interlocutor, since well before I even met him, was his lack of a real name. He and Atlas come from an era where secret identities were the norm, before heroes became glorified celebrities, but those two in particular went further than anyone else. Their teammates all had real names, jobs, families, that they did their best to keep separate from their heroics. But Atlas and the Vitruvian seemed to have no secret identities at all. Not in the sense that their ‘true’ identities were public, but because they simply didn’t have any. Father spent years searching for even a hint of their life outside of the job, and found nothing. Neither of them ever wore so much as a domino mask- it was almost as if they were taunting people like the Terrors, daring them to try and find out where they lived.

“In the interest of honesty, I feel I should inform you that I have Atlas standing by. Just in case.”

Obviously, the agreement was that we’d meet under a white flag, and even if we couldn’t reach an agreement, we’d both walk away without issue. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t foolish enough to come unarmed, though I did have to forego my usual sidearm, which I’m sure would have drawn some strange looks in the middle of New York. Likewise, I doubt the Vitruvian is unarmed either. He may be a fool in many respects, but he’s not actively stupid.

“Likewise,” I reply. In truth, I suspect Kellan has already spotted Atlas, and has a rifle trained at him while I speak. With any luck, that won’t be necessary. “By the way, now that I know you were a part of the Arcana, it makes most of your arguments against us come across as somewhat hypocritical.”

Maybe not the best opening line for what’s supposed to be a negotiation, but I can’t resist. The Vitruvian frowns, and takes a seat next to me on the bench.

“What we do is different. Our actions kept the world from the brink of nuclear war, and we managed it without killing thousands of people. The extent of what you did with that Network creature is repulsive.”

“Maybe so, but what the people he killed were doing before is even more repulsive. Our evils are necessary ones. Theirs were anything but.”

Even before the words have left my mouth, I know he won’t be swayed. There’s a reason his card in the Arcana is Justice, after all. Knowing that, I’m more sure than ever that his moral inflexibility existed long before he activated his suit’s stasis mode. He doesn’t seem to want to debate the point further, though.

“This is an interesting choice of location,” the hero says after a few moments, gesturing at the park around us. “Your father would approve. Broad daylight, plenty of innocent bystanders who might get hurt if I tried to take you in.”

He’s wearing casual clothes, a tan flannel shirt that seems to fit too well for his bulky armor to be hidden underneath. Unless, of course, it was reduced to a more manageable size, perhaps closer to the skintight suit that I wear.

“Actually, I chose this place because there are plenty of witnesses,” I reply mildly. “It only seemed sensible, given your tactics.”

The Vitruvian frowns.

“Our tactics?”

“Oh,” I reply in mocking surprise, “didn’t Atlas tell you? He already sent one of his people to butcher one of ours.”

“I... am aware that one of your group’s members was killed,” he responds carefully, seeming taken aback.

“Not just any one of us,” I say, doing my best not to sound too vindictive. “Ulysses. He helped me rescue you, as you may recall. Unless you’ve forgotten already?”

“I regret every death,” the Vitruvian says after a moment, rallying slightly. “I mourn every life lost in this never-ending battle.”

That sentence sums up his worldview better than anything he’s said before. He sees his crusade as inherently impossible to win, yet chooses to continue regardless, which I suppose he thinks makes him brave, or somehow noble. And when innocent people die by the dozens, he’ll shed his tears, and make his solemn vows to never let it happen again, but he won’t ever change the way he does things. Not really. He’ll just keep trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble, while everybody else drowns.

What he doesn’t understand is that the battle doesn’t have to be never-ending. You just have to acknowledge that the way you’re fighting doesn’t work, and change tactics until you find something that does. If he could look past his retrograde moral nonsense, he’d see that the Council’s way works far better than anything he and his friends ever accomplished.

“Even the lives taken by your own hand?”

“Of course,” he snaps back, suddenly incensed. “Especially those. Because it means I couldn’t find a better way.”

More accurately, because he refused to try a better way. But I didn’t come here to argue with him. Or perhaps I did, but not about this.

“Fine. Say Ulysses had to die. Say there was no other choice. Did he have to die like this?”

Pulling out my phone, I show him the picture of Ulysses’s severed head on the pike. He stares in abject horror for several long moments, then can’t bring himself to look any longer. I find myself taking a grim pleasure in his discomfort. Not even Atlas is pretending to play by his rules anymore.

“I- I didn’t know--”

“I thought not. Did you ever even stop to consider whether Atlas is the same person he used to be?”

“Atlas didn’t- he wouldn’t have--”

The Vitruvian looks as if he’s going to be sick.

“No. His pet psychopath did it for him. The Equalizer- or should I say Death? I’m sure you two have met by now. Tell me, do you think Atlas still plays by the same rules you did fifty years ago? Of course not. He lives in the world. The question is, do you?”

Rather than answer, he turns away, and I wonder for a moment if he’s actually going to throw up. It would be rather uncomfortable to continue this conversation if he has vomit in his beard. Fortunately, he manages to get control of himself, and turns around, doing his best to rally once more.

“That is unacceptable,” he says firmly. “Atlas and the Equalizer will both answer for it. But their behavior doesn’t make yours any better.”

It’s almost difficult to believe anybody could be quite so blind. But I suppose it’s probably got something to do with the fact that he hasn’t yet taken off his armor, which is keeping him in ‘stasis,’ exactly as he was when he went through that portal along with Father. He hasn’t aged a day, and his personality hasn’t changed in the slightest either. It’s possible he can’t, not without taking off the suit, which could very likely age him half a century in an instant, a process I doubt he’d survive. Which might mean this entire enterprise was pointless- but I still have to try. For my own conscience, if nothing else.

“Everything we’ve done has been in the service of creating a better world. Your friend had a good man mutilated to send a message. And you’re both fighting to return society to a state that was demonstrably worse in every way.”

If that does anything, it shakes the last vestiges of discomfort off of him. Just like that, he’s right back to self-righteousness.

“Son, I’ve heard every ‘rational’ argument for fascism in the book, and--”

“It’s not fascism, you insufferable fucking twit! And if you call me son ever again, I’ll gouge out your eyes with my thumbs.”

The ferocity of my words gives him pause. Looking guilty, he turns away from me, instead fixing his eyes on the horizon. It’s a long time before he says anything.

“Conrad, I hope you know that I did everything I could to save your father. I never meant for him to die, I swear it.”

Wary of another verbal misstep, I choose my next words carefully.

“I don’t harbor any ill will towards you for what happened to my father. I’ve forsworn the path he wished for me to take, and I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to atone for his sins, and my own.”

Frankly, I’ve never thought of what I do as ‘atoning,’ and I certainly don’t think it’s my responsibility to make up for what my genetic donor did. But it seems like the sort of heartfelt, sentimental nonsense that might actually give the Vitruvian pause. Heaven knows appealing to basic logic and reason hasn’t worked thus far.

“That’s admirable,” he says, and seems to truly believe it. “But what you and your friends have been doing- denying ordinary people the freedom to make their own decisions -that’s not the way to go about it.”

No doubt he believes that running around, waiting until a crisis to happen so he can stop it, and saving a handful of lives in the process, is the most worthwhile pursuit imaginable. I wonder- did he even consider for a moment that he might be able to turn his genius towards something better? Feeding the hungry? Or did he simply decide that it would be ‘too dangerous,’ and go back to using his incredible inventions to give common criminals CTE?

“I don’t think we’re ever going to agree about that,” I say simply. “But nobody else has to die over it.”

The Vitruvian looks downcast. It’s the expression of a man who thinks he’s come to terms with a grim necessity. I’m sure that’s how he sees it.

“I certainly hope that’s true,” he replies. “And I’ll do everything in my power to prevent any further loss of life. But that may not be enough.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“What I mean is, we may not have to fight at all.” Understandably, his expression turns skeptical. “One of the Council’s former members was named Geas, and he possessed telepathic abilities. Unfortunately, he perished in our conflict with Gilgamesh, but we’ve been looking into the possibility of cloning his brain, so that we might be able to take advantage of his abilities. We could modify your memories, erase all knowledge of the Council’s existence- or at least the parts you object to -and you could go back to your life.”

He looks increasingly concerned at every successive word that comes out of my mouth. It’s little surprise that the notion of cloning someone in such a way would bother him, but the suggestion that he’d submit to a voluntary mindwipe is what offends him the most. To his credit, he seems to be doing his best to take it in the spirit it was meant- as a peace offering. But I already know what his answer is going to be.

“No. I’ve never subscribed to the notion that ignorance is bliss.”

Frustrated, I pinch my brow.

“You’ve been given a second chance at life,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You don’t need to throw that away over a disagreement you wouldn’t even remember having.”

“I’d figure it out again,” he says, without a hint of self-doubt, much less irony. I want to shake him by the shoulders and remind him that he didn’t figure it out in the first place- he was told, by us. But I doubt that would change his mind. “Besides, now every member of the Arcana knows. Do you propose to violate all of them in the same way? Because I can assure you, most of them wouldn’t go willingly.”

“Please. Just consider it. Because the alternative is that you go back into a cell, or worse. And the same for Atlas.”

“I see you’ve inherited your father’s overconfidence.”

“It’s not overconfidence,” I hiss. “I don’t care how many black-ops killers Atlas has up his sleeve. This is not a fight you would win. We’re not some two-bit criminal organization you can toss in jail. We run the world. The entire world. Whatever power your people once had pales in comparison to what we wield today. You caught us on the back foot once, and only because we didn’t want to kill you. That isn’t a chance you’re ever going to get again.”

Even as I’m speaking, I know that he isn’t going to listen. Why would he? Every other time he’s gotten this speech from someone with my face, he’s beaten them. If he’s ever meaningfully lost a fight, I haven’t heard the story. He thinks he’s a hero, and that means he thinks he’s always going to win. Oh, I’m sure he’ll prepare for a tough fight, but he won’t so much as consider that no amount of preparation might be enough.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that before,” he says, predictably. “But even if you do kill Atlas and I, you’ll still lose. We set up a deadman’s switch. If one of us isn’t there to disable it, it’ll expose you and your Council to the world. Everyone will turn against you, and you won’t have anywhere to hide.”

“You’re bluffing,” I reply instantly, without a hint of hesitation. “If people knew how far our reach extends, there would be chaos. Riots. Death. Nations would burn. We’re already teetering on the brink after what you did with Network. What you’re talking about isn’t a push, it’s a shove. And no matter how ruthless you think you are, you wouldn’t do that.”

He says nothing, but the look in his eyes tells me I’m dead-on. If Atlas were the one saying that to me, I might believe him. But the Vitruvian wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing. In fact, something tells me he only tried to bluff because Atlas suggested it to him already. On the other hand, it’s possible that Atlas would go behind his back and do it anyway, which is something we’ll have to watch out for. But I suspect he wouldn’t violate his oldest friend’s trust like that. Not a day after being reunited with him, at least. Besides, it’s not as if we couldn’t just threaten to reveal the Arcana’s existence as well.

A few moments later, the Vitruvian’s half-hidden dismay disappears, replaced with a rueful smile. He leans back, draping one arm over the bench, though it doesn’t quite reach over to me. Witnessing the way he manages to make himself feel justified no matter the circumstances, I gain a great deal of sympathy for Father and the others. It’s increasingly easy to understand why they wanted him dead.

“I suppose being predictable is one downside of having a strong moral compass,” he says. Apparently the only way he can admit that his antiquated code of ethics holds him back is by taking pride in that fact.

“Something like that.”

“Mock me all you want. We’ll still find a way to beat you. And we’ll do it the right way.”

“I think that ship has already sailed,” I reply, miming a decapitation at my own neck. He flinches, but doesn’t look away.

“Atlas may have lost himself, but he’ll find his way back. It’s not too late for you either, Conrad. Your story doesn’t have to end like your father’s did. You can be a better man than him. It won’t be easy, but I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

“And what exactly are you proposing? That we all serve twenty-five years in prison for the crime of helping make the world a better place? The only reason those prisons aren’t rape factories anymore is because of us, by the way. But I doubt you spent much time thinking about what happened to the people you caught after they were locked away.”

“It won’t be easy, that’s true,” the Vitruvian says, brushing off most of what I said with surprising ease. “But you need to be held accountable for what you’ve done before you can begin again.”

The fact that he’s trying to give me this speech is mind-boggling. Not only is he several years too late when it comes to convincing me to reject my ‘destiny,’ he’s doing a far worse job than Kellan did when he gave the same speech. Most likely because Kellan actually respected me, even if I was his rival. No matter what he might pretend, the Vitruvian clearly doesn’t. He just sees me as another tool of his true enemy. The only reason he’d care to see me turned against Father is because it would hurt him, not because he gives a damn about me. But I’m not going to be a pawn in a game of chess between a dead man and a relic.

“This was a waste of time. We’re done here.”

With an expression of paternal disappointment, concealing a bottomless well of condescension and false moral superiority, the Vitruvian stands and walks away. Once he’s put some distance between us, he raises his hand in the air, three fingers extended. A moment later, Atlas swoops down and scoops him up, so fast that I suspect nobody who wasn’t already staring would notice. I watch the spot where he was standing for another moment, and sigh.

A few minutes later, Kellan approaches me. He’s in uniform, but with the trenchcoat closed and the helmet off, so he can pass as a civilian well enough, at least for now. Besides, we’ve got bigger concerns than somebody assuming he’s a notorious vigilante rather than just a Matrix cosplayer.

“That bad, huh?”

Apparently the look on my face is answer enough. He shrugs, looking sympathetic, but he made it fairly clear beforehand that he felt there was virtually no chance I’d be able to get through to the Vitruvian.

“Did you get what you needed, at least?”

Standing, I pull my phone from my pocket and access the scanner I outfitted it with before the meeting. There was some concern that the Vitruvian would notice I was scanning his armor during our conversation, but if he did, he gave no indication. And according to the readout, it looks as if it was able to scrape some usable information off of him while we talked.

“It seems so.”

“Good,” Kellan replies. “You wanna get something to drink? You look like you’re freezing.”

I have half a mind to decline, and head straight back to the workshop, but it would probably be useful to decompress somewhat after that conversation. Not to mention the fact that Kellan and I haven’t had much of a chance to speak privately of late.

“Sure.”

The two of us walk together in silence for a few minutes, strolling past joggers and birdwatchers and various other ordinary people. A part of me wants to take one aside and ask how they feel about the ‘Coma Crisis.’ Do they buy into the narrative that it’s a prelude to a second Andromedan invasion? If so, does that make them more or less concerned? I suppose the silver lining is that most of the people who actually repelled the first invasion- namely metahumans -have been unaffected. Either way, it’s somewhat surprising that so many of them are just going on with their ordinary lives.

Mostly, though, I think about the Vitruvian. Playing back the exchange in my head, I try to see it from every possible angle. Did I push him too hard about Atlas? Should I have tried to restrain myself instead of snapping at him? The more I think about it, the more agitated I get, and Kellan doesn’t fail to take notice.

“His real power is knowing exactly how to get on your nerves, right?”

I laugh bitterly.

“What frustrates me the most is the moments when you can see the appeal of thinking like he does. The relentless optimism, the unflinching resolve. But he won’t accept that this isn’t the same world he used to live in. Or maybe he can’t. If he’d lived through the past few decades, I think he’d have changed as well. Become someone who could see more clearly.”

“Or maybe he’d have gone the way of Atlas,” Kellan offers. “Ends-justify-the-means, but without any actual ends to fight for.”

“Something tells me Atlas was already like that well before either of us was born. If anything, it was the Vitruvian’s influence that kept him... clean, so to speak.”

It’s easy to see how someone whose only real power is to destroy would adopt that worldview, while the builder with limitless potential would naturally be an optimist. At their best, they’d balance each other out, cynicism tempering naivete, optimism tempering misanthropy. But neither of them are at their best. The Vitruvian hasn’t changed at all, and Atlas has changed far too much.

“It’s certainly interesting to imagine a world where he never disappeared. I wonder if he’d have become one of our coworkers?”

Standard protocol is, of course, to talk around the Council’s existence whenever we’re somewhere that somebody might hear.

“The Vitruvian? I can’t see it. Not unless something happened that well and truly changed his worldview. Atlas, on the other hand... to be honest, I’m still not certain why he isn’t working with us right now.”

“Maybe he just never graduated to worldkiller status?”

One of the people standing near us, waiting for the traffic light to change, gives Kellan a funny look. He smiles at her, and I wonder how many people have quietly assumed the two of us are a couple. Admittedly, we don’t have a child with us this time, but I suppose it’s not an unreasonable assumption based on external appearances.

“I’m not certain that was ever a strict requirement for membership, so much as a general criteria. Besides, it’s not as if he couldn’t have done so if he wanted. All it would take is hurling a few large rocks at various major population centers, and he could depopulate a large part of the planet in a matter of days.”

“Or he could just fly back and forth through the moon a few times, and let the tides do the rest of the work.”

The both of us fall silent for a few moments after that, contemplating just how easy it would be for one man to wipe out millions, even billions of people on a whim. We’ve avoided many such scenarios in the past, some well in advance, others terrifyingly narrowly. But short of eliminating metahuman abilities entirely, we can’t rid ourselves of that risk entirely. And that’s not really on the table- both because we don’t have the technology, and because it would mean denying ourselves scientific progress.

While we head down the street, someone wearing a Peacekeepers branded jacket brushes past Kellan, deliberately jostling him, and mutters an expletive under his breath. We share a look, both suppressing smiles, though I do feel no small amount of contempt for the man as well. Not even enough confidence to say ‘fuck you’ to somebody’s face.

“That outfit is in rather poor taste,” I say, smirking. Kellan rolls his eyes and punches my arm without force.

“I wonder if he thought we were dating,” he replies.

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing. I hope you realize that if Olivia ever finds out about that incident, she’s never going to let us live it down.”

Kellan shudders theatrically.

“Guess we’ll just have to make sure she never finds out.”

“Agreed.”

We head into a coffee shop together, and I’m immediately grateful for the rush of warmth. Kellan’s outfit draws a few sideways glances, but no outright hostility. It seems people are more comfortable assuming he’s merely dressing like Hawkshaw, rather than being the man himself. We order drinks- tea rather than coffee, an affectation we both developed independently. Perhaps somewhat pretentious, but at least neither of us have the horrid yellowed teeth of coffee addicts. When our orders are ready, we seat ourselves at a small table by the window, and Kellan places a small gray cylinder on the table. It generates an auditory distortion field around us, rendering our words indistinct status to anybody trying to listen in.

“So,” he says, wiping some tea off his upper lip, “I’ve been looking into the people Lévesque named. The other members of the Atlas faction.”

I raise an eyebrow. No surprise that he’s done his research, though I do wonder where he even found the time, considering we haven’t exactly been idle.

“Sounds like you have something interesting to share. Do tell.”

“Well, the good news is, there are only two other members of his faction that we didn’t know about. The rest are either aligned with this Empress faction, or belong to the third, which is aligned around the High Priestess. More interestingly, Atlas isn’t even the leader of his faction- it’s the Emperor, a guy called Colonel Jackson Traylor.”

Kellan says it like I’m supposed to recognize the name, and when I give no indication that I do, he frowns slightly. For all my talents, I don’t possess his near-perfect memory.

“If that sounds familiar, it’s because Traylor was the Vanguard’s official government liaison back in the day. He’s the guy who brought Atlas and the Vitruvian into the Arcana. Network pushed him out of the DMA when he started taking over, so he’s got a reason to want us gone, too.”

That certainly is interesting. A high-ranking official in the Department of Metahuman Affairs, former military by the sound of it, who lost his position during the Council’s initial takeover. Although if we were able to remove him so easily, it suggests that his influence was already waning before then.

“He doesn’t seem like an immediate threat,” Kellan continues. “No powers, and he’s pretty old, so he won’t be taking the field. But in a way, that poses more of a problem, because we can’t just kill him and be done with it.”

If Kellan is willing to suggest killing him as a first resort, it indicates a particular contemptibility to this Traylor character. Then again, that’s not especially rare among career officers in the American military. The Colonel could have ordered one too many drone strikes, or covered up the wrong civilian massacre.

“Well, at the very least, we can neutralize his agents. That should leave him with few options in terms of retribution. A display of power to keep them in their place was probably past due.”

The look on Kellan’s face tells me that’s not at all how he was thinking about this situation. I don’t blame him- if anything, I’m glad one of us is willing to draw a firmer line in the sand when it comes to this sort of thing. The instincts Father gave me are hard to ignore, especially when doing the right thing is hard.

“The one we really have to watch out for is the Sun. AKA Lucas Bradley.”

This time the name rings a bell. It takes a second for things to click, but when they do, I have to keep my jaw from dropping.

“The hedge fund manager?”

“The very same. Apparently, he’s a metahuman. Very well-kept secret. His power, apparently, is probability manipulation.”

For the second time in a span of seconds, I’m nearly speechless. Indignation wins out over confusion, and I sputter out a protest.

“That’s not-- there’s no such thing! You can’t just turn a dial that says luck and- and--”

“I know,” Kellan says. “Lévesque wasn’t exactly clear about how it works, because he doesn’t know either. Things just go his way, a statistically improbable amount of times. He’s careful to keep it within reasonable bounds, which is why nobody’s ever noticed. Silver lining is that it’s supposedly not very effective in a fight. He can’t increase the intensity of the effect at will, so you just have to keep shooting until you hit him. The main reason they recruited him in the first place is because of the money, not firepower.”

I’m still trying to figure out exactly how such an ability could even function. It’d be one thing if it only worked on a small scale, like causing guns to jam, but if it impacts larger mechanisms, like the stock market, that suggests some level of reality manipulation. Or perhaps it manifests as a form of heightened intuition that allows him to make prescient investment choices. In fact, it could well just be an esoteric form of precognition combined with some level of subconsciously activated telekinesis- but if there’s even a small chance he’s a genuine reality warper, we have to take the threat as seriously as possible.

“Is he likely to take the field?”

It’s hard to know which would be preferable. Having an x-factor like that active in the middle of a fight would be worrisome, but I’m almost more concerned about the possibility of his power impacting our odds of victory on a broader scale.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Kellan says. “Still, we can’t afford to ignore the possibility that he might. I was hoping to avoid it, but if he might be involved, we’ll need to bring in the rest of my team.”

That strikes me as a wise decision. If the best way to deal with Bradley is simply to attack him enough times that his luck runs out, there’s probably nobody better suited for that task than Vindicator. And having the Front Line’s newest members on hand won’t hurt either.

“What about allies from outside of the Arcana? Is there anybody he interacts with regularly who might be inclined to help?”

“Almost nobody. He meets up with Dryad and Kentarch once a year, and he visits Neutrino in the hospital occasionally, but besides that, he’s a total loner. Doesn’t spend much time on crime these days either. He’ll show up for the big stuff, but mostly he deals with natural disasters, or helps out with humanitarian projects. Apparently the Universalis Foundation tried to give him a spot on their board of directors, but he never responded.”

Despite the fact that he’s our enemy, and responsible for murdering one of my allies, not to mention holding captive two people I care about, I can’t help but feeling some admiration for the man. He, unlike the Vitruvian, actually changed the way he operated. First by moving past the antiquated moral values that he’d worked under as a hero, then by using his powers in the way that helps the most people, instead of simply doing what feels immediately satisfying, like ‘fighting crime.’ It’s still fighting the symptoms rather than the disease, but it’s more than most people would do.

“If you’re right, it certainly portends well for us.” I hesitate momentarily, hoping to avoid seeming as if I don’t trust Kellan’s judgment, but ultimately decide to speak my mind. “Are you certain the entire team is fit for combat?”

He chuckles.

“You can just say you mean Apex. Look, he might not be an intellectual powerhouse, but he knows how to throw down. Besides, Adamant will be backing him up.”

“He’s a concern,” I admit, “but he isn’t the only one.”

“Darius? I get it, but that armor can take a ton of punishment. And none of it transfers over to the user.”

“I mean Nemesis.”

Kellan falls silent.

“I may not be an omniglot, but I do know my classics. That word might have come to mean enemy in the modern era, but it used to represent something else. A balancing of the scales. Divine retribution. Implacable justice wrought upon those who think themselves beyond consequence. It sounds... familiar, does it not?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Kellan replies, not meeting my eyes.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well, if you trust him, that’s good enough for me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Neither of us speaks for a while, finishing our drinks while we watch people walk by outside. If Kellan has secrets he feels the need to keep from me, that’s his prerogative. I know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t do so without a good reason. But if my hunch is right, this is a fairly major deception, and one I imagine the others would be less than thrilled about. Some of them have probably begun to piece it together already. If Adamant hasn’t by now, she’ll most likely do so the moment she can spend more than a minute in her metal form again- the cold calculations of her mechanical brain tend to help with that sort of thing.

“Well, we’d probably better head back,” Kellan says eventually. “Wouldn’t want them to start the war without us.”