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Phantoms danced around both of them, dragging their tattered remains along the ground in the hope that they could come back from this. Beams of green energy were streaking across the smoking horizon, but they were not Laserman’s. How he wished they were from Laserman right now. This would’ve been so much easier, if he was still alive. So much cleaner.
”I warned you,” Thunk. A throwing knife flew from Grandmaster’s fingers, sinking through Confessor’s hand and impaling it to the ruined car he slumped against. The villain screamed, his voice strained, and he looked the old hero in the eyes through that idiotic mask of his.
His eyes went down to the road, but he did not need to see Grandmaster to know the weight of his hate. ”You never scared me, you don’t scare me now. You’ve always been a snake, and you always will be! Killing me won’t bring her b-”
There was not enough time for Confessor to blink before a sword was pulled from its scabbard to split his chest wide open. Blood sprayed him from torn veins and arteries, and yet Grandmaster was cold. Clinical, in his application of the swing. He wanted to see this wretched bastard, this maggot bleed slowly. Wisdom flowed from his mind, down through his hand and into his sword from unseen places, telling him exactly where to place his next strike for the cleanest kill; An afterimage, yet to happen and waiting. But he did not. He simply pointed the sword down at Confessor’s throat, the slightest movement would break the skin. One flick of his wrist, and everything would be over. Blood pooled around the villain. Deep down, Confessor knew that Grandmaster was drawing this out, but he wasn’t stupid. He was always the smarter one.
Confessor jerked his impaled hand, hoping it would dislodge the knife. But it only tore the otherwise perfectly sealed wound, adding to the puddle of blood.
”Laserman,” He flicked his sword downwards, and split open Confessor’s collarbone. He screamed again, quieter.
”Karnstein,” His shoulder.
”Nomad,” His jaw.
”Rimerunner, Savant, Bastion!” He stabbed the sword into Confessor’s weak body, puncturing his lungs and liver without aiming. One wound for all five of the deceased Wards. He kept going, slashing open wound after wound, until the number accounted for the other thirteen heroes lost in this battle.
”All dead. All of their families left to grieve, because of you.”
Confessor was bleeding like a stuck pig, and all of his phantoms could only helplessly watch their master’s life slip away. There were over 40 of them littering the street, and Grandmaster carved each and every one of them up like Christmas dinners. Confessor coughed up blood, staring at his soon-to-be murderer with blank, glazed eyes. Scar tissue mottled his face, standing out over warm brown skin. Hellstar got him good a few days ago, and he had been rendered blind ever since. It was a damn shame, too. He had hoped, even at this point, that the last thing he’d get to see was Grandmaster's face.
”You know they’ll… You-” Blood caught in his throat, he spat it up over Grandmaster’s shoes.
”They’ll never see you the same way. They’ll… Know about you, one day. It’s your turn now, Ramon. Isaac will find you.”
”The only thing he will find, Confessor, is your corpse on his doorstep. This is the end, I am never coming back.”
Grandmaster raised his sword overhead, and let out all of his rage with one more swing.
”You should have stayed in Arizona, little brother.”
PRT Headquarters, 8:37AM
June 19, 2021
Director Valerie Foster strode through the public section of the PRT HQ. It was connected to her office in a wraparound construction, so she could see from her office window that a small crowd was forming out front. News reporters and journalists looking to get a glimpse of the newest heroes. Little did any of them know that none of the kids were even in the same building at the moment. It was currently 8am, and the building had been closed to give the illusion that something important was happening here. It was entirely unnecessary, since they were all meeting in the Protectorate building, and absolutely no one could show up there unless granted special access. This, however, was done intentionally to give the press something positive to latch on. She knew, better than most in this godforsaken city, that it was so much easier to make progress when people believed in the good of that progress. When they wanted it.
She stopped, straightened her tie and ensured her gloves were on tight. No one knew why the director wore them, but the incredibly soft material, black as ink, seemed to match well with her charcoal three-piece suit. She was the definition of professional. And so, as a professional, she approached the journalists and the camera-toting press. Immediately, she was flagged down, put on the spot and questioned. Where are the Wards? Are they forming their team today? Is Tandem keeping her identity public? All manners of questions that were either curveballs to wring out extra information, invasive, or simply innocent came forth. And the director embraced all of them.
”I am afraid that I can’t answer many questions. At the moment, the Wards are preparing for their first assignment as the next generation of heroes. There will be plenty of time to speak with them once they’ve had the opportunity to adjust to their new lives.” For one or two, this wasn’t as new as the director was describing, but it was bad form to talk about their experience working outside the PRT’s jurisdiction.
“Is it true that the Wards have a mind controller on their team?” Someone in the crowd asked.
Director Foster offered the young man who put the question forth a rare smile. ”Mind control is a rumor, thankfully. No, the Ward known as Ethos does not manipulate the minds of others. She simply allows them to see the error of their ways.” A flowery, polite way to describe the manipulation of one’s moral compass.
“How will the PRT contend with the backlash from reinstating child soldiers?” Another, older man with a certain tone in his voice proposed a rather loaded question. An anti-caper, she assumed. He went low, so she went high.
”There is a misconception among the public that the Protectorate trains children to be soldiers, to fight wars, the Endbringers and so on. What we do here, is train them to use their powers responsibly, to set an example for future generations. To inspire their generation to reach out in their most vulnerable moments. And for that, I believe wholeheartedly that we simply won’t receive backlash.”
“Even after the last Wards team disbanded?” A woman with a notebook asked, “Many people still remember the deaths from Confessor’s rampage. And no one could forget what happened to Karnstein…”
Everyone in the crowd fell silent for a moment. Karnstein’s death was particularly grizzly. The man who asked that accustational question even had the common sense to feel guilty. Valerie read the room, and simply nodded. ”We all remember what Confessor did to us. We’ve all had someone taken from us by his attack. But Karnstein laid her life down to save others. She wanted this city to live on, and I know that wherever she is now, she’s smiling.”
That seemed to satisfy them all. The best part was that she didn’t have to lie about it.
Protectorate Headquarters, 8:42AM
While Director Foster worked a crowed, the real business was happening one building over. The Wards were given directions and an order to be here at their central meeting room at 8:45 in the morning, in their new gear, with the special access credentials they were issued to get in the building. Their meeting place was a large, spacious area with white walls and one-way windows that overlooked the entire complex. Massive computer screens were available for multiple people to work with at a time, along with chairs and a couch or two. The opposite wall held a large flatscreen tv, and all the cool consoles that the kids played with these days. That was Axiom's idea. Doors led out into a hall that connected to their living spaces, as well as a decently sized kitchen they could eat in. The Ward's wing of the building was built to house them indefinitely, as several of them had home situations that were less than sufficient.
Special consideration had been given to accommodate the powers of Richter, Shattercrash and Watson. The walls were made with a special tinker-made compound that absorbed 100% of any impacts, while behaving like containment foam for anyone who was on the inside. The Wards, were, of course, not explicitly made aware of this. After all, why would they be in the walls?
The Protectorate's best were lined up here. Nightstalker, the case 53 with purple skin, green eyes and a long cape of prehensile flesh, couldn’t help but smile. Axiom, the physics-shattering tinker, had climbed out of her suit and was down to her more mobile costume, a black and purple jumpsuit lined with glowing energy, and a cybernetic helmet that made her look like an astronaut.
And of course, the leader of them stood ramrod straight with his hands folded behind his back. His costume was different from the other two. Nightstalker simply wore body armor, and Axiom looked ready to go to space, but Grandmaster wore a simply white suit, with a gray undershirt, black tie, and a slightly unsettling mask adorned with a crown. At his waist were two swords sheathed away, and a more perceptive person could see a roll of throwing knives tucked under his sleeve.
”They’ll be here any minute now. I hope they’re ready,” Axiom said, through her helmet’s radio.
”Of course they are,” Nightstalker croaked, in an inhumanly deep voice. ”They’re trained for this now, and we’re working with them. They’ll do fine, I’m sure.”
”Indeed they will. Our city needs it.” Grandmaster waited, patiently, for the first Ward to walk in. The Vice Director was supposed to be here by now. It didn't look good if he got here after the children did.
Any second now...
