CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DENNIS

Dennis felt the familiar weight of his costume as he adjusted the clasps at his wrist, the subtle hum of the clock mechanisms on his chest reminding him of his role. The Wards’ HQ was unusually tense today, a sharp contrast to the usual undercurrent of banter and camaraderie that kept them all from falling apart. Three crime scenes. Three bodies each. Nine dead in two days. The math didn’t take much imagination.

The Nine were in Brockton Bay.

Of course, nobody had said it outright yet. The Protectorate avoided confirming it to the Wards, as if leaving it unspoken would keep the horror at bay. But Dennis wasn’t an idiot. The tension in the air, the hushed conversations, and the sudden increase in patrol assignments—they screamed the truth louder than any briefing ever could.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to take things seriously. Not outwardly, at least. He adjusted his helmet, the animated clock-face flickering into place. The shifting hands ticked away at random intervals, serving no purpose other than to look cool and keep people guessing.

“Alright, team,” he said, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated nonchalance. “Who’s ready to not die horribly today?”

Vista shot him a look, her expression caught somewhere between disapproval and exasperation. “Not the time, Clock.”

“It’s always the time,” Dennis quipped, tapping the animated clock on his helmet. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Kid Win snorted, though it sounded more nervous than amused. Dennis caught him fidgeting with the settings on his spark pistol for the third time in ten minutes.

“Seriously, though,” Dennis continued, his tone softening just enough to show he wasn’t entirely oblivious. “We’ve dealt with big bads before. Empire, ABB, Undersiders. This? It’s just another Tuesday in Brockton Bay.”

“Except it’s not,” Vista muttered, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “These aren’t normal villains. The Nine…” She trailed off, her usually confident demeanour cracking just slightly.

Dennis felt a pang of guilt. It was easy for him to play the class clown, to brush off the fear with jokes and bad timing. But Vista was younger, and she carried the weight of responsibility like a badge of honor. She didn’t have the luxury of deflecting.

He leaned forward, his tone more serious now. “Hey. We stick together, alright? They’re just people. Psychotic, murderous people, sure. But they bleed like anyone else. And we’ve got each other’s backs.”

Vista nodded, though the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease.

The intercom buzzed, cutting through the uneasy silence. “Wards, report to the briefing room. Now.”

. . . . .

The room was packed when they arrived, the usual chaos of overlapping conversations replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. The Wards exchanged uneasy glances as they filed in, their usual banter left at the door. At the front of the room, the Protectorate members stood like statues, their grim expressions doing little to inspire confidence.

Armsmaster took the lead, his helmet gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. His movements were precise, his gauntleted hand tracing over a map of the city projected on the wall. No one spoke. No one dared to.

“Three locations,” Armsmaster began, his tone clipped and efficient. “Three bodies at each. All carefully staged.”

The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around every neck in the room. Dennis leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his thigh, a nervous rhythm he hoped looked like boredom. 

“The evidence is consistent with the modus operandi of the Slaughterhouse Nine,” Armsmaster continued, his hand hovering over different points on the map. “As of now, we cannot confirm their presence in Brockton Bay, but the probability is high.”

Dennis glanced at his teammates. Browbeat shifted uncomfortably, Kid Win avoided eye contact, and Vista sat ramrod straight, her jaws set. Even Shadow Stalker, usually brimming with hostility, looked uneasy.

“The Nine thrive on chaos,” Armsmaster said. “They’ll target high-profile individuals and parahumans to spread fear and destabilize the city. We’ve already seen signs of this in their choice of victims. Our priority is containment. Minimize casualties. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.”

Dennis raised a hand, earning a sharp look from Armsmaster. “Question. Are we supposed to ‘not engage’ before or after they start carving up civilians?”

Armsmaster’s eyes narrowed. “This is not the time for jokes, Clockblocker.”

“It’s always the time,” Dennis muttered under his breath, though he let the matter drop.

Miss Militia, standing to Armsmaster’s left, shot him a glance but didn’t call him out. Instead, she stepped forward to take over. Her voice was softer, more measured, but no less commanding.

“You will be working in pairs, with members of the Protectorate assigned to each team. Your safety is our priority, but remember: the Nine are unlike any adversaries you’ve faced. They don’t just kill—they make statements. Follow orders and report anything suspicious immediately.”

Her gaze swept over the room, lingering on each of them in turn. Dennis felt the weight of her eyes for a moment before they moved on. 

“Stick to the plan,” she finished. “And stick together.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Dennis resisted the urge to crack a joke to say something—anything—that might cut through the oppressive atmosphere. But for once, even he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Instead, he sighed. Pairing them with the Protectorate sounded great on paper, but he knew what it really meant. Babysitting. 

. . . . .

Their patrol route took them through the Docks, where the sharp tang of seawater hung heavy in the air, mingling with the oily scent of diesel from the ships and machinery that dotted the shoreline—a grim testament to the city’s neglect.

“You’re quiet,” Miss Militia observed, glancing at him.

Dennis shrugged, his fingers brushing the clock emblem on his chest. “Just saving my best material for when it counts.”

“Save it for later,” she replied. “The Nine don’t leave room for jokes—or mistakes.”

“I know,” he replied, his tone unusually subdued.

And he did know. Jokes aside, he wasn’t blind to the stakes. The Nine weren’t just killers—they were walking nightmares, the symbols of everything broken and cruel in the world. Facing them meant more than risking his life. It meant staring into the abyss and hoping it didn’t stare back.

As they turned a corner, Dennis felt a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. He froze, one hand instinctively going to the clock emblem on his chest.

“What is it?” Vista whispered.

Dennis didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scanning the shadows. There. A figure darted between two buildings, too fast and purposeful to be just another scavenger.

“Company,” he murmured, his voice low.

Miss Militia's rifle was in her hands instantly, her posture tense. "Stay close. Don't engage unless I give the signal."

Dennis nodded, heart pounding as he prepared to freeze time itself

For all his bravado, for all his jokes, Dennis knew one thing for certain.

Today wasn’t just another Tuesday.