(THO) CHAPTER NINETEEN

The clock on Director Emily Piggot’s office wall ticked steadily—louder than it had any right to be in a room this small—and thin bands of morning light slipped through half-closed blinds, streaking lines of light and shadow across her desk.

The clock on Director Emily Piggot’s office wall ticked steadily—louder than it had any right to be in a room this small—and thin bands of morning light slipped through half-closed blinds, streaking lines of light and shadow across her desk.

Velocity stood stiff-backed in front, collar still damp with sweat from the morning patrol. “Gojo Satoru claims people are hiding something,” he said without preamble.

Piggot didn’t let her attention shift from the stack of reports demanding signatures, another headache in a long list of them. “Explain.”

“The way he said it, he wasn’t guessing. Nor was it paranoia. It was…” Velocity trailed off, as if searching for the right word. “A conclusion.”

Piggot’s pen scratched lightly across a page. “Was this unprompted?”

“Not entirely.” Velocity exhaled slowly. “Admittedly, I was venting my frustration at his lack of cooperation and how no one knows what to do with him. That’s when he brought it up and said he’s read everything the city had on parahuman theory.”

“And?” 

“He said none of it offered any real explanation for parahuman phenomena like trigger events and neurological anomalies found in parahumans,” Velocity replied. “Nor does it answer questions like where powers come from and why.”

Piggot’s expression didn’t change. “Academics have been asking those questions for decades. What makes his version different?”

Velocity’s tone was careful. “Because he’s not just curious, but convinced that someone—or something, maybe even an organization—is intentionally keeping the truth buried. That the shared ignorance among parahumans isn’t accidental.”

Piggot raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“And then,” he added, “he asked to meet with Vista again.”

That got her attention.

Her pen froze, and her gaze lifted from the paperwork with a speed that would have given anyone else whiplash, focusing unblinking on Velocity. Her muscles might have atrophied from disuse and time, but beneath the layers of fat, she still remembered her training as a PRT field agent, and it showed in her bearing at that moment. 

“Repeat that,” she said, voice clipped.

But Velocity wasn't so easily cowed. “Did he say why?”

“He said her power was the closest he’s seen to replicating something called Limitless. He didn’t explain what that was, but from context, it sounds like the name of his own ability.”

There was a long silence.

“No,” Piggot said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

Velocity stiffened, his reply coming almost instantly. “Ma’am—”

“No,” she snapped, glaring up at him. “Do not let the fact that you have been talking to him amicably fool you. He’s already shown what he’s capable of when provoked: a confirmed kill count of at least three parahumans, and for all we know that number could be higher.”

She leaned forward slightly, continuing. “Vista is a minor, and worse, emotionally vulnerable due to her turbulent home life. Supervised or not, we are not giving him access to one of our most valuable Wards.”

Velocity gave a nod, restrained in that military way that suggested he’d rather be anywhere but here, and swallowed the rest of his argument. “Understood.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

He left without further protest, and the office was quiet again. But Piggot waited a full three seconds before turning toward the small black monitor mounted in the corner of her desk.

The secure channel came back to life.

Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown sat behind a desk halfway across the country, expression carefully neutral, and fingers steepled in front of her chin. 

“You heard,” Piggot said dryly.

“All of it,” Costa-Brown replied, unabashed.

Piggot let out a long breath. “He’s watching us and watching how powers function, something we didn't even think was possible. And now he’s showing interest in specific individuals. In children.”

“I noticed.”

“This doesn’t strike you as dangerous?”

“No,” Costa-Brown said, her voice remaining calm. “It strikes me as curious. Dangerous would be if he didn’t ask questions, and if he just started testing theories instead.”

“Semantics.”

“No,” Costa-Brown corrected gently. “Patterns.”

Piggot’s eyes narrowed. “You think he’s right about the passengers? About some powerful organization manipulating capes behind the scenes?”

“I think,” Costa-Brown said after a beat, “he knows something we don’t.”

“Wonderful,” Piggot muttered.

“I want a room to talk to him in,” Costa-Brown said. “Disconnected from the building’s surveillance subsystem.”

Piggot’s brow furrowed, half-formed suspicions rising, but she didn't let it show on her face. “Why?”

Costa-Brown didn’t answer right away. And when she did, her voice was quieter than before. “Because if he’s right, I want to know how he found that out and why he sees no harm spreading it around.”

Piggot’s mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “And if he’s wrong?”

“Then I want to know why he said it anyway.”

Piggot tapped one finger against the desk. Then again. Finally, she nodded. Slowly, and with a pronounced frown. “I’ll have a room in the basement floor cleared. It is soundproofed, with no cameras and mics. It doesn't even have a motion detector.”

Costa-Brown smiled faintly. “Thank you, Emily.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Piggot grouched. “You’re the one doing something most would consider… unwise.”

“If nothing else, we will finally know what he's really after here.”

The screen went dark, and the ticking of the office clock filled the room once again.